Page 45 of The Maverick
“Why are you blackmailing Nessa?” I asked.
“I stopped a while ago.” Looking uncomfortable, he rounded the counter and opened the refrigerator. “Do you want anything to drink?”
“No, thank you.”
The offer surprised me. This courteous gesture didn’t match the jerk I’d witnessed in that café.
“Were you at Loretta’s Café the day of her art gallery’s opening?”
He looked at me with furrowed eyebrows. “I don’t remember.”
As he stepped closer, downing the glass of water, I noticed marks on his arms. Was he doing drugs? Was that the reason for his erratic behavior?
“Why do you need Nessa’s money?”
He blinked and stared at the empty glass as though trying to find an answer that should have been easy. He placed the empty glass down on the counter and scratched the back of his neck. “I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure?”
His phone rang, and he reached into the pocket of his athletic pants, pulling it out. He glanced at the screen, grunted, and slid it onto the counter, ignoring it. The buzz signified a new voicemail.
“Is Nessa okay?”
“What do you think?” I glared at him. “She’s being blackmailed by her ex. And someone sent a severed finger to her gallery’s grand opening.”
“I didn’t do that.” His lips tightened.
“But you know who did?”
I pushed myself off the counter and wandered into his living room. Nothing fancy. A large TV, a video game console with stacks of sports and health magazines. No family pictures displayed on the walls or on the table. It looked like he didn’t want people to know about his life.
I pulled out my phone and moved toward him, showing him a picture of his sister from her social media account.
His jaw tensed, and he tossed me an irritated look. “Leave her alone.”
“Then leave Nessa alone.” I took my phone back. “You’re protecting your sister, and I’m protecting my fiancée.”
His cell phone rang again, but he ignored it. I glanced at the screen, and my heart jumped at the image. I grabbed the phone, clicked answer, and listened.
“Yo, where are you? Enzo says you’re not picking up his calls. Do you have the money? If you’re keeping it from me, you’re dead, you hear me? Hello?”
I ended the call.
“What are you doing?” Emmanuel plucked his phone from my hand.
“How do you know Milton Kalkounis?”
Emmanuel turned his phone off, shoved it into the charging station, and flicked me an annoyed look.
When he didn’t reply, I said, “He’s my enemy too. Maybe we can work together.”
Emmanuel blew out a sigh, walked over to the couch, dropped down, and scrubbed a hand over his face.
“That’s not his name. It’s Jean-Claude Dumas.”
“Jean-Claude, my ass.” I sat across from him. “He went to my high school. I recognize the asshole. It’s Milton Kalkounis.” The person on the phone didn’t sound French. He sounded like the asshole I knew.
Emmanuel furrowed his eyebrows.
