Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(81)

“Grenades?” I hiss. “Seriously?”

Fucking grenades.

Seven shrugs again as a loud ring cuts through the air, startling me. I jump, jarring the box, but I keep a tight grip on it. Seven pulls out a cell phone, glancing at the screen with a sigh before shoving it back away.

“Just flip the lid and make sure there are twenty-five tubes in each,” he says.

I set the crate down, opening it to count. I check the other crate before putting them away, grateful to be done with those.

“So, okay, the guns I understand,” I say. “But what the hell does he need with grenades?”

“He says it’s because he’s got terrible aim, but truthfully? He likes to be dramatic.”

“Well, then,” I mumble, waving toward the last crate. “What’s next?”

“Probably the most valuable thing of all.”

I can’t even imagine what that might be.

Grenade launchers?

Seven pops the lid, and I laugh. No straw in this one. Nope, nothing but oranges. A lot of oranges.

“You’re kidding me, right?” I pick one up, eyeing it. “What, are they filled with cyanide or something?”

“No, they’re one-hundred percent authentic Florida oranges, straight off the Gambini groves.”

“What does he do with all of them?”

“Eat them, squeeze them and drink them… most get sent out to market, but the rest he keeps.”

I glance at the paperwork. 953.

“Get to counting,” Seven says. “The sooner you finish, the sooner we can leave.”

Counting oranges, it turns out, is harder than you’d think. I pull them all out, a few at a time, trying to divide them into smaller piles to count, but the sons of bitches want to roll all over the place. I try three times, losing track and miscounting, ending up so far off the mark I have to start over. Ugh.

It takes me two hours.

Two hours to count nine-hundred and fifty-three oranges, clutching the last one in my palm as I motion toward Seven, who opted more so to take the supervising role than help with me, also. “All there.”

I tear at the orange peel, piercing it with my thumb and pulling it apart. Seven watches me warily. “What are you doing?”

“Eating a damn orange,” I mutter. “I think I’ve earned it.”

Seven doesn’t look like he agrees with me on that, but he says nothing as he shoves the lid back onto the crate. I stroll out of the warehouse and down the alley as Seven locks everything back up. He joins me on the corner, hands shoved in his pockets.

Again, he says nothing.

I follow Seven down the street, to where the car is parked, and tear the orange apart, tossing the scraps on the sidewalk.

I look up as we approach, seeing Lorenzo perched on the hood of the car, waiting.

“Boss,” Seven says, nodding in greeting.

“Took you long enough,” Lorenzo says, pulling an envelope from his coat and handing it to him.

“She’s not the fastest,” Seven says. “Felt like I was dealing with the Count from Sesame Street.”

I scowl. “Fuck you, Snuffleupagus.”

Lorenzo waves toward us. “Go home, Seven.”

Seven hesitates. “You sure you don’t need me to drive you, boss?”

“I’m sure,” Lorenzo says, his eyes fixed on me, watching as I pull a piece of orange off and pop it in my mouth. “I’ve got it covered.”

Seven surrenders the car keys as well as a cell phone, turning it over to Lorenzo before walking down the block, casting a worried glance back at us.

The concern on his face makes my skin prickle.

Lorenzo sits there, clutching both objects in his grasp, his eyes fixed to me so intently I can feel his gaze burrowing through me, crawling under my flushed skin.

“You’re making him walk?” I ask.

“He lives nearby. It’s not an inconvenience.”

“Oh.”

That’s all I say. Oh.

This is starting to feel awkward.

He’s still staring at me.

“What? You look like there’s something you want to say.”

“There’s a lot I want to say. Just debating how much to keep to myself.”

“Oh.”

Again, that’s all I say. Oh.

Wow, he sure brings out the eloquence in me, doesn’t he?

I just stand there, eating the orange, not sure what else to do. It’s sweet, really juicy, and I can tell it’s fresh.

Lorenzo waits until I finish before shoving off of the car and approaching me on the sidewalk. I stand still, sucking the juice off of my fingers, as he pauses in front of me, standing toe-to-toe.

“Did you enjoy that?” he asks, his voice low.

“The orange?”

“Stealing from me again,” he clarifies. “Did it give you a thrill taking what wasn’t yours?”

His question makes my heart pick up pace. “Well, the orange was delicious.”

He doesn’t react to that. After a moment, he pulls an envelope from his coat. “Your payment.”

My fingertips barely graze the thing before he yanks it back away.

“A thousand dollars,” he says.

“You’re paying me a thousand dollars?”