“Why the hell do you assume I don’t have a gun permit or that my weapon isn’t legally registered to me? You wanna try me?” Marcus counters. I can tell he’s up for the challenge.
His eyes are locked on the agent. All I can wonder was what in the hell is going on? If the agent is awaiting on a response from me, he’ll surely be disappointed because I’m at a loss for words. And I’m certainly not about to accept an envelope from someone who has clearly marked Azmir as an enemy. This is insane!
Lombardi slowly turns on his heels to leave. There’s something smug about him; his claim to be looking out for me aside. Is that why he’s stalked me to my car? Is that what a good Samaritan does? He quietly walks off as I stand, looking dumfounded, staring at the back of him until he disappears from my line of sight.
“You a’ight, Rayna?” Marcus asks.
This is all so eerie to me. It’s perplexing that Azmir has insisted I have security with me at all times. It’s more unnerving to think I could be attacked at any time. So, I complied, but limitedly. I was insistent on not having anyone replacing John just for a few hours, in tow like I’m Kate Middleton or someone of social status. And almost immediately this happens. I’ve also been followed randomly by paparazzi. Talk about a lifestyle change.
“Rayna, you a’ight, yo?” Marcus asks again, interrupting me my thoughts.
“Y-yeah…yeah, I’m all right. What was that all about?”
“Don’t sweat that pig. They always hating on Divine.” They…always? “You just go ‘head ‘bout your business. Im’ma make sure he ain’t on the property again unless he’s got real business here. Matter fact, you want me to follow you home?” he generously offers.
“No, that’s all right…but thanks.” I’m floating in bewilderment as I open the door to my car and slip in.
Chapter 16
Rayna
During my ride to the mall, my first thought is to call Azmir and ask for an explanation for why a FBI agent would be creeping around his place of business. Drugs? That’s a crazy accusation, by law enforcement, no less. Who is this guy that I’ve known a little over a year? My thoughts race to Brian Thompson and his comment in the bodega that night. This isn’t adding up. Azmir is going have to explain this if he wants this marriage to go any further.
The FBI is accusing him of being a kingpin! The rumination won’t stop.
I send him a text:
Where are you?
About a minute later he replies:
SMB @ a mtg Which is short for in a meeting at Cobalt on Santa Monica Boulevard.
I’m immediately en route there. On my way, I keep thinking about how I’ve missed very pertinent factoids about my husband. I begin to rolodex all of the clues that were dropped: the time in his bathroom at the marina when he tried to mollify my insecurities and told me he earned $439 million in three years; the car he’d gifted Kid in Vegas; the need for bodyguards all the time; his informing me of being a millionaire since he was twenty years old while at The Peninsula hotel in New York last fall; in my bed in Redondo Beach after our week-long breakup when he shared, “It’s closer to a billion, but as far as the IRS is concerned, my assets and earnings amount to about 573.8 million dollars, per last year’s filings.” Why would he not file all of his earnings? Only a person with something to hide kept money like that from the government.
My stomach toils as the revelations comes rushing through the front of my mind in spades. I can’t believe that I’ve turned into one of those women who don’t use general common sense when falling in love. Azmir has dropped so many substantial hints over the past year that I wonder if he’s wanted me to discover his alternate life.
Oh my god! The trip to Puerto Vallarta! Why did I not question what business he had in Mexico with a group of thugs? Where had my sense of realism gone?
I storm into Cobalt, brush past security into the empty ballroom, barge through the crowd of people coming out of the elevator and eventually burst through his office door. I immediately spot Petey. He nearly jumps as I enter the room. Azmir sits tall at his conference table with one hand thrumming his goatee while the other grips the arm of the chair. He’s wearing a contemplative expression as if my demeanor comes to no surprise to him. In fact, it’s almost as if he’s anticipated it.