“And they’re used?”
I handed him the work order. “As new and still in the wrapper, but formerly owned.”
The law allowed me to purchase used AR-15 receivers without filing any paperwork, and in a matter of fifteen minutes, I could have one assembled into a complete firearm. The receiver was a piece of aluminum the size of a cell phone, and although regulated and traced by the government in new purchases, used purchases fell into a legal loophole. All of the remaining parts necessary to build the rifles were available to be purchased by anyone, and there was no regulation on buying them, nor was there any legal structure in place to monitor such purchases. A form of identification wasn’t even required.
This allowed a civilian version of the military M4 to be built for roughly $350 using the AR-15 receivers. On the gray market, the rifles brought between $1,500 and $2,500 each, netting me a considerable profit. If the rifles were sold on the high end of the scale, I would profit over a million dollars and do so in a matter of weeks.
It was no wonder Agrioli wanted to get his hands in my business.
He gazed down at the work order and chuckled. “Used. But new. Just the way we like ‘em.”
“Roger that.”
He nodded and turned away. “All right. I’ll get out of here, then.”
At the threshold of the door, he paused and turned to face me. “But we’re not done talking about the girl.”
And, as much as I hated to admit it, I knew he was right.
Chapter Seven
Terra
Michael’s home was overly neat, and organized in a manner that made me feel like touching or moving anything was out of the question. The large living room was decorated with nice white leather furniture, but the entire room was symmetrical and everything was perfectly placed. The bare wooden floors and off-white painted walls only added to the already neat appearance.
The room seemed clinical.
The house had an open floor plan, and he was in the kitchen. I was standing at the edge of the living room taking everything into view. I gawked at the magazines perfectly situated atop the coffee table. GQ. Vanity Fair. Men’s Health. Kiplinger’s. Traveler. I glanced around the huge room. The walls were decorated with abstract oil paintings and various pieces of art, but no photographs.
It was almost eerie.
The absence of any family photographs whatsoever took me by surprise. “You don’t have a single picture of your family.”
“I don’t have any.”
I turned toward the kitchen. “You should get some.”
He walked up to my side and handed me a mimosa. “Drink this, you’ll feel better.”
I had been out with my girlfriends the night before and got ridiculously drunk. Being away from Michael on Friday night wasn’t as easy as I thought it was going to be, and being drunk seemed to dull my desire to be with him. After I shared with him that I was dying of a hangover, he invited me over for mimosas.
When I arrived, I interrupted him from his midday workout. He looked so much different in his T-shirt and sweats. His shirt clung to his well-defined chest, and accentuated his broad shoulders. The sweatpants did little to show off his athletic body, but were cute nonetheless.
I took a sip of the drink and glanced around the room. “I bet your mom would give you some if you asked nicely.”
“Let me rephrase that,” he said. “I don’t have any family.”
All of a sudden I felt empty. I was afraid I didn’t want to know any more of what he was more than likely going to say. I drank half the drink and turned toward the living room. The void inside of me quickly filled with sadness.
“When I was six, my parents were killed in a car wreck. I lived.”
My eyes felt swollen.
“See this scar?” He lifted his shirt, exposing his upper body fully. My eyes were immediately drawn beyond his well-defined abs, and focused on a six-inch scar on the left side of his upper chest.
I took another drink, fighting the urge to cry. “Yeah.”
“That’s my reminder. I don’t remember any of it. Hell, I don’t even remember them. I try to, and sometimes I tell myself I do, but I think all my memories are false. Just shit I’ve made up in my head over the years.”
He released the hem of his shirt and took a drink of the mimosa.
“Brothers and sisters?”
He shook his head. “Only child.”
“Grandparents, aunts, uncles?”
He tilted his glass toward me as if making a toast. “How about foster care?”
I felt sick. Regardless of my family’s involvement in organized crime, I was raised in a home filled with compassion, kindness, and most of all, love. For me to completely understand a child living in an environment without those crucial elements was impossible.