With the almost-not-there amenities this town—or was it village—boasted of, Ewan couldn't believe that his predecessor had lived here for more than six years, since handing over the gang to him, needing to live a life void of bullets, drugs, and blood.
He wouldn't have believed it, if not that he had been in charge of records too; the old man had refused his share of profits from the business, rather diverting it to philanthropy.
All because of a woman.
Well, didn't he, himself, leave when he got married? Ewan questioned himself, narrowing his eyes as he looked around the town.
Wearing cream-colored shorts that stopped just above his knees, a white polo, and hiking shoes, with a beach hat resting on his back, strings tied loosely around his neck, he passed easily as a tourist. And there was the camera he wore too.
