Reaper's Salvation (Road to Salvation A Last Rider's Trilogy 3)

Never in her life had she wanted to be rude to someone, and the idea that the woman who gave birth to her sat there silently across the table, waiting to pull down the release handle of the guillotine at Allerton’s order, made her sick.

If Gavin didn’t want her confronting Allerton about his strange behavior toward him, then fine, she wouldn’t—but it didn’t mean she couldn’t kick sand in his face.

“How perceptive of you. It is the company,” she drawled out, dropping her hand under the table to give Gavin a squeeze of reassurance.

Gavin lowered his fork to the table, his lips twitching at her, waiting for the show to begin.

“Darling ….” Soleil placed her toast back on her plate.

“It’s not you”—her mother might be acting like a Stepford wife, but that didn’t have her wanting to leave the table—“or Mr. Allerton who has ruined my appetite.” That part she plain lied about.

“You seem quite unhappy by my choice of guests. May I ask who?”

Unable to tell him that he was the one who was offending the hell out of her by the creepy, sexual way he watched Gavin, she stared pointedly at the men whose table was catty-corner to theirs.

Having to sit with Allerton was a stomach churner, especially after he basically admitted to killing every soul on Clindale. Yet, not even Allerton could hold a candle to the two men she was staring at. Ivan Pavlov and Alek Lukin were eating lobster tails, oysters, caviar, and drinking champagne. The two had imprisoned their own people, forced them into labor camps, and had killed for the tiniest infractions for opposing their dictatorships. They were the exact example of whom Gavin had been warning her about.

“I take it Ivan Pavlov and Alek Lukin were other subjects of your friend’s podcasts or do they displease you personally?” Succeeding at having Allerton withdrawing his gaze away from Gavin, Ginny didn’t shy away from Allerton’s calculating eyes

“I don’t have to watch a podcast or videos. All you have to do is open a paper.”

“My dear, you’re showing your youth. Their countrymen and women idolize them.”

“Not by choice. I wonder, if their countries were open and people were given the choice to stay under their tyranny or have their own say without fear of punishment or death, which they would choose.”

“Democracy leads to unrest. Your own country proves that. You should read your own country’s papers instead of judging others’ form of government.”

“We have our faults—sadly, too many—but as far as I know we don’t sterilize our women, then force them into labor camps. We certainly don’t rape and brutalize those women for sport, and we don’t place land mines to keep our population from fleeing our country.”

“Do you think, if I shared your idealistic opinion, my charity would have succeeded in helping so many if I let unrealistic optimism color my methods? I find it counterintuitive to change their expectations to agree with mine. No one benefits by standing on moral high ground.”

“In case you don’t know, it’s called basic human rights. You want to talk about benefits? We can go there. Just who benefits? Certainly not the people you said your charity was created to help. Who it does help are the businesses and large corporations who take advantage of the loopholes made by you by greasing the palms of those countries to make it more beneficial for them to use their forced labored, allowing those businesses and large corporations to manufacture products at a fraction of the cost than it would take to make anywhere else,” Ginny took the time to take in a deep breath before continuing, “all while pretending to stand on the moral high ground with their palms clean.”

“Evangeline, perhaps we should change the subject.” Her mother motioned for the waiter to order another mimosa.

“Don’t worry yourself, Soleil; it’s not often that I’m given such stimulating conversation so early in the morning.”

It was clear by Allerton’s blasé statement that everything she said had been brushed off like water off a duck’s back. He was so sure of his status with those in political power that nothing she could say would place a dent in the arrogance of believing he was untouchable.

“I agree.” Ginny cast her mother her own assurance, which had Soleil frowning in response. “The feeling is mutual. If not for your friendship with Mr. Allerton, I’m sure he wouldn’t have given me the time of day to express my views.”

Allerton gave her a supercilious tilt of his head. “I find it amusing you’re so vehement in your criticism of my friends yet ignore any lack of moral standards of your own friends.”

Ginny finished her juice, refusing to compare her friends to someone like Ivan Pavlov and Alek Lukin, especially Ivan Pavlov.

The thirty-eight-year-old dictator could have been his country’s saving grace. At the age of eighteen, he left his country to be educated aboard while his father held the reigns secure. So many countries had pinned their hopes that he would make a change for the better when he succeeded his father. While learning and traveling abroad, the media showcased his enjoyment and interest in touring other countries, even going so far as to show appreciation for various cultures, knowledge that had been kept from him because of the rigid rules his father instituted in his homeland. From all reports, Ivan had been a fun-loving and generous friend to those who had grown close to him during the four years he had spent at university and traveling around the world exploring the globe.