I turn back around, spreading my hands. Armani has Bregman’s arm twisted painfully behind his back again, and he’s breathing hard.
“This is your last chance,” I tell him.
“I’m not lying,” Bregman insists, gasping for air. “Like I said, the old man wasn’t supposed to die. The money guy sent me a few texts after the whole thing, but I never saw him again, I never got paid the rest. I swear.”
“Describe this guy,” Armani says. “The one who gave you the job.”
“Blonde hair, light skin, tall, over six foot,” Bregman blubbers, his voice pitching high with panicked desperation. “Light eyes, maybe green or blue, I don’t know. Not brown, not dark. He’s got a tattoo going up his neck. Antlers or spikes or something.”
“You said he texted you.” Bregman nods and I look at my brother. “You got his cell?”
Armani pulls out a shitty burner phone from his pocket. He powers it up and uses one of Bregman’s unbloodied fingers to unlock the screen, then hands it to me.
There’s no reception down here, but I don’t need it to find what I’m after. I scan the messages and see texts from an overseas number, along with a photo of Marco’s racing Porsche. There are instructions to tamper with Marco’s car the same as Enzo’s, and threats against Bergman if he chooses not to cooperate.
“How about that,” I say slowly, flashing the screen at Armani before scrolling back through the older messages.
My eyes track to Bergman’s. He slumps in his bindings, as if he can shy away from us. As if there’s any hope of escape.
There’s not.
Holding the phone, I read out loud:
Eighty k transferred conf# 20223270247210.
You’ll get another 160 to fix up the Porsche before the race next week.
I let out a low whistle.
“Now that’s a pretty penny,” I say colly. “Over a quarter million total, right, Bregman? Enough to retire on, if you go to Mexico. I hear Ecuador’s nice, too. Great beaches.”
Bregman begins to whimper and twist against his bonds.
“You lied,” I say with a sigh.
Bregman’s eyes go wide, his face falling as realization sets in. His fate is sealed.
“One more chance, asshole. I need the name of the man who hired you,” I tell him. “The name—now—in exchange for your life. And then you get twenty-four hours to leave the country and never come back. Because I’m feeling generous.”
“More than generous,” Armani says.
“I swear I don’t know!” Bregman chokes out. “I swear on my life! But the money guy, it really was the tattoo guy. That’s all I know!”
Armani and I look at each other. I nod.
He withdraws a Glock from his jacket and Bregman starts up with the begging again. I turn and walk back down the hall, knocking for Donovan to open the door just as a shot fires.
There’s no doubt. Someone is out for the Bellanti family.
Time to circle the wagons and prepare for war.
1
Frankie
Miami sucks.
It’s Thanksgiving week, for crying out loud. How can it still be so muggy and hot? I just showered half an hour ago and my hair and clothes are already damp with sweat again and sticking to my skin. Which means the wet spot from scrubbing vomit off the front of my red polyester uniform is going to take forever to dry before I head to work. Damn humidity.
