Page 12 of The Don’s Omega

She glances at the door of her office as if making sure it’s closed. She looks back at me and her expression is odd. “I can see how desperate you are,” she mutters, appearing uneasy.

“I am. I mean, I’ll basically do anything to get money for the surgery.” I grimace. “I mean, you know, anything legal.”

“Right.” She gives a weak smile. “Please tell me you’re not going to try and knock over our bank or anything.”

“God, no.” I hold out a shaky hand. “I mean any lawful thing.”

She smiles but it fades quickly and she gives the closed door another nervous glance. “There might be someone who could help you.” She bites her bottom lip. “Possibly.”

My heart jolts with hope. “Really?”

She flinches at my exuberance. “Now, you understand, this is not something I’m saying in any official capacity,” she says, her voice dropping slightly. “And if… if anyone asks, this conversation didn’t happen.”

That’s definitely not something I expect a loan officer to say, but I’m so desperate I barely blink an eye. I sit up straighter. “I’m open to almost anything. And I understand that this is just between us.”

“The… person I’m going to suggest is very unorthodox.” Her laugh is stilted.

“Unorthodox is fine,” I say breathlessly.

She studies me as if trying to decide if she should kick me out of her office, or proceed. After a few agonizing moments, she opens a drawer and pulls out a business card. It’s plain white, heavy stock, with nothing on it but a name and a phone number. No title, no company, no logo. She slides it across the desk to me.

“His name is Roman Kessler. He’s not a loan officer and he’s not a charity. He’s a man who connects people in difficult situations with people who have resources. Even people with money have problems. Mr. Kessler is in the business of solving those problems for his clients.”

“Okay, that sounds promising.”

She grimaces. “It might be. It doesn’t always work out. I have to warn you of that. Mr. Kessler won’t work with just anyone. But I’ve given his card to a few clients over the years. You know, when conventional options were exhausted for them like they are for you. I… I don’t know the details of what he arranges. I don’t ask. But the few people I’ve sent to him have been very grateful that I gave them his name.”

My fingers tremble as I pick up the card. “And this is legal?”

“As far as I know, everything Mr. Kessler does is above board. He’s discreet, professional, and very selective about who he works with.” She pauses. “I’m not telling you to call him. I’m telling you he exists. What you do with that information is your business.”

“Thank you,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say.

“You’re welcome. I… I feel for you, Mr. Conti. I love my brother with all my heart, and if I were in your shoes, well, let’s just say, I’d probably give Mr. Kessler a call myself.” She grimaces. “Not that I’m telling you to do that, you understand.”

“Right, no, I understand perfectly. If I call Mr. Kessler it’s all my own idea.”

“Exactly.”

I finger the card, feeling a flutter of hope for the first time in weeks. “I appreciate your compassion. Thank you, Ms. Bellamy.”

“You’re welcome. And Mr. Conti?” She catches my eye as I stand. “Good luck with your brother. I mean that sincerely. I’ll be sending good thoughts out into the universe for you two.”

A lump forms in my throat. “Thank you.”

After I leave the bank, I sit in my car in the parking lot, staring at the card. My mind is going in six directions. The rational part of me, the part that has kept Fabio and me alive for nine years, is screaming that this is sketchy. A plain white business card? Ms. Bellamy’s nervous demeanor? A man who supposedly helps people but operates in the shadows? That’s the story line of every tragic True Crime story I’ve ever watched.

But the other part of me, the part that watched my mother’s engagement ring get weighed on a pawn shop scale, the part that sees my brother struggling to breathe after just going to the kitchen for a glass of milk, the part of me that has tapped out every legal means to get money, it’s already dialing Mr. Kessler’s number.

He picks up on the second ring.

“This is Kessler.” The voice is calm, measured, and neutral. Not warm, not cold. Just careful.

“My name is Elio Conti. Someone gave me your number. I...” I trail off because I realize I don’t know what to say next. I don’t even know what this man does.

“Who referred you, Mr. Conti?”

“A loan officer. Patricia Bellamy.”