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2
LACHLAN
Miranda didn’t know I’d threatened to send in the heavies. I felt as though I were on a bad trip since I’d never had to resort to such gutter tactics. But I’d had enough of being messed around.
I wasn’t surprised to learn that Tony Varela was a leading mafia figure.
After I’d mentioned to him that someone owed me a lot of money, and was giving me the runaround, he laid his hand on mine and, with a raspy, paternal tone, told me he could fix it for me.
I couldn’t believe this was the same man that had threatened to bury me under a condo development.
I paid him some of what was owed, and suddenly we’d become buddies it seemed.
He’d asked to see me face-to-face to discuss my debt and suggested we meet at a dark, seedy bar where girls gyrated around poles-slash-make-believe-metal-penises. It felt like I was in an episode of TheSopranos.
We discussed Florian in vague terms. I didn’t mention the eight hundred million dollars owed to me.
While topping up his scotch, Varela explained that for the small sum of a million dollars in cash, one of his men could knock out Florian’s teeth one by one.
I left that joint feeling sick to my stomach. Nevertheless, I called Florian, telling him that if he valued his pearly fangs, he’d better return my call right away.
In a flash, he called back. Speaking in that smooth Brit accent, he reassured me that his client was about to pay. I insisted on seeing him that night or else, and he agreed. At least I didn’t need to resort to hiring one of Varela’s thugs.
That I would stoop to something so radical made me wonder if I’d lost my mind.
But I had to clean up my dying father’s mess as quietly as possible. I should have just let him fall on his sword, but I couldn’t live with myself if I had. And it would have been a media bloodbath, leaving the Peace name forever tarnished.
For the sake of my late grandfather—whose honest, hard work had built the family empire—and for my future offspring, I had to ensure that the Peace name remained synonymous with decency.
Standing in front of the half-lit office tower, I turned to Miranda. “This shouldn’t take long. Why don’t you wait here?”
“I want to come.”
Perhaps she could get more out of Florian with that art language they shared. I shrugged. “Okay, then.”
I buzzed the intercom. A few seconds later, the door opened, and we walked into the dimly lit lobby.
Our steps echoed loudly as we made our way to the elevator.
As we rode up to the fifth floor, I took Miranda’s hand. “Are you okay?”
She nodded.
As soon as we left the elevator, we saw Florian on the phone through a glass wall.
He gestured for us to enter, then hung up quickly.
“Miranda,” he said with a bright smile. “I was about to call you.”
“You got my message about my pay?”
“It should go in tomorrow. Sorry about the delay. We’re having a few cash flow issues at the moment. A big deal stalled.” He smiled apologetically. “How’s it going at the warehouse? They’re sanding the floor, I hear.”
“Ethan and Clint are great. Like me, they’re driven. We all want to see the gallery up and running ASAP.”
“Who are they?” I asked.
Florian interjected, “They’re a couple of keen artists who I’ve procured for Miranda’s new project. Ethan is particularly talented. I hold high hopes for him. He’s also very photogenic. Good for the media.” He grinned, looking between me and Miranda.
