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“What?”
“Mr. Belotti. I have a car waiting for you on the tarmac. You will take it.”
“I’ve got my own.”
“No. My driver will keep me informed of your location.” He pauses. Yeah, I’m temporarily screwed but I’ve never been in a situation that I couldn’t unscrew given enough time. “Have you found your beloved daughter yet?”
“Nyet,” I growl.
Zeneli chuckles. “That is Russian, Mr. Belotti. In Albania we sayjo. But I’m hoping the next time we speak, the answer will be yes. You were the one that said by presenting yourself as a family man, even providing bait for Margaret Malcolm’s virgin loving son, you would surely make our deal proceed. The only reason you are alive is because you’re useful to me. Don’t make the mistake of changing that.”
He hangs up and I squeeze the phone so hard silk thread-like cracks crisscross the black glass.
I could take him one on one if that had been an option. I’ve enjoyed my share of good food and wine and I’m carrying about forty pounds worth of cover over my core but knowing how to fight and win isn’t just about fists. There’s an X factor; you either have it or you don’t. It’s what got me through SEAL training.
But Zeneli has an army behind him. A black-hearted, creative and obedient one. I’ve been around when they schooled others on the repercussions of fucking with their business. I’m not clean either, I’ve got plenty of blood and dead bodies in my history, but I’m tired. I’m fifty-two years old and I don’t sleep.
I’ve lost the ability to feel pleasure. I’m a walking dead man so it’s get out and try to find what makes me alive again or just be dead.
The chopper sets down with a bump and the whirring of the blades slows as my face stares back at me from the window next to my seat.
Ilookfucking dead. The gray at my temples and the creases around my eyes remind me more and more that time is not infinite. Despite the flatline of emotions in my features, I’m impeccably put together as always. My hand-stitched gray suit is creaseless, my white custom-made shirt is open at the collar, no tie. I might have packed on a good forty pounds over the years but I’ve never been vain about myself. I like good food, but I’d take hundred to one odds I could still lay out anyone that came at me.
I look rich and I am.Quietlyrich, not the boisterous, tacky kind you see at the craps tables where flip flops and three hundred dollar sweat pants screamlook at me.
I don’t need to stand out. I need people to want to get close to me. They need to trust me. Feel good around me. That’s the magic.
I tried to buy off my error in judgment with Zeneli but he wanted something else. He’d gotten some noise about my new friend, Margaret Malcolm, who is now the pivot point for putting together the deal that will buy back my life.
A black Bentley stretch is waiting when I step out and cross the landing pad, the blazing heat swirling in the air, and as I climb in the back of the car, my phone buzzes.
I take a moment to breathe and settle myself.
I’m running out of time to find my daughter, which is key to the deal.
Out of all the ways to try and get Margaret to trust me in the short amount of time available, I had to lie about being a father. I lathered it on thick, with a story about being thrust into fatherhood eighteen years ago, when an ex showed up on my doorstep with a chubby ten-month old, paternity papers, a diaper bag and the news that she had to high tail it out of town for skimming on drug mule deals and she was never heard from again.
Margaret was insanely enamored with my rise-to-the-occasion fatherhood. The idea of being a father never occurred to me in real life. The way I’ve lived, there hasn’t been room or time to have a relationship with more commitment than a few hours of company, let alone a child.
But bringing mydaughterto her over-the-top bullshit charity affair is just the trust magnet I need.
I blow out a breath, shake my head and look at my phone screen as the driver eyes me from the rearview.
“Where to?” he asks with a thick Eastern block accent.
“When I know, I’ll tell you,” I answer, because right now I’m not sure.
There’s an email notification in my anonymous encrypted Proton account I use only for my contacts at various animal shelters around the country. This one is from my contact at the Vegas PSCA which I decide to read before anything else.
D,
As promised, I wanted to update you on the condition of ‘Micro’. She is going to live, thanks to you. She will be fully rehabilitated, and a home found for her according to your guidelines. Your most generous donation, yet again, allows us to provide top level care and re-homing to the best adopters possible.
Your continued support and intervention on behalf of the animals means the world to us and them. We do wish to publicly thank you, but respect your wishes to remain simply, ‘D’.
I ball my fist then stretch out my fingers as the pleasant memory of the popping sound of every finger on that worthless fucker when I dislocated them will remain with me forever. I give zero fucks that I was the one that ended his life. I would have killed him ten times if it were possible for what he did to that dog. Most of my soft spots have scarred over, but not when it comes to dogs. I have my reasons.
But, what about the blonde…
