“Let us speak of Francesco first,” he says after adjusting himself in his seat. He takes another tiny sip of bourbon, all but smacks his lips in approval, and settles his gaze on mine. “When we first began to hear rumblings that American police were making inquiries via Interpol about old events in Orsomarso, we were concerned enough to do a little research. This is how I learned about the kidnapping and rape of Francesco’s sister and the retribution he took.”
I recall Jake telling me that he was exploring the Italian angle through Interpol. I assume that’s what Giordano is referring to.
He continues, “In one respect, the killing of the rapist is honorable and admirable.”
“In one respect?”
Giordano nods. “On a personal level, very much so. On an organizational level, it is not helpful for people to believe they can defy us and prosper from doing so. In Francesco’s case, the brother of the man he killed is now determined to avenge his long-lost sibling.”
“So, killing my father for an incident fifty years ago is an organizational imperative?”
He shakes his head. “I’m afraid you misunderstand what I wish to convey. I’m sorry to be unclear.”
Jesus, it’s all I can do not to apologize for misunderstanding. “Try again,” I mutter.
“We would prefer that this man not pursue his personal vendetta and are prepared to take the necessary steps to ensure that he stops.”
I like the sound of that but suspect there’s a catch.
“As I say, we are businessmen, Mr. Valenti. So there is a cost to all things.”
And there’s the catch. “And what is the price of my father’s life, Mr. Giordano?”
“The whereabouts of your father is information of value, don’t you agree?”
I stare back at him with a face of stone.
“Someone will prove willing to pay for that information, Mr. Valenti… either to harm your father or to put an end to the contract hanging over his head. Will it be you who pays or the man who seeks vengeance?”
In my current state, I have limited tolerance for bullshit, apparently even when it comes from an armed gangster. I blow out an exasperated sigh. “Jesus Christ, just name your fucking price, will you?”
Giordano’s eyes widen and an ember of flame flares in them but quickly dies. “We can make that problem go away and guarantee your father’s safety for two hundred and fifty thousand American dollars.”
In other words, it’s going to cost me $250,000 to have Giordano and his people do whatever they are planning to do in order to end an inconvenience to themselves. I sag back in my seat and drink off a healthy slug of booze. Where do they expect me to find a quarter million dollars?
“We know you can raise those funds, Mr. Valenti.”
You do, do you? Maybe I can, but I have neither the time nor inclination to work that out just now. I’ll find the bloody money somewhere. Somehow. Of course, there’s the minor detail of whether Papa is even alive.
“How do I know you haven’t already killed Papa?”
“His sister would tell you of his death, no?”
“We’re not in touch.”
Giordano seems surprised by the answer. He studies me for a moment. “Operational security, I assume?”
I nod.
“Perhaps a wise precaution,” he allows. “You have no way to contact him?”
“No.”
“Interesting,” he muses. “Would I be here to guarantee his safety if he were dead?”
How would I know? He’s a fucking gangster, for God’s sake. I stare back and counter with, “You want me to accept the word of an extortionist?”
He sighs. “We do have honor, Mr. Valenti.”
“Can you send me a picture or something?”
He shakes his head. “We know where he is. We don’t have him under surveillance. You will simply have to take my word that he is safe.”
I guess I don’t have much choice. I’m hardly going to throw Papa to the wolves for the sake of playing a weak hand. Oddly enough, I believe the man. Then again, I’m emotionally and physically exhausted. I nod, then decide to push the conversation in another direction. “What about my daughter? Can you help me with that?”
“As I said before, Mr. Valenti, kidnapping for ransom is a business transaction.”
“She’s fifteen fucking years old!”
He nods sympathetically. “Were it my daughter, I would feel as you do. I must tell you, however, that your daughter is not our concern.”
I glare at him. There’s really nothing I can say to that.
He tilts his head an inch or two to the side and studies me. “Unless you’re a reasonable man, Mr. Valenti?”
A jolt of adrenaline surges through me. Is he suggesting he can help? If so, it will definitely come at a cost. I’m willing to pay anything to get my daughter back. Unfortunately, the $250,000 demand for Papa’s safety will undoubtedly tap me out—assuming I can raise even that much. Then again, we’re talking about my daughter. Who takes priority? Her or Papa? What an impossible situation.
Giordano continues to study me as I wrestle with the problem of how to prioritize the survival of the most important people in my life. We both know I have limited options and few cards to play. The bastard looks as if he’s intrigued by my quandary and is curious to see which way I’ll jump. Desperate I may be, but I succeed in clearing my head long enough to recall a primary tenet of Negotiating 101: Don’t appear overeager to accept what’s on offer.
“What the hell does that mean?” I shoot back.
“I may, perhaps, be in a position to assist in the safe return of your daughter.”
I feel a surge of hope as he ponders whatever thought has occurred to him.
“Of course, I am a businessman,” he reminds me.
I know he’s a respectable fucking businessman, so long as one accepts the premise that extortion is properly classified as business. “How much?” I ask impatiently.
He tents his fingers and smiles. The prick seems to
