Meaning he’s wanted by law enforcement. Great. At the moment, I’m probably guilty of harboring a wanted criminal.
“Should the police learn of my presence here and detain me, it could prove to be more than a simple inconvenience, Mr. Valenti. It would needlessly complicate or even preclude our business together.”
“I’m not sure if that’s an explanation or a warning,” I mutter.
“Both.”
I nod while a fresh tentacle of fear creeps into me. “Understood.”
He smiles. “Of course, you understand such things. You are a paisano yourself.”
I’m not your fucking paisano. My friends aren’t a bunch of murdering thugs. Not that I dare give voice to those thoughts. I screw up the courage to return to the topic of my daughter. “I want Brittany home.”
“As I said, Mr. Valenti, that depends on whatever terms we may agree to. The ball is in your court.”
And I haven’t got a clue how to return his volley.
“I see that this is something of a quandary for you,” Giordano says after a moment. “If I may make a suggestion?”
I nod.
“If we are to proceed in the matter of your father, he will be under our protection the minute your funds clear. Not a minute before. Capisce?”
“I totally understand,” I seethe. Papa’s at risk until I pay up.
“A point to consider in that regard, Mr. Valenti. Time is of the essence. Your father’s location is an asset we currently possess. It is of value to others, as well.”
“I know.”
“You are familiar with the expression ‘a bird in hand is worth two in the bush?’”
“Yeah.”
“The promise that you will raise two hundred and fifty thousand dollars is like a bird in the bush, Mr. Valenti. Your father’s hunters would also be happy to compensate us immediately for that information. Perhaps not as much as you have agreed to pay, but they have cash readily available—cash in hand, if you will, whereas your two hundred and fifty thousand dollars is still somewhere in the bush. I suggest you act quickly on our offer.”
I take a deep breath as outrage stirs within me.
“Relax, Mr. Valenti. We do have a deal, but our patience is finite.”
“I already told you that I don’t have that kind of cash lying around the house,” I shoot back with a mixture of anger and fright.
He smiles. “Because you don’t have that kind of cash. Here or anywhere. We know this, but we also know that you have the means to raise it. I only suggest that you do so without undue delay. We will be watching.”
“It’s Friday evening,” I remind him.
He nods. “Unfortunate timing, I agree. While you wait for the banks to open on Monday, you will have time to weigh my offer concerning your daughter. That is a matter of perhaps more urgency. I can do nothing to influence events concerning Brittany unless we come to an agreement. It would be a shame were something to befall her while you think things over, wouldn’t it?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
It’s a good thing Penelope called an hour ago to remind me that I’m due in the office by nine o’clock. I was already awake, but the work appointment had slipped my mind while I riffled through my latest investment statements, desperately trying to figure out how to raise a quarter of a million dollars in short order. It is Saturday morning, after all, and my brain has been scrambled since Matteo Giordano walked out of my home last evening. I polished off the bottle of bourbon I shared with him and made a good start on another while I had an initial look at the investments. In my inebriated state, a solution didn’t offer itself. I woke up this morning hoping things would look better in the morning light. They don’t.
My thoughts turn to Brittany after I cast the paperwork aside and head for the bathroom. Can Giordano really save her? Does he know if she’s still alive? He seems to know a hell of a lot, but does he know that? Why the hell didn’t I ask him last night? I’d do so now, but I have no way to contact him.
“We’ll be in touch,” he had informed me as he let himself out.
After a quick shower and shave, I hop into my Porsche and arrive at the office only five minutes late. Not a big deal as our appointment is scheduled for ten o’clock. We’ve come early to prepare for our visitors.
Penelope greets me with a grin. “Good morning, sleepyhead.”
“I was awake when you called,” I protest.
“You look like heck,” she observes after giving me a long look. Then she moves closer and gives me a sniff. “Have a little too much to drink last night?”
I still stink after gargling a gallon of mouthwash? Rather than simply answer the question honestly, I toss out a line I heard somewhere or other. “I might be feeling a little storm-tossed.”
“Storm-tossed?” she says with a snort. “You look and smell hungover.”
“Well, it’s much the same thing, but storm-tossed sounds ever so much more romantic, doesn’t it?” I ask in a lame effort at levity. I’m embarrassed and a bit ashamed about waking up less than sober. The drinking is becoming a bit of an issue again. It sure as hell isn’t going to help me save Brittany, but I reason that losing myself in a fog of alcohol helps maintain my sanity for a few hours at a time.
Penelope smiles the smile of the exasperated.
“Do I smell like a brewery?” I ask.
She ponders the question, then shakes her head and replies, “Maybe like we’re a block or two away from one. Have you eaten?”
Meals have become a decidedly hit-or-miss proposition. Most of the normal activities of life have. I shrug. “Forgot, I guess.”
Out comes her cell phone. I listen to her side of the conversation while clearing off my desk.
“Mom? Can you stop and pick up
