Victorious Vice, page 4
The receptionist greets us with a bright smile. “May I help you?”
I give her a small wave. “We’re here to see Emily Bennett. I’m Raven Bellamy, and this is Jared. He’s my…associate.”
Minutes later, we are ushered into a spacious office overlooking the city. Emily Bennett is waiting for us, looking every bit as professional as I expected.
She stands a few feet from the floor-to-ceiling window. Her light blond hair is pulled back in a sleek bun, and she wears a white satiny blouse and sleek black pants.
She extends a hand to me. “Raven, it’s great to meet you.”
“You too,” I reply.
“And this is?” Emily asks as she turns toward Jared.
“My bodyguard, Jared.”
She nods and offers him a polite smile as they shake hands. She doesn’t seem the least bit freaked out that I travel with muscle. Interesting.
“Please sit.” Emily gestures toward the plush leather chairs across her desk.
Jared and I take a seat.
“So,” Emily begins, “let’s talk about your nonprofit.”
I clear my throat. “As you know, it will be dedicated to the research and treatment of blood cancers, with the objective of clinical trials and helping individuals who can’t afford treatment.”
“Excellent.” She nods. “I recommend a rigorous vetting process for prospective board members to ensure they share the same vision and dedication to the cause that you do.”
“Absolutely,” I agree.
“We need to delineate clear roles and responsibilities for everyone to minimize internal conflicts down the line.” She pauses a moment. “We’ll also need to determine our fundraising strategy. You said you have a gala planned, yes?”
“Yes,” I say. “It’s just an introductory event, really. We’re hoping to get some initial pledges and establish connections with potential donors.”
“Good start.” She nods. “But one won’t be enough. We need to think about long-term funding opportunities—corporate sponsorships, grants, recurring donations.”
“Understood.” I jot all this down in my iPad.
“And what about your mission statement? That’s key to attracting both volunteers and donors.”
I nod again. I already crafted a mission statement, but Emily’s point made me reconsider. I had focused on the “what,” but maybe it was just as important to clearly state the “why” and “how.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll revise it.”
“Great.” Emily clears her throat. “And now, I have some excellent news for you.”
“Oh?” I lift the beginnings of my new eyebrows.
She smiles. “I received word a few minutes before you arrived that there’s a large cash donation waiting for you.” She pushes a piece of folded paper in front of me.
I wrinkle my forehead as I take the paper.
Then I gasp.
6
VINNIE
My conversation with Austin Bellamy haunts me. He’s a smart man, and he kept his answers to my questions succinct and sometimes evasive. I can’t blame him for that. I’d do the same thing. Hell, I do the same thing.
My stomach is churning with nerves. I could be barking up the wrong tree, of course. “Operation Falcon” could mean anything.
But there’s a reason I’m here. A reason Mario wants me here. Giacomo Puzo wasn’t a family head. Mario could have sent one of his surrogates here to negotiate with Agudelo.
The clock strikes eleven. Two hours until the lunch with Agudelo. Two more hours to prepare, to analyze, to plan.
Agudelo is clearly a man who likes to keep his cards close to his chest.
As one o’clock draws nearer, I take a moment to freshen up, wash away the grime of sleepless research, exhaustion, and worry. Today will be a game of chess, and I need to be at my best. I dress in a crisp black suit and then make my way down the grand staircase into the hall where Morehouse is waiting for me. Exactly at one, he escorts me into a large dining room filled with light filtering in from the arched windows. The table is set with gleaming china and silverware.
Morehouse lifts his eyebrows as he shows me to my seat. Odd. What does he know? He’s no doubt very faithful to his employer. I’ll get nothing from him.
Agudelo enters the room, his presence immediately shifting the atmosphere. His smile doesn’t seem to reach his eyes as he greets me.
As waitstaff fill our glasses with champagne and serve a delicate pâté, Agudelo begins to talk about the artwork in the room, but my thoughts wander back to the old woman. To Operation Falcon. If Agudelo is involved with the Bellamys, I need to tread lightly around him.
Agudelo is gesturing to a painting of two large-bodied people, a man and a woman, dressed in Edwardian fashion, with an equally heavyset cat in between them. “This of course is an authentic Botero, commissioned directly from the artist. I get calls at least once a week from museums all over the world begging me to donate it to them. But I wouldn’t very well be able to enjoy it during dinner if I did that, would I?” He clears his throat, shifting his gaze to me. “But enough about my collection. How about we get down to business? Your grandfather has been very eager for our meeting.”
I nod, careful to keep my expression neutral. “Yes, he has.”
For the next half hour we discuss matters of trade, investments, and politics. Despite our talk, I can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t just about business. I’ve done my homework. I can answer every single one of Agudelo’s questions with pretty extensive detail. But even as I spit out facts and figures, my mind keeps slipping away to that photo of the old woman. What does she have to do with all of this?
Agudelo’s words are calculated, each sentence carefully structured. I’m beginning to understand the magnitude of his power and control in this world.
As we delve deeper into the conversation, I subtly steer it to the face that has been nagging at my mind.
“Señor Agudelo. My grandfather gave me a file full of names and faces, most of whom I’m familiar with. But there’s one person I can’t place.”
Agudelo wrinkles his forehead. “And who is that?”
I grab my iPad, but he holds up a hand.
“Interesting that you would bring him up,” Agudelo says. He rings for Morehouse.
Him? The picture is clearly of an old woman.
“Yes, señor?” Morehouse says when he enters.
Agudelo gestures to Morehouse, who bends down. Morehouse whispers something in his ear.
Then, “Yes, señor. Right away.” Morehouse exits.
I lift my eyebrows in question.
“Another guest will join us momentarily,” Agudelo says.
I take a drink of my wine. “I look forward to meeting another of your colleagues.”
Agudelo chuckles. “Colleague?” He leans back in his seat. “Oh no, Señor Gallo. This is not just any colleague.”
The tension is almost palpable as I wait for the mystery guest to arrive. My mind races with possibilities.
Morehouse enters, gesturing inside.
And my blood runs cold.
Suddenly, I’m back in Mario’s office, in my teen years, being groomed to join the family business. Staring into the same ice-cold eyes I’m seeing now.
I jerk upward, squint to make sure I’m not seeing things.
It’s been seventeen years, but I’d recognize him anywhere.
Same dark eyes, same slicked-back hair, though it’s mostly gray now.
Same snakelike half smile.
“Señor Gallo,” Agudelo says, “It would appear you two are already acquainted.”
Again, I stay neutral, desperately trying to hide my shock.
“I… Yes,” I manage to sputter out.
Diego Vega, the man I thought was dead and buried underneath the Bellamys’ old barn, cracks a small grin.
“If it isn’t the little cobra.”
7
RAVEN
“Fifty million dollars?”
Next to me, Jared’s brown eyes widen as well.
“I figured you’d be pleased,” Emily says.
“Pleased? I’m flabbergasted.” I rub my eyes just to make sure that I’m not hallucinating. “Where did this money come from?”
Emily smiles. “It came anonymously about an hour before you got here. It’s already been wired into our client trust account.”
“I can’t accept it,” I say. “Not if I don’t know who it’s from.”
Jared turns to me. “Raven, I’m just an old military guy, but even I know you don’t turn your back on that kind of cash.”
My trust fund is worth ten times that. I figured I’d put about a hundred million of my own money into this, and Robbie was good for fifty million. Maybe one of my brothers kicked in to cover the rest.
“You have to tell me,” I say.
“I would if I could,” Emily says. “But like I said, the donation was anonymous.”
“Why would they send it to you? The only person who knows—”
I close my eyes. “Of course. My father. Who else knew that you were meeting with me today?”
“You could ask him, I suppose,” Emily says.
“Or you could just tell me.”
Her face remains still. She’s good. “I said I can’t. It came in anonymously. It could’ve come from anywhere. But you’re right. Someone knew to send it to me.”
Who else could’ve known? Vinnie’s family probably has that kind of money lying around, but he’s in Colombia. And he’s pretty much turned his back on me.
My mind races to the text I received on that burner phone.
Who was that Uber driver? And why would he be telling me I’m in danger?
“If it bothers you,” Emily says, “you can always decline the donation.”
It doesn’t sit well with me. I feel like someone’s poking me in the back of the neck. But Jared is right. I need to think of the people I can help with this money. The research that can be done on leukemia and other blood cancers.
“That won’t be necessary,” I say. “I just wish there were someone I could thank for their generosity.”
“I understand,” Emily says. “But anonymous donors stay anonymous for a reason. They’re not looking for glory. They’re not looking for gratitude. They simply want to help people.”
I nod. “Okay. We should have plenty of money, especially after our gala, to get some grants set up and really start helping people.”
“That’s another thing we need to talk about,” she says. “How do you want to set up distribution of resources? We have to have parameters or everyone in the country will be asking you for money.”
“Anyone with a blood cancer who needs money should feel free to ask for it,” I say. “Treatment is so expensive, and insurance eventually runs out. Not to mention those people who aren’t insured at all.”
“I understand how much you want to help everyone, Raven,” she says. “But even resources as great as yours are going to be limited. Why don’t I come up with some guidelines, and we can look them over at our first board meeting? Do you have any idea of who you’d like to ask to serve on your board?”
“Well, I guess I’ll be on the board. Along with my sister.”
“Anyone else in your family?”
“Normally I would ask my father, but he’s so busy with everything else. Maybe my brother Falcon. He’s the one who donated his bone marrow to save my life.”
“Yes…” She looks down. “But isn’t he an ex-convict?”
“He’s innocent.”
“He may well be. But in the eyes of society, he spent time on the inside and he’s an ex-convict. I believe he pleaded guilty.”
I stand. “He did, but he…had his reasons.”
“I understand.” Emily raises a hand, gestures me to sit back down. “And I understand how close you are to him. But I would advise against having him on your board.”
I sigh. I hate it, but she’s probably right. “All right. Maybe my brother Hawk then.”
“Or someone not related to you,” she says.
I sink back into the chair. “Who do you suggest?”
“I’d suggest maybe someone in the medical field. An oncologist, or perhaps a researcher.”
“I could ask some of my doctors.”
“That’s certainly a good place to start. They’ll be able to point you toward the people who are doing the cutting-edge research in the field.”
I nod.
“Then you’ll want an attorney, of course.”
“Would you like to be on my board?”
She smiles. “I appreciate the request, but you and I don’t know each other very well yet. Besides, it could be a conflict of interest. Because I’m representing you in getting the nonprofit together, I probably should not sit on the board.”
I nod. I hadn’t thought of that. Boy, am I in over my head.
She shifts through some paperwork. “You said your father was busy. You don’t think he’d have the time?”
“I doubt it.”
“I understand, but he’s the Cooper Steel heir, and an excellent rancher in his own right here in the great state of Texas. He would be a perfect addition to your board.”
“All right. I’ll ask him then.”
My father will never deny me anything, which is the reason I didn’t want to ask. He’ll do it even if he doesn’t have the time.
“So, the gala,” Emily says. “Tell me what you envision for it.”
“I’m not sure entirely,” I admit, tugging at the hem of my blouse. “I was hoping you might have a few ideas. I’ve got the venue locked in, but that’s about it, and we’re running short on time. I want it to be grand. Not just another dull charity ball where people stand around in their designer clothes and talk about how much they’ve donated.”
Emily leans back in her chair. “Grand can be achieved,” she assures me. “How do you feel about live entertainment? Perhaps a notable artist or band?”
I nod. “That sounds fantastic. Do you think we could manage that on such short notice?”
“There’s no harm in trying,” Emily replies. “We might even reel in some extra donations if we auction off a private performance or a meet and greet. I’ll put out some feelers right away.”
“Thank you.”
“Think about your guest list,” she instructs me as we prepare to part ways. “The right mix of people can help create the environment you’re looking for at the gala. And it helps if they’re well-connected.”
“I’ve already sent out ‘save the date’ invitations,” I tell her, “since it’s coming up so quickly. The responses have been great. Of course, having my father’s name attached doesn’t hurt.”
“That’s a good move,” she says. “Leveraging your family name will not only attract potential donors but reputable professionals as well. But try to think beyond the immediate, Raven. The gala is a launchpad for your foundation, and you want it to make waves.”
“But why? Isn’t the aim just to raise funds?”
She shakes her head. “Raising funds is certainly one of the goals. But more importantly, we need to raise awareness. People won’t donate if they don’t know about the cause or respect it. Your gala should show them that you’re serious about making a difference.”
A stab of apprehension hits my gut. “I hadn’t really thought about it like that. I’m not sure how to get people to take me seriously.”
“They will,” she says. “You’ve got passion, and that’s more than half the battle won. Now we just need to channel that passion into something tangible and compelling. Your story, your survival, and your dedication to helping others is already inspiring. Now it’s about spreading that inspiration wider.”
I nod, even as a nagging worry tugs at the back of my mind. I hope she’s right, but the fear of failure is hard to shake off. It’s one thing to dream big. It’s another to bring those dreams to life.
“Remember,” Emily says. “You’re not alone in this. We’re going to build a solid team around you, and I’ll be there every step of the way.”
“Thank you, Emily,” I say. “This has been amazing. Is there anything else we need to take care of this afternoon?’“
“I think we’re in good shape,” she says. “Think about board members. We don’t need to fill all the chairs in time for the gala. In fact, the gala itself will be a good place to gauge interest from people who may want to serve. But we need a skeleton board to get started. You, your sister and your father will be a good start, along with someone in the medical field.”
“Got it.” I rise. “Thanks so much.”
“Of course, Raven.” She rises as well, extending her hand to me. “It’s a pleasure assisting you with such a noble cause.”
I shake her hand, and then she escorts Jared and me through the office to the exit.
Once we step out into the humid Texas afternoon, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
My breath catches as I read it.
Even the raven can’t fly forever. Sooner or later, it comes home to die.
8
VINNIE
I could take offense at the nickname. I could stand and meet his gaze, secure in my strength this time.
I could do any number of things.
But I don’t.
I only stare.
Because if this is Diego Vega, then who the hell is buried underneath the Bellamys’ old barn?
“Surprised to see me, Little Cobra?”
God, he still sounds like a snake. And he calls me a cobra?
I keep my expression impassive despite my racing heart. “Why would I be surprised?”
He smirks. “Let’s just say that rumors of my death have been…greatly exaggerated.”
“Your death?”
He smirks. “You know. A body was never recovered.”
“You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Vega. But I’ve been out of the country—my own country—for over a decade. I only just returned. It was my impression that you no longer had any dealings with my grandfather.”
