King of New York, page 11
It took minutes, but slowly and steadily, she felt her heartbeat slow, her breathing settle, and she was thinking clearly. The air was fresh. She wasn’t going to suffocate. That meant they wanted her alive, not buried alive.
She stretched, testing the limits of her confinement, and understood that the reality of her “coffin” was actually bonds—she’d been tied up, which stopped her from exploring the space around her, but there was more than she’d have in any sort of barrel or coffin.
With every minute that passed, she grew surer of herself and more determined that whatever else happened, whoever these people were, she was going to survive this.
She tried to piece her new world together from the sounds around her.
She was in some kind of small vehicle, but not a car. The engine sounds were different. Bigger.
Best guess, more from the way it moved, and the sick feeling that motion stirred, some sort of small private jet.
That realization had its own implications. Whoever had snatched her was powerful. This wasn’t kidnap for ransom.
Her father was rich, but not private-jet rich.
Chiara had an idea of what her father did to amass his wealth.
He wasn’t so innocent in his business affairs.
He’d worked hard to keep the details from her.
Mostly, they revolved around construction contracts and fraud, but she didn’t have to dig too deeply into the concrete and rebar foundations to find the extortion and money laundering that underpinned every building he constructed.
But there were a whole lot of other things she didn’t know about.
Guaranteed.
So, if someone with more money than he had snatched her off the street, it wasn’t some low-grade beef. He’d fucked over someone important.
She was smart enough to know that made her one of three things: a hostage, a payment, or worst case, both.
He wouldn’t have sold her if he’d had a choice. That kind of callousness took a special kind of bastard. But there wasn’t much comfort in the thought because there was a second side to all of this. Saving herself would put his life at risk.
In that moment, in the dark, somewhere over the world, she knew that she’d do it, whatever it took, because he’d expect her to.
He’d be counting on it, because he’d raised her to be a survivor.
* * *
“I would like to do you a favor, Sazuki-san,” Jimmy said.
Enzo had coached him through the various protocols and honor, perception, and slights that were the landmine-strewn field that was the art of talking politely to Japanese people.
“I am in no need of favors, and I am confused as to why you would want to come to my house looking to help me with something I do not need help with, Mr. Martello,” Haruto said.
“In truth, because I do not believe a relationship can be built upon lies. I would very much like for you to owe me a favor.”
“Would you now?”
“You’d be free not to repay it, of course. A favor is not an obligation, but I would hope that when the time came, it would be a small thing that I ask, not something of importance to you,” Jimmy said.
“Interesting,” Haruto said. “You have obviously given this some thought, but still are at a loss. I have no need of favors, so what did you have in mind?”
“A liver,” Jimmy said.
On the other end of the phone, silence.
Not even the in-out, inhale-exhale of breathing.
Haruto remained silent and still for some time.
Jimmy knew better than to try and fill the silence.
He kept his nerve and waited.
Haruto would speak.
When he did, it was to say, “I hope you are being serious with me, Mr. Martello. This is not a good topic for a joke.”
“I can assure you, I am most serious in my offer,” Jimmy said. “I would never make light of your circumstances, Sazuki-san. I know of your family’s need. I am in a position to help you. I can bring you a liver. All I need to know is where and when, and I will make sure it arrives at the surgery in perfect condition to enable your father to have his operation. That is my offer to you.”
“Why would you do this?” Haruto pressed.
“As I said, aside from the goodwill of your family,” Jimmy said, “I may have a small, very small, favor to ask down the line.”
“I am suspicious of the size of this favor for you to do something of such importance for my family, but we are in no position to refuse, so let us make arrangements together,” Haruto said.
“I trust this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” Jimmy told him.
* * *
Alessandro had taken to going out with Sale like he was a man trying to bone a beauty way out of his league, pumping him with fine wines in expensive restaurants, sampling the delicacies of artisanal patisseries, being seen in the most fashionable bars. One time, they even went around an art gallery. Alessandro had zero interest in the exhibits. He was trying to get the measure of Sale. The man was…not exactly an enigma, but getting to the root of what made him tick was decidedly more complex than it was with most people. Of course, he liked money; that was obvious. But he only saw the price tags, not the quality. Like his father would say, Sale was a man who knew the price of everything and the value of nothing. You could impress him with a sticker as long as the numbers on it were high enough;
yet he showed no signs of having the class or culture to appreciate the quality. Whether they were looking at guns or girls, every single time the price tag fired him up.
Alessandro wasn’t a fan.
The more time they spent talking, the more he came to realize the man had not-so-hidden shallows. He was vain and foolish. Not a good combination. He was beginning to understand why the elder statesmen of the Martello family hadn’t wanted him to take over. In his own head, Alessandro could see how Jimmy was the better choice, and that was despite the fact he’d begun to genuinely hate Jimmy.
A tortoise would have been a better choice to head the Martello family than Salvatore.
Or a rat.
Sale’s urges were simplistic—he craved respect and admiration. His problem was that he had no real way of amassing those things.
He wasn’t clever. He had very little in the way of charisma, and after any sort of prolonged exposure, his personality began to grate on people.
In no small part, it was because he so desperately wanted to be important.
But Alessandro had long since seen through that paper-thin facade. Most ventures he undertook failed, and he was the cause of their failure. Refusing to see the truth for himself, Sale blamed all the woes of his world on Jimmy.
On the flip side, if Jimmy was actually wrecking Sale’s plots in the way that he obsessed, then Jimmy was worthy of respect. That kind of all-seeing, all-knowing interception took 3D chess levels of scheming.
Sale wanted attention.
No, it went beyond want. He needed it like a junkie craved his next hit.
All Alessandro had to do was call him Don Martello, like that was how he really saw the man. After that, anything that came out of his mouth was like he was dropping truth bombs left and right for Sale. He was all over it, lapping it up. It shouldn’t be too difficult to enlist Sale to take out Jimmy. The trick was to do it without putting Sale into power.
That way, Jimmy would be denied his ruthless climb to King of New York, and no one would notice Alessandro moving about in the background.
Alessandro had his ideas about what the future might hold and who, ultimately, would wear the crown.
The difference was, he had no interest in drawing attention to himself.
Life had already shown him that he could get a lot done very quietly. More than he could ever have accomplished by jumping up and down and making noise.
Leave it to men like Jimmy to draw all the attention.
Real power didn’t work like that, and real power was what Alessandro wanted.
“Jimmy would be nothing without the support of your family,” Alessandro pointed out. “That’s the foundation to everything he does, the matriarchs.”
“True enough,” Sale said.
“So, the question is, what do we do about that?”
“It’s all about those murders,” Sale said. “Jimmy never found out who was behind the shooters. There has been no justice, no revenge, for the wives and mothers, and that leaves a bad taste in the mouth.”
“Understandable,” Alessandro acknowledged.
“The thing is, the more I think about it, the more I’m coming around to a pretty ugly line of thinking.”
“Speak freely. We are friends, Don Martello.”
“Honestly, I’m beginning to think Jimmy might have ordered the hit himself.” He let that hang in the air between them for a while. “Think about it. He and Nicky magically survive a shooting in that small study, but three other, better, more experienced men die, and the shooters run without putting the youngest generation in the ground. Does that seem likely to you? ‘Cause it sure as hell doesn’t pass the sniff test to me.”
“It does not,” Alessandro agreed, but in truth, he wasn’t sure what he believed. It was a good story, though. It had credibility to it, and just the right amount of backstabbing for it to work for him, so he’d share it. It wouldn’t hurt him for people to start wondering if Jimmy might have whacked his own family. It made it hard to trust someone like that. And if you can’t trust them, you aren’t so quick to get into bed with them. It was the kind of rumor that, true or not, didn’t matter; it would slow Jimmy down. “You need to work on the widows, Salvatore. A boy who doesn’t have his mother’s love doesn’t last long in a family.”
Alessandro saw Sale wince at his suggestion; it was a tell. His body betraying his truth. That was exactly what had happened to him. Without knowing for sure, he suspected there was bad blood between him and his brothers that went all the way back. That would explain a lot.
So, for now, at least, the extent of his ambitions was to keep Sale focused on the Martellos.
* * *
The buildings housing Martello Construction had always been bigger than necessary. The idea was to have room to expand, future-proofing the bricks and mortar. Jimmy’s father and uncle had plans for developing the family interests without question, but nothing was ever set in stone, and they hadn’t talked plans in front of him, so this new future was one of his own imagining. He hoped they would approve.
Right now, Jimmy needed his new team for personal reasons, but he could see a lot of ways in which they might help him down the line. There were five of them—Daniel Schmidt, whom he knew from college. Jennifer Spinelli, whom Daniel had brought in because she could break into anything digital, along with Janice Wilkins, who could crack the most impossible of passwords. Together, the two were known as J&J, the ultimate duo for digital breaking and entering. Travis Tate, the fourth member of the team, specialized in cryptocurrencies and the dark web. And then there was Indie, a curious little person who seemed to be mostly hair and dark glasses. Jimmy had never heard them speak. Indie, though, apparently knew everything there was to know about internet security and proofing any virtual casino operation against the likes of Jennifer. Indie was the only one of the crew he’d never met before; the rest, he at least knew in passing from those glory days of college.
In the short term, what he needed to do was gather information.
So, he picked out a nice, quiet space toward the rear of the building and set them up, buying everything they’d asked for on the inventory.
“I’m calling you Research and Development for the tax man,” he said. “As far as the IRS is concerned, I guess research is a fair description of what you’re doing.”
He explained to them who exactly he wanted them to research and what kind of information he needed them to dig up.
“Development we can get around to, but if you are suddenly struck with a lightning idea that will make us all very rich, don’t keep it to yourselves.” He grinned at that.
Later, Sale caught up with him in his office. “Research and Development? You sure we’re big enough an operation to warrant that? Seems like an unnecessary expense,” his uncle asked, the questions fusing together.
“I thought we might need some fresh ideas,” Jimmy said.
Sale nodded. “I can see that. Tried to have a chat with them. Unfriendly bunch, especially that long-haired one…”
Jimmy wasn’t surprised. He’d given them clear instructions to avoid talking to Sale about anything pertaining to their work, what he’d asked them to do, and anything they unearthed, as he’d set them on Project Salvatore Martello. He wanted whatever information they could gather on his moves and plans. Listening to the bugs in his office took up too much of Nicky’s time. He had better things for his cousin to be doing.
Later, he got a message from Daniel to say that Jennifer had picked Sale’s pocket when he’d come over to annoy them, stealing his phone. She’d installed an app of her own making onto it.
They’d bring it over to him, and he could tell Sale it must have been dropped it in the office. The home-brewed app would do everything Nicky’s bug had done and more, as well as being mobile. Sale would carry it with him everywhere. They’d be able to track him wherever that phone went. Whatever he typed, they’d read. What he saw on his six-inch screen, they would see on theirs, and when he phoned anyone, it would both play and record his conversations.
Sale wouldn’t be able to take a leak without them knowing he was unzipping.
It served to make Jimmy feel considerably safer.
Trying to constantly outwit the man had been exhausting, but at least now, he wouldn’t have to worry so much about trying to stay two steps ahead of his uncle.
As far as he was concerned, his new crew had more than earned their paychecks just for that.
And this was barely scratching the surface. He’d get a lot more help from them over the coming weeks.
All he had to do was wait.
They would dig, and somewhere in their excavations, they’d find what he needed to move forward with his plans.
* * *
Being predictable was a safety risk, but whenever Jimmy was in town, he made a point of drinking at the same cocktail lounge, always on a Wednesday. He was taunting the rest of the families. He wanted to be found. If someone came looking, there was a lot to be said for approachability. He kept one bodyguard with him, but there was always a second one lurking inconspicuously somewhere within the venue. Backup in case things turned ugly.
So far, the worst they’d been involved in was throwing a couple of wannabe thugs out of the building.
Anyone who wanted to talk to him could walk up and introduce themselves.
Most weeks, someone did just that.
Often, it was more than just the one. It became a pilgrimage for them. They wanted to check him out, or make sure they were on his radar. Some came looking to sell him something, often information, and more often than not, he bought it. Even if it wasn’t relevant to his interests, it was about fostering a reputation for paying well for good information. Knowledge was power in this world. It gave him a steady supply of people who wanted to get bed with him, some more literally than others, and some of them, he ended up obliging.
There was no one in life worth a return visit, but he had nothing against a little fun. He’d take photos too—not as souvenirs or trophies, but again in the name of information gathering. He’d send the images to his research and development team, who would work their magic. They never slept. There was always someone at the other end of the message, whatever time he sent it.
Maybe he wasn’t the only vampire in the world after all.
This time the girl who sashayed across the lounge was quite obviously looking for something. She was blonde and sun-kissed bronze. He liked how she moved.
From the way she scanned the room, it was clear she was looking for him.
When she finally spotted him, there was a moment’s hesitation. She bit her lip, unsure, then committed to the moment and walked over.
“Are you Jimmy Martello?”
“I am,” he admitted, signaling for a drink to be brought over. “Sit, please.” He could tell she was nervous.
“My name is Stephanie Kaminski,” she said. “Not that it should mean anything to you…I heard that you like to be helpful.”
“I do. So, tell me, how can I help you, Stephanie?”
“My friend has gone missing. I’m worried about her.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I think this might be of interest to you because of who her father is.”
“I’m listening,” Jimmy said, leaning forward attentively. There was a gentle smile on his face, filled with warmth. It always worked with people starved of human contact and kindness. Such a simple thing, a little smile.
“Her father is Ivan Popov.”
Stephanie watched his face, waiting to see if he knew the name.
Of course, he did. Working in construction himself, it was impossible not to run into Ivan Popov. The man had sway. He had the political power to make or break projects.
If you wanted to break ground in certain areas, Popov would need his palm greased to facilitate it, or your shovel would never dig up that first bucket of soil and clay. For all intents and purposes, Popov ran a fairly simple extortion racket and made good bank from it. Mostly, the Martellos tried to keep out of his way. It was impossible not to cross paths eventually, and when they did, they’d see he got whatever he wanted, just to keep things smooth.
