three
“We just have to return you alive.”- Leo
Tuesday Afternoon...
“So, you’re telling me, I sent you on a simple fucking art heist, and you come back with two kidnapped witnesses?”
Peadar asks, his arms crossed in front of his chest.
His voice is calm, but I know him well enough to hear the inflections of fervor woven throughout the syllables like smoke through an empty hallway.
“Yes, sir. They were home when your men told us they wouldn’t be,” I explain, refusing to take the fall for this when it wasn’t even our fault. Peadar may be the only person in this world that scares me, but I will still call him on his bullshit when need be.
Peadar taps his pen on the desk, and stares at us with squinted, beady eyes. I barely resist the urge to grab my lion's head pendant, tucked safely under my shirt. Peadar likes to watch people squirm, but I refuse.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The cadence matches my beating heart. The silence stretches so tight, it feels like it’s strangling me. Each tap is the punctuation to a silent threat. A quiet negotiation. An unenthusiastic agreement.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Daron shifts beside me, I don’t move. My thoughts don’t feel like my own anymore. I can’t concentrate on anything but the damn tapping. I breathe slowly, not allowing the tapping to control that too. My eyes never leave Peadar’s.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Thankfully he can’t hear my heart beating. Peadar likes to let people feel safe and secure before he releases the guillotine.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He loves power. He survives on it. One of us will break, and it won’t be me. It will never be me.
“So… you expect me to just… ransom him?”
Peadar finally breaks the silence, his somewhat nasally voice reverberating throughout the large office.
My body starts to sag in relief, but then I remember where I am and I stop it halfway down my spine.
My muscles relax marginally, no longer on the verge of spasm.
I keep my breathing shallow, and my tone even.
“Yes. His family is worth billions. It will be the easiest money we’ve ever made.” I know this plan is solid. It was the only reasonable thing to do. How could Peadar not see that?
“What about the other one? I was going to have Brown kill him.” Peadar’s tone is bored, as if he’s barely even thought about it.
“I think you should let him live for a little while longer, sir,” I suggest.
Peadar is a strong and powerful leader, but he doesn’t always see the big picture.
He is quick to pull the trigger, without looking at the whole board.
I have a feeling that there is something more to Nico Mendoza, but we will never find out if he’s fish food.
We need to keep him alive for the time being. I need to convince my boss of this.
“Why’s that?” Peadar’s expression is as skeptical as his tone.
“Evan researched the guy. He had no record until he turned 18. It's like he didn’t exist. And Evan is the best out there. If he can’t find it, then someone is going through a great deal of trouble to hide it. There is something more to the guy, and we’ll never know that if he’s dead.”
“There are a lot of reasons someone’s records could be hidden while they were a minor. That doesn't really mean anything.” Despite his words, Peadar’s hand rests on his chin. Thinking. Contemplating. Perhaps planning.
“It’s a hunch, sir. You always told me to trust my gut,” I say. Peadar doesn’t look fully convinced. I swallow.
When the silence lingers too long, I add “Plus, we could potentially use him to get Callisto to do what we want. As much of a spoiled brat as he is, he seems to care about his employees.”
Silence again. No pen tapping this time. Peadar’s stare bores into my soul, as if he’s trying to decide something. Nico’s fate or mine. I’m not sure which at this point.
I swallow again, my throat scraping dry. “Keep him alive. If I’m wrong, we lose nothing.”
Peadar’s eyes flicker in interest. He points at me with one long finger, his large silver claddagh ring glimmering in the light of the office. I’m not sure if he will concede or sentence me to death for even arguing.
“That’s a fair point.” Peadar leans back in his chair. “Have Lynch keep digging.”
“Already on it,” I nod.
“Also, get a picture of Santos with the Polaroid camera, so it can’t be traced. Have him hold a newspaper with today’s date on it or something to signify that it isn’t old. I’ll have someone call with a burner phone and a voice distorter to deliver the message,
then send the photo with instructions to their house.”
Peadar nods his head as if his plan is ingenious.
It isn't. I’m sure I’ve seen that exact plot in every kidnapping movie ever, and it’s the same one Peadar has always used for as long as I've known him.
He’s old school, though. And to be fair, the reason why it is the procedure shown in movies is because it’s relatively flawless. If it’s not broken, then why fix it.
“What should we do with them in the meantime?” Daron asks, and I dread the answer. I don't want to spend any more time around the pompous dickwad than I have to. I want him out of my hair and to be done with the situation. Hopefully his family answers quickly.
“You are both to keep an eye on them. I haven’t quite decided what I am going to do, but while they're here, they need to be under twenty-four-hour surveillance. I trust both of you to ensure that this happens. Got it?”
Peadar asks, and I catch the thinly veiled threat in his words.
Damn it. Of course, this is left up to me.
“Yes, sir,” Daron and I respond simultaneously, nodding our heads, even though I desperately want to protest. I want to tell Peadar to get one of his other minions to do it.
Fletcher and Evan don’t have lives other than fucking each other when they think no one is looking.
They could easily do it because Daron and I have shit we have to do.
Things that are expected of us within the organization.
I oversee a few teams, having to plan and organize various operations before getting Peadar’s final approval.
This is a business after all, and I am practically the vice-president.
I don’t have time to babysit a fucking spoiled brat.
“Dismissed.” Peadar waves his hand, but watches us as we leave, like he still has a plan to punish us, but it will be when we least expect it. I don’t break eye contact with him until the door firmly shuts behind us, wanting him to know that I’m not afraid of whatever punishment he has in store.
Daron and I quietly make our way out of Peadar’s office.
Once the door firmly shuts behind us, my body physically slumps and I breathe for the first time in what feels like hours.
A sigh escapes Daron’s lips. I hate those types of meetings.
I never know if I’m going to come out of them honored or dead.
We don’t say anything as we make our way down the hallway, quickly finding Fletcher and Evan standing outside of the room Callisto and Nico are being held in.
They’re talking, Evan’s loud laugh at whatever Fletcher said floating down the corridor.
I’m sure it wasn’t that funny, but Evan laughs at everything that comes out of Fletcher’s mouth.
It’s disgusting. Fletcher smacks Evan on the arm when he sees us coming, the smile quickly fading from Evan’s face.
“What else did you find out about them?” I ask as soon as they are close enough. I keep my voice down, not wanting anyone I don't trust to overhear. The only people I trust are the three men standing around me, and Peadar somewhat.
“Callisto Enea Santos. Son of Giuseppe and Lucia Santos. Giuseppe is the CEO of some sort of company. Couldn’t really find much on it, which is strange. Callisto seems to be a trust fund baby.”
“I already knew that. Can you tell me something I didn’t know?” I ask.
“He’s an only child. He’s twenty-five years old. He earned an Art History degree from Luiss University in Rome. He’s only been back in the states for about six months,” Evan continues pretending I didn't say anything.
“Any significant others?” I can’t help but ask the question that has been plaguing me.
“Nope. He’s single, no current or even recent relationships that I could find,” Evan answers, and my relief is purely professional. He won’t have a girlfriend or boyfriend that is looking for him.
“Job?” I ask.
“Not really. He doesn’t really do much. Had some modeling gigs here and there, but nothing substantial. Seems to have switched his focus to art dealing and collecting. Doesn’t show up in the papers with his family as much, seems to be somewhat estranged,” Evan tells us, looking down at his notes,
and I roll that information around in my head.
“Interesting. So, Callisto wasn’t lying. What happened between him and his wealthy family for him to not want to remain in contact with them?” I wonder out loud.
“No one really knows. Lots of rumors, though. Some say it’s because he’s gay…”
“Is he?” I cut Evan off.
“Nothing concrete. Just speculation, but there is a lot of pretty solid evidence that he is gay, and his father isn’t happy about it,” Evan says, and there is pity in his eyes. And for the first time, I sort of understand Callisto. I understand what it’s like to have a shitty, unsupportive father.
“Do you think him not being close with his parents will change things?” Fletcher asks.
“Nah. His parents will pay for the freedom of their only heir, no matter how deep the wounds run.” I respond, certain of it.
“Any more about Nico?” Daron asks, his voice curious. We start making our way to Callisto and Nico’s holding cell.
“Nico Javier Mendoza. Still can’t find much on his family or any nearby relatives. His entire life seems to be his job,” Fletcher tells us; I nod, chewing on my lip in thought.
“Keep digging. There has to be something on him before he turned eighteen and went to college. He didn’t appear out of nowhere as a full grown adult,” I say, thinking about the possibility of ransoming him, too.
If someone had enough money to cover his existence for eighteen years, they would have enough money to fork over for his safe return.
“Can you stand guard a little while longer? I know he’s a brat, but me and D have to go out and get a few things, then we can take over.” I come to a stop in front of the holding cell and look between the two.
“Can one of you pre-historic Neanderthals' let us out to visit the restroom?” comes an annoyingly shrill voice from behind the door. I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. Can’t I have one moment of peace?
“You have a toilet,” I respond.
“There is no privacy,” he snaps back.
I picture him, standing on the other side of the door staring at the single toilet in the middle of the open room with a disgusted look on his face.
His entitlement has him believing that using the toilet in the middle of the room is optional.
It isn’t. He has no options anymore. It’s our way or a body bag. Period.
“Get used to it.”
A pause. Not silence exactly. More like he’s deciding whether rules are real things or just suggestions people haven’t argued with him properly about yet.
“Are you going to let us starve, too?” he asks, switching topics.
“Yes,” I answer automatically, but the word sounds wrong. Too harsh. I change my answer, “No.”
“Which is it?” he asks, tapping his foot in sharp, impatient rhythms against the floor.
I clench my jaw then take a deep, controlled breath. “No.” The word is forced out through gritted teeth.
“Good. I would like a salad,” he says through the door. Like his captivity is a GUCCI store with worse lighting and an odd odor.
“You are in no position to be making requests,” I remind him. Breathe. In and out. In… and out…
“Some balsamic on the side would be nice,” he continues, as if I’m the one being unreasonable.
I wait for the punchline. Wait for Callisto to give some indication that he’s joking about all of this, and he uses humor as a coping mechanism. It never comes. “Look, Princess Peach, I’m not your butler," I say, trying hard not to lose my temper.
“If you want to try your little negotiations with my father, you will have to keep me happy,” he says, but his voice has lost its hostility. He’s starting to question himself.
“Yeah… well what would make me happy is chopping off your hand and sending it to him with a bow,” I respond, picturing his pretty hand with his priceless rings in a nice little box post stamped to his daddy.
“You w- wouldn't,” he stammers, his entitlement slipping a little bit. Maybe it’s finally getting through to him that he has been kidnapped. He’s not at some five-star resort ordering room service. He is in a warehouse where we keep prisoners and torture people. He is among killers.
“Do you want to try me?” I ask, looking at the door as if he can somehow see me.
There’s a pause. I can almost hear him recalculating who I am and how dangerous I can be. His formula better be right, because the only thing keeping him alive right now is his money. Figures.
“Maybe I do,” he says, finally, softer now. His voice lacks his normal bravado. It’s more analytical, with a touch of fear and defiance.
Fletcher snorts under his breath, and I seethe.
I hold out my hand, not taking my eyes from the door. “Knife,” I demand through gritted teeth. I don’t actually wanna carve up the golden goose, but he needs to remember where he is. Who I am.
“Leo…” Fletcher breathes, hesitating as he looks between me and the door.
“It’s an order.” I stare at the door, my nostrils flaring.
“Sure thing,” he finally responds, and the firm handle of a knife presses into my palm a moment later.
“Are you gonna use it to chop my salad?” he asks, the bravado in his voice back and stronger than ever.
“No, I’m going to use it to carve out your voice box so you can no longer speak,” I hold the knife in line with the window at the very top of the door. Then I use my card to unlock the number pad next to the door, fully intending to follow through with my threat.
“I-if you cut o-off body parts, then you definitely won’t see a dime,” he says. There it is. Fear. Clear and sharp beneath the bravado. I want to sink my teeth into it. Consume it like Callisto seems to be consuming my control.
“We just have to return you alive. We won’t say anything about one piece.” Callisto doesn’t have some witty response or entitled request. For once, he says nothing. Not because of restraint. His silence is because of me.