Chapter 27 #2
I nearly choke on the two words, but I get them out.
Egos aside, I appreciate the Mancinellis’ assistance.
It’s for Tre’s sake, so I’ll take help wherever I can get it.
I can even trust Carmine because he’d never intentionally disappoint Sera.
For all the man’s faults, of which there are at least a million, you will never find a more devoted husband who believes his wife walks on water.
The call ends with Carmine agreeing to touch base in two days.
Jorge brought my laptop bag into the study when he arrived.
We sit beside each other on a surprisingly sturdy loveseat.
It never looks like it can support over four hundred pounds when any two of us sit on it, but we’ve raced to get seats on it since we were teens.
Right now, my youngest brother and I work side by side.
Between Jorge and me, we’ll soon know what’s going on.
So far, we’ve spent most of our time focused on the Torettas’ offshore assets.
There’s been plenty to keep us busy since the man likes to hide his money like he’s the Pope guarding the Vatican treasures.
We’ve looked into Francesco and his parents.
His father is Sylvia’s uncle through her dad, the late Don Alberto.
We’ve also looked at his underboss, consigliere, capos, enforcers, and all the way down to the tweens he has working for him as messengers and runners. We found a few things of interest that we can use for blackmail if needed.
However, none of it has been conclusive. But with Salvatore’s veiled insinuations of some scandal or disagreement, we’ll branch out even further in case he’s hiding money through someone well outside his family. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s using a low-level guy to shield him.
My brother and I work in silence for twenty minutes while the others discuss a couple of new businesses we want to acquire in Jackson Heights.
We’re actually not strong-arming anyone this time.
They’re failing businesses. If we buy them out, we’ll pay generously.
It’ll be more than the current owners would make before they die.
“Jorge, look at this.”
I turn my laptop toward my youngest brother, and he leans over to look.
“Could you get any closer? You’re fogging up my screen. Admit you need fucking glasses, hermanito.”
I’ve been calling Javier and Jorge “little brother” ever since I was barely in preschool, and they were still toddlers. Mamá told me I wasn’t allowed to call them babies anymore, so I had to come up with something, and that stuck.
“Those are healthier stock investments than someone with this much credit card debt should be making.” Jorge immediately recognized what I discovered.
“That’s what I was thinking too.”
I’m in a third-class enforcer’s bank account. I can see he’s living as though he’s got an unlimited Amex Black Card when he should be living on prepaid debit cards.
“How does he have stocks and mutual funds in the high six figures while he has credit card debt in the mid-five figures?”
Jorge rubbed his eye as he spoke, and I stare at him as only an oldest brother can. A complete “I told you so” look. I bet he’d stick his tongue out at me if we were alone.
“The only answer is he’s basically one of Francesco’s shell corporations. He’s using the guy as a pass-through. Look here, hermanito, he’s got the guy on the hook for all the tax liability for these investments, but he’s not letting him draw against them to cover the fees.”
“What do you think Francesco has against this guy?”
I shrug. “Whatever it is must be something good because it’s been going on for years.”
Jorge points to my screen as I continue to scroll down.
“Do you think this guy is trying to pay off his debt by doing Francesco’s dirty work?”
“I think that’s a serious possibility.”
Javier looks up from his own computer and puts down his pen. He still likes to take handwritten notes when he’s drafting a brief.
“You know the quickest way to find the answer to that.”
I grimace. None of us want to ask Carmine for anything. I certainly don’t, but my brother’s right. I just hate admitting that in less than an hour since the call with Salvatore, I already need Carmine. I take one more pass through the information on my screen before I call him.
One of the many fucked-up things in this life is that we’ve had each other’s names and numbers stored in our phones since well before we went on our first mission. As often as we were rivals in sports, we were often teammates. It was easier when it was club sports.
At the end of practice or the end of the game, we went our separate ways. But when it was school sports and we had to sit in the same class as our douchey rivals, it made it difficult. None of us won a good sportsmanship award.
“Joaquin.”
“Carmine.”
“You called me. What do you want?”
“I have a long list of things I want to have happen to you. But, for right now, I’m calling because I know Sera wants you to help find whoever’s been targeting my girlfriend.”
“Yeah, sure. Sera. That’s why.”
His mocking tone tempts me to hang up, but I won’t cut off my nose to spite my face. If this douche caboose can help even a little, then I’ll accept it.
“Francesco’s using his men as shell corps, isn’t he?”
“Who doesn’t?” His flippancy grates.
“There’s a guy, Giuseppe Pellicano. Do you know him?”
“I’ve met him a few times. He’s about ten years older than Luca and Pablo. He’s been around since he was a kid. Shitbag.”
“The guy’s got way more in the market than he should for someone of his means. Francesco pays him shit, and he’s up to his eyeballs in debt, yet he’s got solid six figures in these investments.”
“You want me to find out whether Francesco assigned the hit on Tricia to him or whether he’s doing this to earn off his debt?”
“Yes. Please. While you find out more about this guy, we’re going to play the stock market to see how Francesco reacts.”
Those first two words nearly kill me, but Mamá worked hard to instill those manners. I won’t make all her efforts in vain. Plus, you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, and Carmine is someone I’ve been swatting at for the past fifteen years.
“I’ll do what I can, Joaquin, because the Lord works in mysterious ways, and somehow He convinced Tricia to fall in love with your dumb ass.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
I don’t exactly stumble over my words, but neither do they come out smoothly, even if, for once, they’re genuine.
Once I’m through with my call, Jorge and I work our magic.
I hack into the IRS to gather all of Giuseppe’s pertinent identification information.
I establish a margin account in Giuseppe’s name using his Social Security number, date of birth, home address, and telephone number.
I’ll later reroute any incoming stock profit to our own account.
While I do that, Jorge hacks into Giuseppe’s investment accounts and starts working his magic as his gaze shifts between his monitors. He dumps the first block of shares, and I watch as the price dips. Then it dips again. A warning pops up on Giuseppe’s account.
Maintenance margin breached.
Jorge ignores it. It’s the signal we wanted. The brokerage’s internal system is basically saying, “Your collateral is no longer sufficient.”
Too bad for Giuseppe—and Francesco—because they aren’t getting any alerts since we’ve hacked everything and redirected all the communication through accounts I now control.
My brother’s not trying to bankrupt Giuseppe himself; he’s trying to make the brokerage do the work for us.
Within minutes, automated liquidation orders fire off across the portfolio.
Blue-chip stocks. Energy. Shipping. Tech.
Whatever the brokerage can sell the fastest. Law of the stock market jungle.
The brokerage doesn’t ask permission; it protects itself.
Millions become tens of millions in minutes. All while Giuseppe and Francesco are tucked soundly asleep in their beds.
Jorge and I sit back and watch as the trading algorithms detect the surge in selling volume and join the move.
Momentum funds follow. The Asian markets are already open, so the financial news terminals from there light up with alerts that one of the market’s biggest holders appears to be unloading positions.
Clearly, they don’t know why. They don’t care. They only care that someone is running, and they don’t want to be left behind.
All the money from the sales is going into the account that we opened in Giuseppe’s name.
Jorge’s making us millions while I yawn.
Once he’s done, it’s my turn again. After I transfer the remaining funds to our account, I wipe any evidence of how the amount left Giuseppe’s account or where it went.
I make it look like his old margin account never existed.
Since I’m certain it was no more legal than ours, Francesco won’t easily be able to cry foul.
Now, I basically retrace my cyber footsteps and transfer the account out of Giuseppe’s name into a new fake name.
By the time it’s done, there’s no evidence of where the money from Giuseppe’s margin calls went.
It had to go somewhere, but unless someone like Sergei or Anton pokes around, no one’s going to find out where.
However, it’ll still draw attention. It’ll keep Giuseppe and Francesco busy answering questions about illegal trading.
We’ll watch Francesco to see who he accuses first—for real or as a distraction—and who he transfers money to as payment for revenge. That’ll tell us who his scapegoat worker bees are and the likely culprits behind the attacks on Tre.
“Done and done.” Jorge tilts his head one way, then the other as he closes his laptop.
Pablo puts his computer on the table beside his armchair as he looks at me.