Chapter 9
NINE
Lochlan
Willets Point is exactly the kind of shithole a man of Senator Banks’s high caliber would never set foot in.
Not under normal circumstances anyway.
And by high caliber, I mean a pompous, stuck-up, dirty politician who thinks his shit don’t stink.
They call it the Iron Triangle because of how the auto body shops and junkyards are crammed together. The area’s one big maze of scrap metal and rubber tires, reeking of motor oil and rust.
During the day it’s where you’ll find mechanics and scrap dealers hawking questionable parts and even more questionable services.
Come nightfall? The Triangle transforms into one of the seediest locations in the city. Dark, deserted, and desolate, it’s the perfect location for two parties to meet under unsavory circumstances.
I chose this location specifically because I knew it would make the senator piss himself.
We’re talking about a hoity toity asshole who dines at Le Benardin and goes yachting when he feels like it.
As far as I’m concerned, he deserves to squirm a little.
It’s half past nine as we wait for him to turn up. We’re lurking in the shadows of a gutted transmission shop that’s been defiled with gang tags that cover every inch of wall space.
Aleksei stands to my left like a tank with a pulse, arms crossed over his massive chest. Marco’s to my right, checking his watch every thirty seconds as if he’s got somewhere better to be. Robby’s stationed at the perimeter with two other guys I’ve brought along.
All of us masked and armed. We’re ready for whatever the senator might try to pull.
Not that I expect him to try anything.
Keith Banks is a lot of things—pompous windbag, serial glad-hander, conceited elitist who’s never met a camera he didn’t like—but he’s not stupid. He knows the rules of this game, even if he’s never played it before.
His precious little girl’s life depends on him following instructions.
The black Lincoln Town Car rolls into view right on schedule, its shiny waxed exterior serving as a jarring contrast to the rusted-out carcasses of vehicles that litter the surrounding lots.
The town car navigates the potholed streets hesitantly, going at a glacial pace, as if the driver’s questioning if they’re in the right place.
Oh, it’s the right place, alright. I made sure of that.
The car stops about thirty feet away and the rear door opens, revealing Senator Keith Banks in less-than-polished condition.
He tries to present otherwise, but I see right through him.
He’s ditched the suit and tie for a windbreaker and baseball cap, and his eyes shine like they’re made of glass.
Even his gait is off as he walks stiltedly toward us.
Upon closer inspection, the bags under his eyes reveal he hasn’t been sleeping well.
Good. Neither has his daughter.
He stops a few feet away, cutting wary glances at Aleksei and the other guys I have with me. His throat tightens with a swallow that makes his Adam’s apple bob. He obviously wants to be nowhere near any of us.
“Well?” he prompts. “I’m a busy man and my driver is waiting. What is that you want?”
“I appreciate you joining us on this lovely evening. I trust you found the location without too much trouble?”
“Cut the small talk, you deranged sociopath,” he snaps. His hands ball into fists at his sides. “Where’s my daughter? I want proof she’s still alive before we discuss anything!”
My head slants to the side, eyes glinting with dark humor. “Is that really how you want to start off negotiations, Senator? With hurling insults at the men who’ve been taking care of your daughter?”
“Taking care of her?!” he hisses, teeth gritting together. “You can’t be serious. You’ve kidnapped her! For all I know you’ve already harmed her! If you have—”
“Shut up,” I cut him off.
I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone, turning it toward him. On the screen is a live feed of Chantal curled up on her bed in the room we’ve been keeping her in.
She looks miserable—face dipped into a deep frown, eyes sad and misty, her mahogany complexion not as lustrous as usual—but very much alive.
Very much in one piece. Completely unharmed.
The senator stares at the screen, his throat tightening with another difficult swallow. Paternal concern flickers into his expression before he seems to resolve himself to acting composed.
“What do you want?” he asks, voice strained.
“I’ll keep it simple,” I answer plainly. “Ten mil cash in unmarked bills. Delivered to a location of my choosing within five days.”
His brows jump high on his forehead, eyes rounding in shock and outrage.
“Ten million dollars? That’s an enormous sum of money. It’ll take time to liquidate that kind of—”
“You heard me, Senator. You’ve got five days to make it happen. I’m sure a man of your resources can figure it out.”
He releases a breathless laugh, still in total disbelief. “Be reasonable. I don’t just have that kind of cash lying around—”
“You’ve got plenty of friends in high places who might. Get creative.”
“I do have friends. Connections with influence. There are other ways I can compensate you. Ways that would be more valuable in the long run. Political favors or access to certain—”
“I assure you, the last thing I’d ever want is a political favor,” I interrupt, my lips pulling into a half-grin behind the ski mask. “I’m not out for influence either, so you can shove those talking points right up your ass, Senator.”
“Look, I golf with the police commissioner every other Sunday,” he pleads anyway. “I have friends in the DA’s office and in the FBI. I have the President’s personal number, for Christ’s sake! Whatever trouble you’re in, I can make it disappear. I can—”
“You’re not listening, Senator.” I take a step closer, eliminating the gap between us and making him draw a sharp breath.
I hold his gaze from the narrow slit in the ski mask that reveals my eyes, not blinking as I peer into his face.
“I don’t want your connections or your influence.
I want ten million fucking dollars in cash, and I want it in five days.
That’s not a negotiation. That’s the price of your daughter’s life. Take it or leave it.”
His brow furrows as desperation cracks through his political facade. It seems I’m not the only one wearing a mask tonight.
So is the senator. He thought he could charm and schmooze his way through this like he probably does with donors and lobbyists.
That’s the thing about a dead man: he’s got no interest in the social dynamics of the living.
I stopped giving a fuck about shit like optics and politics the day I was sent to Sing Sing.
All that matters now is destruction. The revenge I’m seeking and havoc I’ll be wreaking.
In order to do that, I need more cash. It’s that simple.
“And if I can’t get it in time?” he asks in a hushed tone.
“Then pieces of your daughter start showing up in the mail. I’ll let you decide which piece comes first. There’re her pretty little manicured fingers or her pretty little manicured toes.”
He flinches like I’ve struck him, his features distorting from sheer disgust. He’s truly disturbed that I would make such a threat, and it almost draws a laugh out of me. I settle for allowing my half-grin to spread into a full one.
“Well?” I prompt. “What’ll it be, senator? I ain’t got all night.”
His jaw sets as he says, “This is insane.”
“It is. But it’s very much real. So you better get on that, or I start hurting her. Maybe I’ll start with telling her about your dirty laundry. Make her cry about that first before really doing some damage.”
“Dirty laundry?” he spits. “What are you—”
“How would Chantal feel if she knew the truth surrounding your divorce?” I ask loudly. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, so don’t pretend otherwise. Her poor mother, sick and dying, and you off with your college-aged plaything. Then there’s the whole refusal to pay for the canc—”
“Alright, alright!” he erupts, heaving ragged breaths. “I’ll… I’ll find a way to get the cash. Just don’t… don’t you dare take any fingers off my daughter or tell her about that.”
“Then it sounds like we’ve got a deal. Pleasure doing business with you. We’ll reach out again in five days.”
The senator gives a stiff nod, looking on the verge of passing out or puking as he turns to go. I stop him before he can.
“And, Senator?” I say. “Remember what I said about involving the authorities. You know, any more than you already have. You pull another stunt like that with the media, and I will hurt her. Count on that.”
He can’t even bring himself to answer this time. He merely gives another nod, his breathing heavy and irregular as his gaze bounces from me to the rest of my men.
Then he turns and lumbers back toward the idling Lincoln Town Car.
We stand back and watch him drive off, the red brake lights bright in the otherwise dark night.
“Let’s hope he keeps his end of the bargain,” I say. “Not that there’s a way out of this. He’s fucked and so is his daughter.”
When you’re out for revenge, you become fixated with making it happen. You think about it from sunrise to sunset.
Making the person who wronged you suffer becomes the focal point of your life.
It’s a form of obsession.
A badge I wear proudly as I settle into the creaky leather chair in Grandpa Finn’s old office and pull up Akio’s surveillance app on the laptop. The familiar grid of camera feeds fills the screen; the dozens of little windows into the lives of the people I’m systematically destroying.
I’ve spent countless hours watching these windows. Plotting and scheming and even fantasizing.
Obsessively observing my little brother inherit what’s supposed to be mine. Witnessing how easily Dad moved on from losing his supposedly favorite son.
Forty plus fucking years I dedicated to being what he wanted me to be.
Before I ever knew my damn ABCs, I knew I was Dada’s heir. I was the son destined for greatness.