Page 103 of I Would Beg For You

“So, who, then?” Victor asks.

I have no idea, and the frustration inside me is burning up again, ready to blow out.

Fuck!

We all retreat in silence around the room. The lawyer receives a call and excuses himself. I thank him for his help, then fall into the same armchair I was punching earlier and heave a sigh.

“We’ll find her.”

The low voice and calm tone of Victor is soothing in the moment. It reeks of certainty and strength.

I nod at my brother. “We will.”

Reeves calls. The trust fund does have the moratorium period included in it. But better yet, he’s found who our bent cop is. He sends me his home address, as well as that of his partner who remained outside the room the entire time, and I assure him we’ll take care of it.

“We have our man. Connor Gatling,” I tell the room.

“Boss?” Pesci asks, standing up. “Can I?”

His eyes are lowered, and he’s asking for a second chance here. Another capo might already be dead in his shoes, but I have toown up. I’d wanted to please my wife by booking that hotel. Not that I shouldn’t have, yet our security should’ve been tighter, too. It’s not entirely Pesci’s fault.

“Go,” I tell him. “And take him to our regular spot when you’re done.”

“Thank you, Don Valentino.”

It’s strange to hear my men calling me by this title; guess I’ll have to get used to it.

We sit down and wait. Marco rustles up lunch. I don’t have much of an appetite, but I force myself to eat to keep my energy up.

Pesci’s call comes in—he texted earlier to confirm getting the package; now, he’s telling us they’ve reached their destination. He took Connor Gatling to Newark. He’s our only link to find out who the fake tac-team with him were and hopefully where they’ve taken Naomi. No way will I conduct this interrogation outside of my territory.

Marco, Victor, Luciano, and I are getting into a car—Antonio will be staying in case we need to reconvene here—when my phone rings.

I frown seeing the caller ID.

“Yevgeny Mikhailovich,” I say in greeting.

“Tovarisch Valentino,” the d’yavol of Little Odessa says in a sad tone. “I heard what happened to your wife.”

News travels fast.

“Tovarisch brother of Yevgeny. Yevgeny help Tovarisch,” he continues.

He sounds half-drunk already, but I appreciate the sentiment.

“Thank you, my friend.”

“Boy Tovarisch give Yevgeny, he very good, but talk lot, too. Might help Tovarisch.”

My senses flare up to full alert. Marco just spoke of Billings in there—could Thad have information for us?

“I’m listening.”

“Boy says papa need money. To pay Albanians.” It sounds like he’s spitting fiercely after saying this. “Svo lach’.”

No wonder he spat—he’d just called them the worst form of low-life trash.

“Spasiba, Yevgeny Mikhailovich.”

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