Page 104 of Letters From Victor

“Sorry, Mr. Cardello,” Gino said, his voice dry as dust. “You know how it is.”

Betrayal has a distinct taste—bitter, like scalded coffee.

Kowalski pushed himself up, rubbing his wrists and rolling his shoulders. A sick grin stretched across his face as he cracked his neck. He glanced at the revolver in my hand, bored, like a man eyeing yesterday’s newspaper.

“Thanks for getting me out of that scrape, Gino,” he said as he shot me a knowing look. “You’realwaysso helpful.”

My gut twisted. My mind raced, connecting dots I should have seen long before now. The leaked plans. Our compromised safe houses. Phil’s murder. And now, Barbara’s house.

“How’s about you hand over that gun,” Kowalski said, taking a casual step toward me. “And we chat man-to-man.”

I shifted my stance, weighing my options. None of them were good. “So what now, Gino?” I asked, my voice calm despite thefire burning in my chest. “You think Kowalski will take care of you like I do?”

Gino tightened his grip on Barbara, and she let out a small whimper. My jaw clenched.

“Don’t take it personally,” Kowalski said, grinning as he grabbed my revolver by the barrel. I let it go. “Business is business. Now, let’s talk terms.”

“I thought you wanted me dead,” I said, stalling for time, gauging my options. They were few and grim.

“Oh, I do,” Kowalski said with a lazy shrug. “And you will be. But a dead man can’t sign papers.”

“Papers?”

He jabbed my chest with the barrel of my own damn revolver. “Yeah, papers. You bled me dry, Cardello. Robbed me blind, and you’re going to fix it.”

I stole a glance at Barbara. Her fire had dulled, her gaze glassy and distant. She was pulling inward, shutting down. I couldn’t let them take her like they had taken Phil. Like they would take me. Or worse…

“Fine.” The word tasted like bile. “I’ll sign whatever you want. Just let her go.”

Kowalski let out a laugh, thick and wet, rattling in his throat like a clogged drain. “You really have gone soft, huh? Pathetic.” He turned to Gino. “Hold on to the broad for now. We’ll see how cooperative he really is.”

Gino dragged Barbara toward the living room, his pistol never wavering from its mark. She walked like a marionette, her limbs moving in mechanical compliance. My gut churned as I watched them disappear around the corner.

“And you”—Kowalski gestured toward the dining room with the revolver—“have business to take care of.” His grin stretched the seams of his face, like a mask about to split.

I moved slowly and deliberately, desperately buying time I didn’t have. The stiff leather soles of my shoes scuffed the floor with every shuffled step. My eyes flicked to the living room where Barbara sat perched on the edge of the sofa. Poised. Composed—regal, even. A Los Angeles aristocrat to her core, even now. Gino hovered over her, pistol in his sweaty grip.

Bastard.

Papers were neatly fanned out on the dining room table, a fountain pen resting in front like an executioner’s blade. Kowalski slid one of the documents toward me, the rustle of paper against wood absurdly gentle given the current situation.

“These are nice and legal. My boys worked real hard making sure everything’s in order.”

I scanned the page, my eyes catching key phrases—“transfer of ownership,” “intellectual property,” “full rights.” It was worse than I thought. He wasn’t just reclaiming the stolen project—he was seizing control of my entire operation.

“You can’t be serious,” I said with an incredulous scoff.

“As a bullet in the brain.” Kowalski shifted his gaze to Barbara, then back to me. He leaned against the wall, chest puffed up like a prizefighter who already knew he’d won. He twirled the revolver in his hand, then pointed it lazily in my direction. “Here’s your shot to make things right. You sign these, and maybe I let your lady friend walk away.”

I stared at the papers. “What guarantee do I have?”

“Scout’s honor.”

I sneered. “That’s rich, even for you.”

Kowalski’s grin widened. “Believe what you want, but this deal ain’t getting any sweeter.” He flicked his wrist back and forth, the revolver making an easy arc through the air like a metronome. “Clock’s ticking, Cardello.”

My mind scrambled for a way out. A bluff, a stall—anything. Nothing came. I lifted the pen. It was heavy and ice-cold.

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