He pours it out into a heavy-bottomed glass and brings it to me. “May I congratulate you on your purchase?”
“What you can do is get this process moving so I can take my purchase home.”
He inclines his head. “Jesse will hurry things along, I’m sure. But these things take time, Mr. Orsini. We will, of course, take all due care in the preparation of your merchandise. In the meantime, we’ll deal with the financial aspects.”
I’ve been staring at my bourbon, paler than the kind I prefer. It’s almost the color of the Clemenza’s eyes. But my head snaps up at King’s words. “I’m good for the money.”
“Of course, Mr. Orsini. Of course. But you must understand, we have a duty of care at the Obelisk. If someone who was contemplating using our services became aware that the contracts and agreements protecting them had been…compromised,” he says carefully, “then they might be scared off. I cannot allow that to happen.”
“I don’t give a shit about that. I bought the Clemenza—for an extortionate fucking price, in case you forgot—and I plan to make good use of my new property.” I swallow down my drink and set the glass down on the coffee table. “What I do, how I do it, is none of your goddamn business.”
The balls on this fucker, to pretend to give a shit about the down-and-outs who sell themselves here at the Obelisk. I’ve never come to one of these auctions before because I knew what they were—modern slavery, prettied up with pretenses of consent.
But no one sells themselves at the Obelisk if they have any other choice.
Which tells me a few things about the Clemenza.
King’s face has hardened. “No oneforcedyou to make such an outrageous bid, Mr. Orsini.” I say nothing to that, just let him sit and stew. “One year,” he says at last, sliding the contract across the coffee table and flipping through the pages to point out the clauses. “No permanent physical disfigurement or harm. He is returned to the Obelisk alive and well at the end of that year.”
I have to force myself to focus, because so many delicious scenes are flashing through my mind. Because the contract isn’t a problem. There are a thousand ways to hurt someone without even touching them.
And when the little Clemenza prince sees what I have in store for him…
No. The problem isn’t the contract. The problem is much more difficult. But nothing on earth could make me let the Clemenza go now.
King is still watching me. “If you can’t agree to these terms?—”
I snatch the platinum-plated pen from his hand, yank the contract toward me, and scrawl my signature with enough force to nearly tear the paper. “There,” I tell him, throwing the pen down again. “Now, who do I make out the check to?”
“We require payment via electronic funds transfer to a holding account,” he counters, unruffled by my display. “And we couldn’t possibly allow Mr. Clemenza to leave the premises without that money in trust.” He produces a card with the details of the account.
I pull out my phone and make a call to my accountant. “Transfer ten million to this account. Now.” I relay the numbers, then tell King to check his balance.
He moves to his desk at last, opening a slimline laptop and tapping a few keys. After what feels like an eternity, he gives a reluctant nod. “It seems everything is in order.”
I stand. “I’ll wait by my car.”
He glides over, blocking my path subtly. “Mr. Orsini, I want to be very clear. If something happens to that young man while he is in your possession—well, I wouldn’t want to have to take the matter to a higher power, if you understand my meaning.”
For a split second, I feel the old panic of being thirteen again and realizing everything of value can get taken away from you in an instant, just bleed out while you sit there, useless.
And then I want to break Daniel King’s jaw.
He knows exactly what my problem is, this motherfucker, and he’s stupid enough to try to use it against me. But I’m too close now to lose control.
“You were not the only bidder tonight, after all,” he goes on. “There are many other people in this city who would pay a great deal to have power over the last Clemenza heir. You might want to consider that in your dealings with the boy.”
King is one of those very people. I can see frustration in his eyes.
“He’s not a boy,” I grind out. But I’m not about to risk King calling the whole thing off, not when victory is so close. “One year. No permanent physical harm or disfigurement. I return him alive. I understand the terms.”
He nods slowly, disbelief written clear in his eyes. But what can he do? The money has changed hands.
The deal is done.
But I’m not so easily rid of Daniel King. He escorts me down to the underground parking garage, where my driver, Vito, is waiting with the car. I jerk my head at him when he gets out to open the door for me, and he disappears back into the driver’s seat.
The less he sees, the better.