“This should be fairly easy. I pick up the goods in the men’s room, and I leave you in the women’s room.”
I tightened my arms across my chest and followed Frankie into the bathroom, mainly because he still had his arm wrapped around my shoulder and pulled me into it. “You’re just going to leave me in the bathroom?”
“No, your cousin will be waiting for you. Or whoever he sent to collect you.”
When he used words like “keep me” and “collect me,” I really wanted to stomp on his foot and put an elbow in his stomach. But that would be a tragedy to his suit. And while I had no qualms with hurting Frankie, I didn’t want to see such a delicate piece of fabric go to waste.
Once we were safely in the bathroom and the door closed behind us with one of his men standing in front of it to keep us safe, Frankie let me go and walked to the last stall in the line. I’d made it that far as his kidnap victim. Why not see it to the end? Did my cousin really leave ten million dollars in a men’s bathroom at the Chicago Navy Pier to buy me back from Frankie Zanetti? I followed right on Frankie’s heels to the bathroom stall, and when he stepped around his bodyguard, I leaned my head over his shoulder to get a view, too.
The stall was wide enough to fit a wheelchair into the space and I almost made a comment about how they were taking away the handicap stall for nefarious deeds when Frankie abruptly stood with his back ramrod straight and swore.
I leaned in further to figure out the problem. Four large black duffel bags with wheels sat at a diagonal angle to the toilet. The bags were so large a small person would fit inside of them. They reminded me of what the luggage looked like for our men who were going overseas on deployment, except they were more formfitting than a regular duffel bag and not the military staple of camo green.
Frankie’s bodyguard, the one I suspected he considered his most trusted, walked further into the stall and unzipped one bag. He stood and turned around, his hands filled with stacks of hundred-dollar bills. The man handed one to Frankie and whistled.
Shit. That was a lot of money. Those four bags held stacks upon stacks of bricks. I couldn’t imagine Westley left ten million dollars sitting in the bathroom. What if someone else found it before we got here? My cousin really loved me. He’d probably kill me later, but… details.
My eyes were wide with amusement, but Frankie continued to shake his head in dismay. He walked further into the stall and kicked one bag. He was clearly pissed because even though I’d done nothing but make rude comments to him, I’d never seen his anger the way it was in that moment.
“What?” I asked, taking a tentative step into the stall. Did I miss something?
Frankie turned back to me. He wheeled so fast I jerked from the unexpected movement. Something was there in his eyes, but not anger. He’d worn before the expression before, but I’d never seen it on anyone but him. It had to be an Italian mafia thing. “This is not enough.”
“How do you know?” I leaned in closer to see a haphazard pile of cash thrown into the bags. My cousin never was great with organization. “You haven’t even counted it yet.”
Frankie tapped the stack of money. He held one hand against the other and twisted out the bills with his thumb, creating a fan of Benjamins.
“While I applaud your cousin’s choice of bag, with dimensions and a size like this, it would take a minimum of five bags to make ten million dollars. And that’s if he had stacked it like a regular person and not thrown them in like an urchin. At most, there’s maybe four million in the bags.”
“Wow,” I said, staring at the bag again and pretending like I was adding it up or something. Really, I just stared at the money in amazement. “You guys really have this down to a science.”
Criminals, man.
“When you’re accustomed to seeing a lot of money, it’s fairly easy to recognize it. I knew your cousin couldn’t get ten million on such short notice, even for his favorite relative.”
That comment stung. “Are you saying my cousin believes I’m not worth the money?” I refused to believe it. Sure, Westley may have been one of the most ruthless criminals in Chicago, but we were special. We had a bond. He’d definitely pay my ransom. “You just need to count the money.”
“I’m not going to waste my time counting money when he has obviously slighted both of us in such a way, Cara Mia.”
I suspected the name might not have been as dirty as I originally suspected, but it didn’t help heal any of my hurt in that moment. Right then, in the middle of the handicap stall in the men’s bathroom, all the emotions I’d been working to shut down fluttered to the top. Extreme hurt not only because my cousin didn’t pay the ten million for my ransom but because Frankie brought me here to give me ice cream and had shown me he was a good guy. Yet he wasn’t the hero of my story who wanted to sweep me off my feet.
“Are you sure, boss?” the guard asked.
Frankie dropped the money into the bag. “Yes, I’m sure. Don’t question my decisions.”
This really was about a ransom. I was nothing more than a commodity. Something to be left in the restroom. And now my cousin didn’t even consider me worth a full ten million. I demanded the price of my head, and apparently I’d overcharged.
After I survived my kidnapping, I needed to get my priorities checked.
And find a therapist.
“Okay, we’re leaving,” Frankie said, signaling once with his finger to his lead man, who left the bags of cash sitting right there on the floor. He walked by Frankie and me, pulling his concealed weapon from his jacket as if he expected trouble.
Frankie exited the stall next, but I stood behind. “Wait, you forgot your money.” Who left stacks of hundreds in a bathroom, even if it was less than ten million?
Frankie leaned back into the stall and grabbed onto my hand in that most familiar way. “Leave the money. You’re coming with us.”
I couldn’t believe he wanted to leave the money. He really was crazy.
