"I need more time. My accounts were frozen, my assets seized."
"Not our problem. Clock's ticking."
"Wait! Please. I can get the money. I just need to liquidate some investments. One day. Give me one day and I'll have everything."
Silence. "One day. But the price just went up. Three million now. You have until 6 PM tomorrow to wire it to the account we'll send you. Miss that deadline and we’re done talking."
"I'll have it. I swear."
"You better. Because if you don't, we're going to post the video of what we do to your wife and son on every dark web forum we can find. Then we’ll let the whole world watch Angelina Moretti die and make sure that you’re blamed for it." The voice went colder. "And then we're coming for you."
They hung up.
I sat in that motel room, staring at the wall, trying to figure out how to get three million dollars.
If I could get to my broker tomorrow morning, convince him to override the compliance flag, I had a better chance at this. It would work. It had to work. Because the alternative was death.
I just wanted what should have been mine. The company. The power. The respect. Was that so wrong? I pulled out a bottleof cheap whiskey I'd bought at a gas station and took a long drink. Tomorrow. I'd fix this tomorrow. Then. I could start over. Build something new. I just had to survive the next thirty hours.
My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number:
UNKNOWN
You have nowhere left to run, Vincent. Enjoy your last day.
I threw the phone across the room, watching it shatter against the wall. Fuck Desmond Moretti. Fuck the Vitales for abandoning me. Fuck everyone. I'd get that money. I'd pay off the kidnappers. And then I'd disappear so thoroughly that no one would ever find me. I took another drink and tried to sleep.
Tomorrow would be better. It had to be.
The next morning, I was waiting outside my broker's office when they opened at 8 AM.
"I need to liquidate everything," I told Richard, my broker of fifteen years. "Stocks, bonds, mutual funds, everything. I need it in cash by end of day."
Richard looked uncomfortable. "Vincent, there are processes. Compliance checks. Large liquidations require?—"
"I don't care about processes. I need that money today. Now."
"I can't."
I pulled out the gun I'd bought from a pawn shop yesterday. Didn't point it at him. Just set it on his desk.
"Three million dollars, Richard. By 4 PM. Or I start making very bad decisions."
His face went white. "Vincent, you can't really think that you’ll get away with whatever it is that you’ve done."
"I do." I leaned forward. "I know where you live, Richard. I know your wife picks up your kids from school every day at 2:30. I know that even if you can’t liquidate this, that you have three million laying around somewhere that you can pay me to leave you the fuck alone."
"Okay." He held up his hands. "Okay. I'll do it. Just put the gun away."
I put it back in my jacket. "Smart man. I'll be back at 4 PM. Have it ready."
I left before he could call security. Now I just had to wait. I could make this work. I drove to a different motel, staying paranoid, and tried to rest.
My phone rang at 2 PM.
"Mr. DeLuca?" A voice I didn't recognize.
"Who is this?"
