“Still won’t want to sell to me.”
“This might help,” Santino said, passing more papers to his brother. “His house back in Colorado is about to go into foreclosure. So is his condo here. And his Ferrari? Suddenly missing. He can’t stop spending. It’s all going up in flames.”
“What are you saying is my solution here?” Remo asked.
“I think Pat dies, no matter what,” Santino said, shrugging. “He’s been nothing but a menace anyway. His last girlfriend was in a coma from how badly he beat her. Think family had to take her off life support after three months.”
“Jesus,” I mumbled.
“How does Pat dying help me?”
“Well, how do you feel about being a partner to Frank?” Santino asked.
“Disgusted,” Remo admitted.
“I figured. But his only way out of this, legally, is to get a partner to infuse cash back into his pockets, so he can pay off his debts. His credit is shit now. He can’t get a loan.”
“I don’t want to pay off the asshole’s debts.”
“Look, this would be a long game. You partner with Frank. Make sure it is somewhere in the paperwork that the place goes to you if Frank dies or goes missing.”
“Then he goes missing.”
“For five years. Then you can have him legally declared dead. But in the meantime, you’re in your rights to renovate, run, do whatever the fuck you want.”
“What do you think I should be offering?”
“Twenty-five for a fifty percent stake.”
“Why wouldn’t he just fucking sell the place and make my life easier?” Remo grumbled.
“Short answer? Pride. Longer answer, his dad was a real sonofabitch. Didn’t believe in failure. He gave him the money for this place. Selling would be a failure. So no matter how logical it is, he’s fucked in the head about it.
“The twenty will give him more than enough to pay off his house debts and buy another car. The five mill from Pat… disappears.”
“I’m still out, though. I pay twenty-five, it is mortgaged to twenty-five. He spends twenty-five. I just pissed away that money.”
“True. That money would be gone. But you hold onto the extra fifteen mill.”
“It’s not enough to pay off the mortgage.”
“Again, true. But you’d have a fifty-percent stake in the company. I would put his take-home revenue at around fifteen?”
Christ, he was spending fifteen million a year? More, if he was still in debt. What kind of shitty-ass businessman was he?
“So you get seven-point-five. You take that seven-point-five. You invest it in the market. Roll everything for five years. You can, reasonably, if we’re smart, make a ten percent return.”
“Santino, you know I’m not the stocks guy. Plain language.”
“After five years of investing your income, you’re looking at a cool forty-two million. You could pay off the whole mortgage, keep your fifteen mill, declare Frank dead, and own it all, Scot-free.”
“Look, I know it’s five years. But five years are gonna pass anyway. And Frank will be outta the picture in under a year. You will be the only owner on paper.”
“And it won’t look shady as fuck that he’s missing and I profit from that?”
“Well, you play nice for a while. Ham it up. You’re the best of friends. Then he goes missing. And you’re worried at first. Then getting pissed. Making public pleas. Offer a reward for any information. All the PR shit.”
“Or,” I said, cutting in, “you shorten this by four years and just… have him crash his fancy car or a plane or a ship. Something that could be excused by being drunk. Or, hell, high. He now has it in his medical records that he overdosed on drugs. There’s no proof anywhere that you stabbed him with it.”
