Page 3 of Surprise Bratva Daddy
Kiro’s eyebrows move so far up his head that they nearly roll over the top. “Tema? I wasn’t aware this involved him.”
I shrug, playing down the seriousness of the situation as I take a casual puff from my cigar. The smoke lingers in front of me, masking my slight frown. “I sent something to me that I don’t want to lose. That courier was supposed to be on time. I was told he wouldn’t be late.”
“To be late is to be left out,” Kiro says as we leave the lounge and narrow set of stairs.
I raise my cigar in agreement. “Too true, in this case.”
“And what is this case, exactly?” Kiro asks, fishing for more information. I owe him a full explanation, but I’d like to get the flash drive first. Once everything is in place, then I’ll tell him the whole story.
“Let’s get the package and I’ll show you,” I say, taking the stairs by twos. There’s this weird feeling in my gut that’s telling me to go faster. Something is wrong, but I don’t want to tell Kiro just yet. Without proof, I’ll look paranoid.
We reach the ground floor, and I push open the door to the lobby, the cool air a stark contrast to the heat building inside me. The receptionist looks up from her desk, a forced smile of politeness masking her curiosity.
“Did a package arrive recently?” I ask, forcing myself to talk slowly.
She checks her computer, then shakes her head. “No, sir. Nothing came in today. On Friday, we received a letter, but that was picked up already.”
The letter she’s talking about is another bill. More money out without a single cent in since I started reallocating resources to the mission at hand. We’re flush with cash from the assets I’ve sold, but our income is dropping like a rock.
I turn to Kiro, who is now beginning to realize how serious this is. “We need to find that courier,” I tell him.
He pulls out his phone. “I can call him. I have the number.”
“He’s not going to answer a burner phone,” I say. “He probably already dumped it.”
“Tema, then,” he suggests.
“I’m already on it,” I reply. “Check the mailboxes to either side of us and make sure it didn’t get dropped off in the wrong place by mistake. I’m going to get in touch with Tema in the meantime.”
Kiro nods, exiting the building to search our neighbor’s mailboxes. I already know that the package isn’t going to be in either of them. The number to our building is in big brass letters over the door. It’s impossible to miss.
I’m relieved to be alone, though. I need time to process my thoughts and get everything together. This could either be the biggest disaster of my career, or a mere blip in the bigger picture. I’m praying for the latter, but I’m willing to force the universe’s hand if I must.
I don’t have Tema’s contact information on my cellphone. His line is encrypted and only available on a special phone in my office on the top floor.
I have the receptionist dispose of my cigar, then I take the elevator up, tapping on the shiny silver wall as the red numbers change. The ride is so smooth that I wouldn’t even know I was moving if it wasn’t for the glowing number six appearing in front of me.
The door rolls open, and I step out, walking down the hallway to my private office. That’s where the real money is made. People live and die from the decisions that get made there, and I don’t take it lightly.
My phone buzzes as I slide into the big leather seat behind my desk. It’s Kiro, confirming the package isn’t with either of our neighbors. I already knew that, which is why my hand is already on my old-fashioned desk phone.
I put it to my ear, pressing a glowing plastic button that’d hard-coded to speed dial Tema. I didn’t think I’d be calling him so soon after making this deal. I grit my teeth at what his response will be. He’s known for his short temper, and I’m not much better when challenged.
We can bond on the fact that we’re both to top dog in our organization, but that’s the same thing that has the potential to pit us against each other.
Tema answers the phone after a few seconds, his voice obscured by the noise around him. Sounds like he’s at a club in the middle of the day.
Busy man. Loves women and drinking, but I expect that from a rich man in his thirties.
At forty, I’ve had enough of day drinking, but this debacle might get me to start up again.
“I have to assume this is about the package,” Tema says, his voice dropping in pitch as he mentally tunes out the party and addresses business.
“Or lack thereof,” I grumble.
“What?” The volume of his voice matches his rising stress.
“Your package hasn’t arrived, and that’s going to be a huge problem.”
