Page 4 of Dante
Today is business. Clean, simple, professional. I'll find Webb, explain the situation, collect what's owed. If he cooperates, he walks away with a warning and a payment plan. If he doesn't...
Well. That's why Lorenzo sent me.
I pull into a parking garage two blocks from the target location. The Ducati's engine echoes off concrete walls as I find a spot near the exit. Always near the exit. Old habits.
I kill the engine and sit for a moment, helmet still on. The silence presses in.
She's three miles from here. Maybe less.
I checked this morning. Pulled up the tracking app I'm not supposed to have, the one that pings her phone's location.
I pull off my helmet and run a hand through my hair. The cold air hits my face. Good. I need it.
The office building is quiet at this hour. Most of the lights are off, but I spotted the glow from Webb's corner office from the street. Third floor, east side. Working late.
Good. Fewer witnesses.
I take the stairs. Elevators are traps. Too easy to get boxed in, too many variables you can't control.
Third floor. I push through the fire door and walk down the carpeted hallway. Generic corporate art on the walls. Motivational posters.Excellence Through Innovation.Teamwork Makes the Dream Work.
Christ.
Webb's office is at the end. The nameplate on the door readsMarcus Webb, Senior Consultant. Light spills from underneath.
I don't knock.
The door swings open and Marcus Webb looks up from his desk. For a moment, his face is blank. Confused. Then recognition hits and the color drains from his skin.
"Mr. Webb." I close the door behind me. "We need to talk."
He's younger than I expected. Mid-thirties, soft around the middle, the kind of guy who played lacrosse in college and peaked at twenty-two. His hands are shaking as he sets down his pen.
"I—how did you—" He swallows hard. "I was going to call. I swear, I was going to?—"
"You owe the Sartori family two hundred thousand dollars." I don't raise my voice. I never do. "It's been three months."
"I know. I know, I just—" He stands up, knocking his chair back. "Things got complicated. The investment didn't pan out like I thought, and then?—"
"I don't care."
He flinches. Good.
I move further into the office. Nice space. Big windows overlooking the city. Expensive desk. The kind of office that saysI'm successfulwhile hiding the rot underneath.
"Here's what's going to happen." I stop three feet from his desk. Close enough to see the sweat beading on his forehead. "You're going to give me what you have tonight. Cash, wire transfer, I don't care. Then you're going to set up a payment plan for the rest. Twenty thousand a month until the debt is cleared."
"Twenty thousand a—I can't?—"
"You borrowed the money, Mr. Webb. You knew the terms."
His eyes dart to the left. Toward a door I hadn't noticed before. Private bathroom, maybe. Or a closet.
"I have some cash," he says. Too fast. "In the safe. Let me just?—"
He moves toward the door.
Something's wrong.
