Page 17 of Victorious Vice

I clear my throat. “As you know, it will be dedicated to the research and treatment of blood cancers, with the objective of clinical trials and helping individuals who can’t afford treatment.”

“Excellent.” She nods. “I recommend a rigorous vetting process for prospective board members to ensure they share the same vision and dedication to the cause that you do.”

“Absolutely,” I agree.

“We need to delineate clear roles and responsibilities for everyone to minimize internal conflicts down the line.” She pauses a moment. “We’ll also need to determine our fundraising strategy. You said you have a gala planned, yes?”

“Yes,” I say. “It’s just an introductory event, really. We’re hoping to get some initial pledges and establish connections with potential donors.”

“Good start.” She nods. “But one won’t be enough. We need to think about long-term funding opportunities—corporate sponsorships, grants, recurring donations.”

“Understood.” I jot all this down in my iPad.

“And what about your mission statement? That’s key to attracting both volunteers and donors.”

I nod again. I already crafted a mission statement, but Emily’s point made me reconsider. I had focused on the “what,” but maybe it was just as important to clearly state the “why” and “how.”

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll revise it.”

“Great.” Emily clears her throat. “And now, I have some excellent news for you.”

“Oh?” I lift the beginnings of my new eyebrows.

She smiles. “I received word a few minutes before you arrived that there’s a large cash donation waiting for you.” She pushes a piece of folded paper in front of me.

I wrinkle my forehead as I take the paper.

Then I gasp.

6

VINNIE

My conversation with Austin Bellamy haunts me. He’s a smart man, and he kept his answers to my questions succinct and sometimes evasive. I can’t blame him for that. I’d do the same thing. Hell, Idothe same thing.

My stomach is churning with nerves. I could be barking up the wrong tree, of course. “Operation Falcon” could mean anything.

But there’s a reason I’m here. A reason Mario wants me here. Giacomo Puzo wasn’t a family head. Mario could have sent one of his surrogates here to negotiate with Agudelo.

The clock strikes eleven. Two hours until the lunch with Agudelo. Two more hours to prepare, to analyze, to plan.

Agudelo is clearly a man who likes to keep his cards close to his chest.

As one o’clock draws nearer, I take a moment to freshen up, wash away the grime of sleepless research, exhaustion, and worry. Today will be a game of chess, and I need to be at my best. I dress in a crisp black suit and then make my way down the grand staircase into the hall where Morehouse is waiting for me. Exactly at one, he escorts me into a large dining room filled withlight filtering in from the arched windows. The table is set with gleaming china and silverware.

Morehouse lifts his eyebrows as he shows me to my seat. Odd. What does he know? He’s no doubt very faithful to his employer. I’ll get nothing from him.

Agudelo enters the room, his presence immediately shifting the atmosphere. His smile doesn’t seem to reach his eyes as he greets me.

As waitstaff fill our glasses with champagne and serve a delicate pâté, Agudelo begins to talk about the artwork in the room, but my thoughts wander back to the old woman. To Operation Falcon. If Agudelo is involved with the Bellamys, I need to tread lightly around him.

Agudelo is gesturing to a painting of two large-bodied people, a man and a woman, dressed in Edwardian fashion, with an equally heavyset cat in between them. “This of course is an authentic Botero, commissioned directly from the artist. I get calls at least once a week from museums all over the world begging me to donate it to them. But I wouldn’t very well be able to enjoy it during dinner if I did that, would I?” He clears his throat, shifting his gaze to me. “But enough about my collection. How about we get down to business? Your grandfather has been very eager for our meeting.”

I nod, careful to keep my expression neutral. “Yes, he has.”

For the next half hour we discuss matters of trade, investments, and politics. Despite our talk, I can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t just about business. I’ve done my homework. I can answer every single one of Agudelo’s questions with pretty extensive detail. But even as I spit out facts and figures, my mind keeps slipping away to that photo of the old woman. What does she have to do with all of this?

Agudelo’s words are calculated, each sentence carefully structured. I’m beginning to understand the magnitude of his power and control in this world.

---