Page 99 of A Game of Deception
A slow, appreciative smile spread across his face. “Xander McCrae,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of an accent and a surprising amount of warmth. He extended a hand. “As I live and breathe. My men just told me you were here, but I didn’t quite believe it. Welcome.”
His handshake was firm, confident. This wasn't a man sizing me up; this was a fan meeting a legend. He completely ignored Ben Carter standing beside me.
It was only then that I saw Diego.
He was zip-tied to a chair in the corner of the room, his face a bloody, swollen mess. One eye was puffed shut, his lip was split, and his expensive shirt was torn and stained. He looked up withhis one good eye, disbelief and a flicker of hope breaking through the pain. “McCrae?” he croaked.
“Quiet,” snapped one of the two bulldozers flanking him.
Torres didn’t even glance in Diego’s direction. His focus was entirely on me. “Please, sit,” he said, gesturing to the leather chairs in front of his immaculate desk. “To what do I owe the pleasure? I admit, I was surprised to hear you were interested in the affairs of this…Colombiano.” The way he said it made Diego sound like a piece of discount furniture.
“We’re teammates,” I said simply, taking a seat.
“Of course.” Torres nodded, leaning back in his chair. The mask of the fan slipped slightly, revealing the businessman beneath. “A noble sentiment. But his debt is substantial. Two hundred and thirty-five thousand, to be exact. A sum I require today.”
While he spoke, my eyes scanned his desk. It was minimalist, organized, but one thing stood out: a single, ornate silver photo frame, angled so he could see it. From my vantage point, I could just make out Torres with his arm around a teenage girl. A girl wearing a brand new, authentic Miami Pirates jersey.
Jackpot.
“I’m not here to pay his debt in cash,” I said, leaning forward. “I have a proposition I think you’ll find far more valuable.”
Torres’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of professional interest replacing the fanboy excitement. “I’m listening.”
“You have a daughter,” I said, nodding toward the photo.
His posture went rigid, his hand instinctively moving to shield the frame. “My family is not part of my business, Mr. McCrae.”
“Of course not,” I agreed smoothly. “But I couldn’t help but notice she’s a fan.”
The tension in his shoulders eased. A proud, paternal smile transformed his face. “Sofia. My Sofia. She is… passionate. Plays midfielder for her high school. Thinks she’s the next big thing.”
“And she has a birthday soon?” I guessed, seeing the youthful glow on her face. “Big party planned?”
Surprise, then dawning understanding, flashed across his face. “Next month. Her quinceañera. Her mother has been planning it for a year. It’s costing me a fortune.” He paused, the pieces clicking into place. “You’re offering to show up at my daughter’s party?”
I leaned back, letting the idea sink in. “Not just show up. I’ll be the guest of honor. I’ll take pictures, sign autographs, dance with her if that’s the tradition. I will give her a night her friends will be talking about until their own kids’ quinceañeras.”
From the corner, Diego made a choked, disbelieving sound. Torres didn’t even register it. He was lost in thought, the mob boss and the doting father at war behind his eyes.
“Mr. Torres,” I pressed, going in for the kill. “You can get your pound of flesh from him,” I gestured to Diego, “and it’s just another Tuesday. Or… you can give your daughter something no amount of money can ever buy. You can be the dad who made her ultimate dream come true. You can be a legend to her.”
He was silent for a long moment, his gaze distant. “She has been talking about your transfer for a month,” he admitted softly. “Bought your jersey the day it was released, just before it sold out. Convinced me to get season tickets.”
“Then you know what this is worth,” I said.
He looked at Diego, then back at me. Finally, he burst out laughing, a loud, genuine sound that filled the room. He stood and extended his hand again. “Deal, Mr. McCrae. My wife will be in touch about the details for Sofia’s party.”
I shook it, relief washing over me so fast I felt light-headed. “Looking forward to it.”
Torres nodded to his men. “Cut him loose. Get him out of here.” To me, he said, “Mr. Mano is, of course, no longer welcome here. But tell him he is lucky. Loyalty like yours is rare.” He gave Diego a look of pure dismissal. “He should find a way to repay it.”
We made our way back through the club, Diego leaning heavily on Ben and me. The patrons barely glanced at us this time, returning to their games as if nothing unusual had happened. The same guard escorted us to the exit, his face expressionless as he held the door open.
The bright sun was blinding after the dim interior of the club. I squinted, scanning the street until I spotted our car a block away. Tara was in the driver’s seat, her posture tense as she watched us approach.
She jumped out when she saw Diego’s condition. “Jesus Christ,” she breathed, her doctor’s instincts taking over. “Get him in the back seat. I need to check those injuries.”
We maneuvered Diego into the car, where Tara began examining his face with a practiced, gentle touch. “Looks worse than it is,” she pronounced after a moment. “Contusions, possible hairline fracture of the cheekbone. You’ll need X-rays.” She paused, her fingers gently probing his mouth. “And you’ve split your lip. Again.”
