Page 17 of Forbidden Billionaires: Vol. 10

Monday

Bryce

"Dude, what was that?" I asked as the driver floored the acceleration.

He eased off the gas and turned back to look at me. "Where to?" he asked in a thick Brazilian accent.

"The athletes' village. But first can we go back and get my friends?"

"N ?o entendo . You have map?"

"What?"

"Map." The driver picked up his cell phone and pointed to it.

"Uh, yeah. Hold on." I pulled up google maps and put in the village square. It calculated for a second and then told me to take a right in 800 feet. "Right up ahead."

"Give map," said the driver, reaching back with an open palm.

I handed him my phone. He looked at it for a second and then closed the app and put it in his cup holder. I guess he knew how to get there.

"Can I have my phone back?" I asked. I wanted to text my friends to make sure none of them had been run over by my crazy Uber driver. They must have been thinking the same thing, because I heard my phone buzz to signal I had a new text.

"Ten minutes."

What? "Okay, great. Can I have my phone back?"

The driver responded with something in Portuguese that I didn't understand.

Oh well. I guess he'll give it back when we get there.

His driving had improved considerably once I told him where we were going, so I decided to just lean back and take in the sights.

I hadn't really explored the city that much yet, so it was nice to get to see it.

At first we were just driving through the new part of town.

Most of it had been built within the past few years with the hopes of capitalizing on all the tourists coming to town for the games, but there were also some shops that looked like they had been there for decades.

We passed a ton of restaurants with patios packed well beyond what could be safe or comfortable.

And then the scenery started to change.

Glamorous restaurants and high-rise hotels gave way to shoddy looking apartment buildings and warehouses connected to a grid of makeshift wires and satellite dishes that looked more like something you'd see at an elementary school science fair than in a city connected to actual electricity.

The ride grew bumpy as the quality of the roads quickly deteriorated.

Why did the Uber driver have to pick the route through the sketchiest part of town possible?

I turned away from the scenery and let my mind wander to Alina.

She ordered steak instead of a stupid salad.

She liked dessert just as much as me. She was funny and sweet.

And she deserved way better than Chris Hamilton.

I had seen him around the athletes' village.

Maybe he had only cheated on Alina once, but if I had to take a guess, I'd say it was way more.

I never would have thought that Alina was his girlfriend after seeing him with a different girl every time we had crossed paths.

The fact that one of the many times he cheated on her he chose the girl that had picked on Alina in school made it a million times worse.

The guy was a total dick. But it wasn't my place to tell Alina that.

I couldn't butt in on her decision. She needed to realize that she deserved more on her own.

And I'd be waiting when she made the right call.

I leaned back and put my head on the headrest. Alina was gorgeous.

It was going to be hard to control myself around her.

But I needed to give her time to get over Chris.

I wasn't interested in being her rebound.

I wanted more than that. She knew I liked her.

Now I just needed to wait. But after dinner, all I had wanted to do was kiss her.

Each time I touched her I felt this spark.

I couldn't exactly explain it, but I knew it wasn't a feeling I wanted to let go.

The SUV came to a stop outside of an unmarked, run down building.

"We're here," said the driver.

"Um, sorry, this isn't right. I said the athletes' village.

For the International Tournament of Athletes.

" I looked out the window. We were in the middle of the slums, far away from the cushy hotels they had built specifically for the games.

If I hadn't grown up in places similar to this, I probably would have been terrified.

But I wasn't in America. I was in Brazil, which automatically made this situation more alarming.

"Let me bring up the map again," I said.

A giant Brazilian man with a shaved head opened the car door before the driver could respond.

He was wearing a black suit over a black button down.

Even Lil Wayne would have thought that the amount of gold chains around his neck looked tacky.

Despite his laughable fashion decisions, the man had an aura of danger about him.

I was quickly realizing that this situation was more sinister than a simple misunderstanding with an erratic Uber driver.

"Follow me," said the man. His English seemed to be much better than my driver’s. And his tone didn't leave much room to disagree.

When I hesitated, he pulled back his suit coat to reveal a Glock tucked into his waist band.

Shit. I put my hands out to show I wasn't going to make any sudden movements.

"Alright, I'm coming." I slowly slid out of the back seat and followed the enormous Brazilian.

I looked around to size up my options. Follow the guy with the gun, or make a run for it.

I could probably sprint to a nearby corner and get around the side of the building within a few seconds.

If he was anything like the thugs I grew up with, the ones who held pistols sideways when they shot to try to look cool, he had no chance of hitting me.

But there was a chance he was ex military or something, in which case I'd be toast.

I decided to cooperate and see where this was going. There was no reason to provoke him if it wasn't absolutely necessary.

The big Brazilian knocked twice on a door that was really just a random collection of plywood and sheet metal. The door swung open and he stepped to the side to let me pass. As I tried to slide past him, the smell of Brazilian barbeque mixed with musky sweat stung my nostrils.

The inside of the building was much nicer than the outside, besides for the fact that the enclosed space intensified the smell of my kidnapper.

We were in a dimly lit hallway with wainscoting and gaudy chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.

We passed a few open doors. I couldn't be sure, but I thought I caught a glimpse of three men counting piles of cash in one of the rooms. As we progressed down the hallway, the sound of rap music grew louder.

The hallway ended in a staircase that led down to the back of a gentlemen's club.

Tan girls in very skimpy lingerie and heels danced on poles while men covered in tattoos reached for them.

I quickly realized that classifying this as a gentlemen's club was far too kind.

At best, this was a strip club. Possibly a brothel.

Maybe they were supposed to bring Alex here instead? He would love it.

Directly in front of me, a man with a short mohawk wearing a crisp white suit sat on a leather couch.

Two strippers in white lingerie sat on either side of him.

Three men just as large as the guy who had escorted me down the hall stood in front of the couch to prevent anyone from approaching from the VIP section of the club.

As soon as he saw me, the man in white stood up and smiled. "Boa noite," he said, holding his hand out for me.

"Boa noite," I said and shook his hand. Before coming to Brazil I had learned a few phrases, and that happened to be one of them.

"I'm Rodrigo, and this is Isadora and Giovanna. Thank you for coming to see me. How was the drive?" His English was surprisingly good, despite his thick accent.

"It was okay. Although I would have preferred if your driver had taken me to where I wanted to go rather than kidnapping me."

"Kidnapping is such a strong word. I just wanted to talk to you discretely, so I figured that was the best way to arrange such a meeting." Rodrigo gestured to the chair next to his couch. "Please, take a seat."

I couldn't run away now. There were too many people in my path that could stop me. I hesitantly sat down and Rodrigo did the same.

"Before we begin, would you like anything to drink?"

"No, thank you." I didn't want to give him a chance to roofie me. He was giving me kind of a rapey vibe.

"Alright then, we'll get right down to business." Rodrigo took a sip of his drink and leaned back on the couch with one arm around each of the strippers. "Are you much of a gambler, Bryce?"

I shrugged. "I've never really gambled much unless you count my yearly fantasy football league."

"What does the winner of your league get?"

"I think most years it's like $500."

Rodrigo shook his head. "Doesn't it just drive you crazy watching the games and not knowing if your players are going to perform or not?"

"Yeah, but isn't that kind of the whole point of gambling?"

"No. No, no, no. The point of gambling is to make money. At least, that's why I gamble."

"Okay."

"Do you know what a parlay is?"

The term sounded vaguely familiar. It took me a second to remember, but then the voice of my college stat professor filled my head, describing a parlay in his accent from God-knows-where.

A parlay is when you only get a payout if a series of events all occur.

So, for example, you could have a five part parlay that depends on the results of five different games.

If you get any of them wrong, you get nothing, but if you guess them all right, the payout can be quite large.

The more scenarios and the less likely they are to occur, the more money you can make for getting them all correct.

The small investment combined with the extremely low probability of winning a large sum of money made parlays a lot like playing the lottery.