Page 121 of Niccolo (Mafia Kings #7)

R oberto had been very clear: if I didn’t hear from him within three hours, I was to sell all the Bitcoin and transfer the proceeds to a bank immediately.

I started the timer as soon as I thought of it – about three minutes after the money first appeared.

For over an hour, Dario and I sat in front of the laptop like two medieval pilgrims who had just seen a statue of Christ bleed from His stigmata.

We were awestruck, astounded, delirious – and terrified.

We waited for things to change and the money to disappear as though it had all just been a dream.

The money didn’t disappear.

It was not a dream.

The $251 million remained, as big and undeniable as Mt. Everest.

Occasionally Dario and I would say something – a wild idea about how we could use the money to destroy Fausto and establish a fucking empire –

But then we would lapse back into silence and stare at the screen, praying that the miracle was permanent.

Suddenly the phone rang.

Both Dario and I jumped.

It was the same Hong Kong number as before.

I forgot all protocol – I even forgot to activate speakerphone.

I just put the cell to my ear and cried out, “Are you alright?!”

Roberto sounded calm. “More than alright – I’m on the plane as we speak.”

“Good,” I said, audibly exhaling. Dario looked equally relieved. “You’re not hurt?”

“Not a scratch.”

“Excellent! Now – WHERE THE FUCK DID YOU GET 250 MILLION DOLLARS?!”

Roberto chuckled. “Don’t get excited. We have to give most of it back.”

It was like your parents telling you there was no Santa Claus –

And not only that, but you had to give back every Christmas present he’d ever brought you.

“What?! WHY?!”

“I’ll tell you when I get there. Right now, the pilot’s asking where we’re going. Should I tell him home, or – ”

“No, go to Venice. I didn’t get to tell you when you called before, but that’s where we are. Dario wanted to be with Massimo.”

“Alright, I’ll text you our ETA after I talk to the pilot. By the way, I’ll be bringing someone with me.”

“Who?” I asked, intensely curious.

An inside man who had stolen the money?

Or maybe even Lau? Perhaps as a hostage?

“You’ll see. Ciao.”

“Roberto – ” I snapped –

But he was already gone.

I looked over at Dario. “He’s fine, he’s coming here, and we have to give back most of the money.”

Dario stared at me in shock. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I were.”

“Fuck.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

A text came through from the Hong Kong number: ETA Venice 8PM.

“He’ll be here at eight tonight,” I announced.

“Thank God!”

“Yes,” I murmured. “Thank God.”

After a moment of shared relief and gratitude, we stared at the screen in silence for another 30 seconds.

“The most important thing is Roberto’s all right,” Dario finally said.

“Yes,” I agreed.

“But it would be nice to have a screenshot,” Dario suggested.

“Good idea.”

I used the computer to take a photo…

Then finally closed the laptop.

“Well,” Dario said, “the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.”

I added ruefully, “And so does fuckin’ Roberto.”