Chapter Eighteen

Michael

Sitting in my office, I pick up my cell phone and punch the buttons to dial Holly's number. Again. I've been trying for days and haven't gotten the courtesy of a single call or text message in response. All I've gotten from my ungrateful daughter is radio silence.

I press the phone to my ear and listen to the line ring once, forwarding almost immediately to voicemail.

“Goddammit,” I growl.

I disconnect the call and immediately call back. Same result.

I slam my fist down on the desk, rattling everything sitting on top of it. This time, I wait for the beep, so I can leave a message.

“Holly, this is your father. Again,” I snarl. “I'm starting to get really pissed off. Call me back the instant you get this message, young lady. We have a lot to talk about.”

I hang up and think about calling back a third time but decide against it, dropping the phone back onto my desk instead. Still, I'm anxious, frustrated, and entirely pissed off. Snatching the phone back up off the desk, I key in yet another text message to my daughter.

You can't hide from me forever. Call me back ASAP, Holly. I'm not screwing around.

Knowing I'm entirely powerless to do anything but wait, I drop the phone again and run my hands through my hair. Still not satisfied, I pick up a manual from the desk and hurl it across the room, watching it smash into the wall and clatter to the floor.

A display of impotent rage, yeah, but a way to burn off some angry energy anyway.

I lean forward and bury my face in my hands, feeling my stomach churning. Every day that goes by – hell, every minute that goes by – that I haven't delivered on my promise to Trujillo is a moment closer to death I know that he's not a person to screw with. He’s the type of man who expects you to deliver on your promises. The memory of the man, Trujillo’s own nephew, that he had executed right in front of me, floats through my mind, further emphasizing that point.

Yeah, as if I needed the point to be underscored for me.

Not looking up, I hear the familiar creak of my office door as it swings opens. Probably my secretary Marcia coming to check on me after hearing the manual crash against the wall.

“I'm fine, Marcia,” I say. “Please, I'm not to be disturbed right now. No calls, no meetings, nothing.”

“Oh, I think you can make time for me.”

I snap my head up quickly and see Trujillo standing there with a smug look on his face. Marcia's standing behind him, her eyes wide, trembling. She looks absolutely terrified.

“I tried to stop him, Mr. Gallagher, he doesn't have an appointment, but he –”

I hold up my hand to stop her. “It's okay, Marcia,” I say. “Thank you. I’ll handle it from here.”

She closes the door behind her quickly, obviously happy to get away from the dangerous looking man standing before me. Hell, given the choice, I'd leave the office too. The last place I want to be is trapped in a room with this guy.

He unbuttons his coat, giving me a flash of the gun neatly tucked away in his shoulder holster. It's probably an intentional move, one designed to intimidate me. And if that's the case, it works wonders. I feel my bladder straining, the need to take a piss worsening by the second. I try to keep my face calm and neutral, however, and not show him that he's rattled me. Instead, I try to look casual by leaning back in my chair, and taking a long sip of my coffee.

“Mr. Trujillo,” I say. “Wasn't expecting you this morning.”

He shrugs and takes a seat in the chair across the desk from me. “I like to pop in sometimes,” he says. “I always find it better, find people more honest and forthcoming, when I don't give them time to prepare and rehearse their answers. Do you know what I mean, Michael?”

“Is there something I should be rehearsing for?”

He looks at me, a wry chuckle passing his lips. He leans back in his seat and opens his coat. A jolt of fear runs through me when I think he's reaching for his gun, but instead he pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

“There's no smoking in here,” I say.

He looks at me for a long moment, a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. He shakes the cigarette out and pops it into his mouth, flicking his Zippo lighter and firing up anyway. He takes a long drag and exhales a thick plume of smoke directly at me.

He sighs contentedly and looks at the cigarette in his hand. “You know, I used to smoke three packs a day,” he says. “Nasty habit, I know.”

As with everything else he does, I know this is theater. He has a larger point he's going to slowly and laboriously get to, so I sit back and wait for it to come. It's not like I can force him to get there any sooner.

“Never touched 'em in my life,” I say.

“Good for you, Michael,” he says. “Good for you. Bad habit to start.”

“I'm too old to start new habits anyway.”

He smirks at me again and takes another drag. “Nowadays,” he says, “I only smoke when I'm feeling a tremendous amount of stress or pressure.”

“That so?”

He nods and exhales another thick plume of smoke. It's going to take me days to air this place out. I sigh and take another drink of my coffee.

“And lately,” he says. “I've gotten back up to a pack and a half a day. That's not good, right?”

I shake my head. “Clearly.”

“Do you know why I'm smoking so much again, Michael?”

“I couldn't begin to guess.”

“It's because I've been left to wonder if you really are a man of your word.”

“What do you mean?”

He gives me a long, level look as he takes a drag of his cigarette and blows it out.

“What I mean is, you promised your daughter to my son,” he says. “And yet, here we are days later, and I've heard not one word from you. I thought at least, there would be a meeting between the two. A get-to-know-you session?”

“I'm working on that, Mr. Trujillo,” I say. “My daughter can be…willful at times.”

“You assured me that you had this under control and it wouldn't be a problem.”

I nod. “I do have it under control,” I say quickly. “And it's not going to be a problem.”

“I don't have to impress upon you, what happens when you don't live up to your word,” he says. “Do I, Michael?”

The image of his nephew’s head being blown off in front of me flashes through my mind and I feel an unpleasant churn of nausea in my gut. I shake my head no.

“No, Mr. Trujillo,” I say. “I have the picture in vivid detail in my mind already.”

“Good,” he says. “Because, I like you, Michael. And since we're going to be family, I'd hate to have you disappoint me.”

“I won't.”

“I want to believe you.”

“I won't, Mr. Trujillo,” I stammer, my heart thundering in my chest.

There's a long moment of silence, pregnant with anticipation and fear. Finally, Trujillo nods.

“Okay,” he says. “When are we putting Armando in a room with Holly? He's very anxious to meet her. I've told him nothing but good things about her.”

“Soon, Mr. Trujillo,” is all I can say. “Very soon. I promise you.”

He nods again and gets to his feet. Trujillo stands there for a long moment, staring down at me. I can't bring myself to look up at him in fear that he'll see the outright terror on my face. All I can do is look at him from the corner of my eye and try to look unimpressed and unintimidated. I think I'm failing miserably on both counts.

Trujillo drops his cigarette into my coffee cup and I listen to it go out with a hiss the instant it hits the liquid.

“Good,” he says. “The sooner the better.”

I nod. “I'll make it happen.”

“See that you do,” he says and turns toward the door.

I watch him open the door and then pause. He stands there with his back to me and fear ripples through me.

“Don't disappoint me, Michael,” he says without turning around. “I assure you, that would be very unwise.”

Without another word, he steps through the door, closing it behind him. I let out a long breath and wipe the sweat from my brow. Grabbing the phone, I dial Holly's number one more time.