Page 2 of Perfect Martinis
And at that, he breaks down. “I’ve done all I can.” He slumps down to the sticky floor we still have to clean up and hides his head in his hands as he cries silently.
I’m such a bitch. Unlike him, I chose to stay and help.
Kneeling down, I put my hand on his arm. “I’m sorry. I’m just in pain and scared and pissed off. I know there’s nothing more you can do.”
He looks up at me with red, tear-filled eyes. “I can’t do this alone, Mori.”
“You don’t have to. I promise.”
Chapter Two
Moriah
The door to Phil’s bar bangs open before we are officially ready for business and three of the gang members stand there, grinning.
“You were informed we’d be arriving again this week,” one reminds us.
Phil nods, not blinking and also not seeming as intimidated as I knew he actually was. “We know.”
Before anyone could say anything else, a harried-looking man in an expensive suit walks in.
“Hello, is one of you Moriah Romano?” he asks. I’m the only woman here, but he seems unsure now that he’s walked into a tension-filled room. He’s probably hoping I will say no so he can leave.
“Sir, we’re not open yet,” Phil says, eyes darting to the gang members.
“I’m not here to drink. I need Miss Romano,” he insists, opening his briefcase and pulling out a manila envelope. “Would that be you?”
“Yes, but we are in the middle of—”
“My name is Greg Jones, I’m the lawyer for the Sorrento family,” he barrels on. “Your mother’s side of the family.”
Okay, now I’m interested. My mom’s parents disowned that side of the family when Mom was a baby.
“Perhaps we should speak privately?” I suggest. I glance at the men. “Let me take care of this.”
I’m not surprised when they all nod. Clearly they don’t want a lawyer hanging around while they extort us.
I lead Mr. Jones into the backroom, which is just a store room for extra alcohol, along with the table and chairs where I’m usually violated. “Sit, please. If you don’t mind, I prefer to stand.”
Sitting in this room is the last thing I want to do.
Instead of sitting, he places the file on the table and says, “Your uncle, your late mother’s brother, passed away. He left her a small inheritance in his will. Not much, just two million, but since records show she passed away, his executor stated next of kin should receive it.”
I think I’m hallucinating. Clearly the medicinal weed gummy I took was way too strong this morning.
“I’m sorry, I think I misheard you. Was that two million …”
“Dollars. US dollars. It would be a bit under that in euros, which is the currency your uncle used,” Jones explains.
“You called it a small inheritance,” I comment, my voice wooden.
“Well, compared with what your cousin received, two million may as well be two pennies,” Jones admits. “Inside there is all the paperwork. If you want a lawyer to ensure this is legitimate, I and the executor in Europe understand. Especially before you fill out the paperwork with your banking information.”
I can’t hold back a bark of laughter. “If you wanted to steal from me, you’d be better off playing the lottery. You have a higher chance of a payout then.”
I take the envelope and pull out the contents, reading them twice.
Two. Million. Dollars.
