“You killed your own brother,” I stated, summing up the root of my disgust for this man.
“I did not kill my brother. I had someone else do that.” His explanation was flippant, as if these things happened to normal people every day. “It’s the price you pay for stealing from the family.”
“I don’t have time to stroll down memory lane with you,” I said, anxious to end this meeting and get the hell out of Long Island.
My phone vibrated, and I reached down to silence it again.
“You might wanna answer that. I’m pretty sure it’s your wife.” Sal’s voice sounded sinister, and I felt a chill run down my spine.
“How the hell did you know that?”
“There are a lot of things I know. One of them is that you should answer that call from your wife. I’m sure she has something important to tell you.” With that, he sat back down and resumed his meal calmly.
I hit speed dial for London’s number, my anxiety skyrocketing as she picked up before the first ring was complete.
“Harris!” she howled. “Mariah! She’s gone!”
I almost dropped the phone when Sal flashed me a knowing smile. “What?”
“Someone kidnapped Mariah,” she blubbered through her sobbing.
“What do you mean, someone kidnapped her? How did you let this happen? You’re supposed to be her fucking mother!”
“You son of a bitch! Do you think I wanted her to be kidnapped?”
The line went silent for a few seconds; then I heard Junior’s voice. “Harris, man, you need to get home. This shit is serious.”
“I’m on my way.” I ended the call. That was when I noticed that all the goons from the surrounding tables had moved in, ready to pounce if I made a move on Sal.
“What do you know about my daughter’s kidnapping?” I said, barely able to control my breathing to speak.
“Have a seat, counselor,” he requested again, and this time I had no choice but to comply. “Our plans have changed. Called for some improvisation.”
“I don’t give a shit about your plans. I want my daughter back. What do you know?”
He made me wait for his answer while he took another spoonful of soup. Each second that passed was torture.
“You know, it’s kind of a shame it had to get to this point. Things were really heating up between you niggers and the Mexicans. For a while we thought you’d all just take each other out. No more competition for us.”
As he slurped the last bit of soup, I had to grip the table to keep myself from strangling him. If his goons killed me, there was no hope for Mariah.
“But we’ve had no word from California,” Sal continued. “Our guy inside the Zuniga organization hasn’t checked in, which means he’s probably been found out.”
“What the fuck does this have to do with my daughter?”
“Don’t you get it?” Sal said, sounding exasperated. “We have your daughter. That’s why I agreed to meet with you over here.”
I lunged for his throat, overcome with anger and grief, but two of his men pushed me back down in my chair and held me there. Their massive hands felt like vice grips on my shoulders, but I refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing me wince in pain. One politely jammed a gun into my ribs, while normal families quietly enjoyed their meals all around us.
Sal looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Relax. She’s okay—for now. I’ll show you.”
He snapped his fingers, at which point one of his men produced an iPhone to show me a video of Mariah. I saw my daughter sitting on the floor in a tiny room. Poor thing was spooked. She refused to play with the toys in front of her as she sat crying for her mommy. I wanted to reach through the phone and rescue my child, but the gun in my side reminded me how defenseless I really was.