Читать книгу Question of Trust - Laura Caldwell, Leslie S. Klinger - Страница 11

His office behind the restaurant was much nicer than the restaurant itself. Back here, in his managerial quarters, he had brocade couches and tufted leather chairs. The desk was from the 1800s and it was built to last. Just like him. That’s what his father had always told him, and unlike his younger brother, Vincente, he’d always believed their padre. Still, it pleased him to look around, to see what he’d created, what he was entitled to.

José Ramon sat at the desk now and took in his office. With its carved pocket doors, collection of Mexican art (including one Diego Rivera), and high-tech audio and visual equipment, the luxurious room was second only to his private residences. He hoarded such places, because if one showed too much luxury, he’d learned, people started asking questions. His competition, for example. The government, certainly. The only people to whom he could show the luxury he required, and had acquired, were the few women he took home. He liked best those women who could handle it—who could step into that luxury and not be impressed by it. Or at least not show it—but who could appreciate it. That was the type of women he wanted. They were hard to find.

But he wouldn’t worry about that now. Now, he was worried about the thing that would eventually get him those women. Money.

It fucking killed him that the wealth his family had amassed had been “invested” into a legitimate business—that’s what it looked like anyway, a legitimate business—and now, what the fuck was happening? Where the fuck was the return on that money? And if there was no return—the way he’d been promised—where the fuck was all the money that was supposed to be in that goddamned business?

José slammed his hand on the table and squeezed his eyes shut. But it didn’t help. He could still envision Vincente as a little boy who had always wanted to be like his brother. Except that “Vince,” as he called himself now, was smarter. That’s why he had eventually gotten his MBA after his father sent the boys to the U.S. from Mexico. And that was supposed to be why they could trust Vincente to find legitimate investments when they needed them. But Vincente had fucked it up. That was becoming clear.

He slammed his hand again, right as the door opened. “I told you never to just walk in,” he barked at the new restaurant general manager.

The man didn’t respond. Instead, he left, closed the door, knocked and then reentered.

“What?” José said in a demanding bark.

“The eggs that were delivered are spoiled. We’ll need more to get through the week,” the manager said with urgency.

He glared. This restaurant was not his identity. It was a front, like so many others the family had. He crooked his finger at the man, who came closer. Then he did it once more, slowly bending and extending and bending his finger in a methodical way. When the manager was close to the desk, he spoke in a low tone, threateningly. “If you can’t handle these issues, someone else will,” he said simply. “Do you get that?”

The manager had the audacity to return the glare before he backed out of the room.

As the door closed, he slammed his hand flat on the desk once more. It disgusted him that he continued to have such discussions with his underlings. But a “discussion” was not required with the people running that business, a business that was running off with his family’s money. No, something much, much more than discussion was necessary.