Page 123 of Cartel Devil

At the end of practice or the end of the game, we went our separate ways. But when it was school sports and we had to sit in the same class as our douchey rivals, it made it difficult. None of us won a good sportsmanship award.

“Joaquin.”

“Carmine.”

“You called me. What do you want?”

“I have a long list of things I want to have happen to you. But, for right now, I’m calling because I know Sera wants you to help find whoever’s been targeting my girlfriend.”

“Yeah, sure. Sera. That’s why.”

His mocking tone tempts me to hang up, but I won’t cut off my nose to spite my face. If this douche caboose can help even a little, then I’ll accept it.

“Francesco’s using his men as shell corps, isn’t he?”

“Who doesn’t?” His flippancy grates.

“There’s a guy, Giuseppe Pellicano. Do you know him?”

“I’ve met him a few times. He’s about ten years older than Luca and Pablo. He’s been around since he was a kid. Shitbag.”

“The guy’s got way more in the market than he should for someone of his means. Francesco pays him shit, and he’s up to his eyeballs in debt, yet he’s got solid six figures in these investments.”

“You want me to find out whether Francesco assigned the hit on Tricia to him or whether he’s doing this to earn off his debt?”

“Yes. Please. While you find out more about this guy, we’re going to play the stock market to see how Francesco reacts.”

Those first two words nearly kill me, but Mamá worked hard to instill those manners. I won’t make all her efforts in vain. Plus, you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, and Carmine is someone I’ve been swatting at for the past fifteen years.

“I’ll do what I can, Joaquin, because the Lord works in mysterious ways, and somehow He convinced Tricia to fall in love with your dumb ass.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.”

I don’t exactly stumble over my words, but neither do they come out smoothly, even if, for once, they’re genuine. Once I’m through with my call, Jorge and I work our magic. I hack into the IRS to gather all of Giuseppe’s pertinent identification information. I establish a margin account in Giuseppe’s name using his Social Security number, date of birth, home address, and telephone number. I’ll later reroute any incoming stock profit to our own account.

While I do that, Jorge hacks into Giuseppe’s investment accounts and starts working his magic as his gaze shifts between his monitors. He dumps the first block of shares, and I watch as the price dips. Then it dips again. A warning pops up on Giuseppe’s account.

Maintenance margin breached.

Jorge ignores it. It’s the signal we wanted. The brokerage’s internal system is basically saying, “Your collateral is no longer sufficient.”

Too bad for Giuseppe—and Francesco—because they aren’t getting any alerts since we’ve hacked everything and redirected all the communication through accounts I now control.

My brother’s not trying to bankrupt Giuseppe himself; he’s trying to make the brokerage do the work for us. Within minutes, automated liquidation orders fire off across the portfolio. Blue-chip stocks. Energy. Shipping. Tech. Whatever the brokerage can sell the fastest. Law of the stock market jungle. The brokerage doesn’t ask permission; it protects itself.

Millions become tens of millions in minutes. All while Giuseppe and Francesco are tucked soundly asleep in their beds.

Jorge and I sit back and watch as the trading algorithms detect the surge in selling volume and join the move. Momentum funds follow. The Asian markets are already open, so the financial news terminals from there light up with alerts that one of the market’s biggest holders appears to be unloading positions.

Clearly, they don’t know why. They don’t care. They only care that someone is running, and they don’t want to be left behind.

All the money from the sales is going into the account that we opened in Giuseppe’s name. Jorge’s making us millions while I yawn. Once he’s done, it’s my turn again. After I transfer the remaining funds to our account, I wipe any evidence of how the amount left Giuseppe’s account or where it went. I make it look like his old margin account never existed. Since I’m certain it was no more legal than ours, Francesco won’t easily be able to cry foul.

Now, I basically retrace my cyber footsteps and transfer the account out of Giuseppe’s name into a new fake name. By the time it’s done, there’s no evidence of where the money from Giuseppe’s margin calls went. It had to go somewhere, but unless someone like Sergei or Anton pokes around, no one’s going to find out where. However, it’ll still draw attention. It’ll keep Giuseppe and Francesco busy answering questions about illegal trading.

We’ll watch Francesco to see who he accuses first—for real or as a distraction—and who he transfers money to as payment for revenge. That’ll tell us who his scapegoat worker bees are and the likely culprits behind the attacks on Tre.

“Done and done.” Jorge tilts his head one way, then the other as he closes his laptop.