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“Actually, I’m hoping it spoils your meal so we can leave sooner.”
11
LUCA
Luca
“This better be good,” I warn Lorenzo. Because surprisingly, I’ve been rather entertained by a certain little viper’s tongue. I cut the night short the moment Lorenzo sent me a text and had one of my drivers take Ara home. I hold out my black suit jacket for one of the security members at the door. The Balmere club is full as expected. The bets are running high, and all but one of the exotic dancers are currently elsewhere earning their keep with a very charmed client.
“I assure you it is.”
“Did they take the bait?” I ask as we walk past my office and further down a stairwell where the actual business and money is made in this club.
“Yes, sir they did.”
Excellent.
The pounding of music from upstairs keeps the sounds from the bigger fish betting tonight downstairs. Mostly men cheer and scream at the two fighters in the ring. Arena seats are full, and those who are willing to pay a higher dollar amount stand so closely, they’re in range of blood, sweat, and tears to reach them. Blood splatters against the floor as my house champion squanders the hopes and dreams of the newcomer. A punch follows, slamming him to the floor—and the smaller fighter does not get back up.
“The victor is The Hound!” an announcer proclaims.
Screams erupt for those whose bets were favored. A man throws his hat on the floor as he curses, obviously one of few who bet on the newcomer and lost. I chance a glance at one of my security, silently telling him to watch the man before he leaves. We need to make sure he can fulfill what he bet without concern or issue.
The fighter is dragged out of the ring as time is given to ready the next fighter. I have two fighting rings, one here and one back home in Italy. The truth of the matter is violence makes me money everywhere I go.
I continue walking through to an alcove with a door that is always guarded because of what’s behind the door. I own various clubs, hotels, and restaurants that help move the drugs. But when it comes to bringing in my prey, I isolate that to only a few special places. Here being one of them.
Another two men follow Lorenzo and me. Very few ever look in my direction when I take my business down here. Because if they jeopardized or tried to conduct an unofficial meeting or business proposition that would be very bad for them. And their families.
There’s an unspoken rule here. One men and women respect. When you are a God who owns half their secrets, a portion of the city and influence, and enough gunpower to challenge an army, no one steps out of place.
Except of course this dumbass.
Lorenzo opens the door for me. In an empty space sits two men bound to chairs, and one of them is already passed out as blood drips down his face and chest. I sigh. It looks like one of my men got carried away. Not that I care. As long as I have at least one of them conscious.
Another four men stand in each corner of the room. They each wear white masks, the customary uniform to my men who are no less than hounds. The one who fights in the ring is in charge and the only one who ever shows his face. No matter what champion represents me and fights in the ring, they’re title is always the Hound, a representation of this group. Of my death dealers when I decide not to deal with something personally. The other four often remain in the dark. Like they are now.
On each cheek of the mask is a colored crystal, easy enough for anyone to differentiate them in our ranks. The one who wears red has streaks of blood across his. Not surprising considering his fatal blood lust.
Along the wall are various torture instruments. I casually walk over to the bench as I look for my favorite. Two blades.
“Can you believe my surprise when attending a very prestigious event this evening that someone tried to steal my drugs? Again,” I say, deadpan, the threat obvious and underlying.
“Fuck you, diavolo!” the only conscious man spits, blood flying.
I kick up a smile relishing in the nickname that often crosses this part of the streets. Devil. How happy I am to oblige in what nightmares I can bring forth—especially when there is a clear warning in each one of them. Don’t fuck with my empire.
“I’m going to make this quick,” I say to the idiot, Jeffery O’Neil. Maybe, with a name like that, I’m just putting him out of his fucking misery. “You tell me what I want to know, and your death will be faster.” I’m standing in front of him, and I can smell the fear. I relish in it. “If you don’t…”
My red-gemmed hound wraps a thin metal around his throat from behind and tugs him up. The man gasps and chokes as his feet are lifted from the ground. He begins to turn purple as I assess my reflection in the polished blades. When I think he’s just about to pass out, I wave my hound off.
There’s momentary hesitation on his behalf, but he does as he’s told.
“Now that I have your attention,” I say politely, as the man gasps and sputters. I plunge the blade into his thigh, the harrowing cry splitting the room as I twist the knife.
My heart kicks up a beat as I relish in the smell and taste of his fear. It’s something I’ve never fully been able to quench no matter how much blood is spilled. Still, every drop has a purpose to serve.
Instead of removing the blade, I remove my hand and let him scream as he stares at it. I casually flip the other one in my hand.
