Page 3 of Lorenzo

He isn’t one of our regular VIPs.

I know every face that has clearance on this floor. Every politician, every old-money heir. This man is a phantom.

“Who are you?” I demand, stepping over the glass shards. “How did you get up here?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Ricci,” he spits, a bloody grin showing through cracked lips.

I roll up my sleeves slowly, the fabric folding in precise creases over my forearms.

“Max. Take him to The Room. Drago goes with you.”

The smirk disappears instantly. The man starts shaking his head, raw panic finally cutting through the alcohol-fueled arrogance.

Odd how these wiseguys don’t mind being punched until they’re unconscious by Drago.

But any mention of ‘The Room’ where the real interrogation tools live scares the shit out of them.

“No. Not that. Look, I’ll tell you⁠—”

I turn my back on his pleas.

Then I watch as Drago hauls him up by his collar and drags him down the hallway like the sack of garbage he is.

The sound of his frantic protests fades as they disappear around the corner.

Three hours later I’m at my desk.

Through my two-way mirror window, the club below me is finally bleeding out for the night.

The strobe lights are dark. The music has slowed to a low, predatory thump of bass.

I watch the last of the VIPs disappear into private town cars waiting on the rain-slicked curb. Their pockets lighter and their secrets safely buried inside these soundproof walls.

The hospitality floor is new for us.

The idea came from our uncle Silvio before Dante put two rounds in his chest.

When Silvio suggested we keep a stable of beautiful girls on hand for the high rollers, Dante and I both thought it was a crude idea.

We were wrong.

Hospitality girls and the easy, confidential fix they offer our VIP clientele upped our casino revenue nearly a thousand percent.

Which is the reason why we’re facing so much drama with our liquor license and the Russian Bratva.

Success breeds predators, and the Petrov organization is smelling blood in our water.

Dante strides in without knocking.

Rights of an older brother, the club’s official owner, and head of the Manhattan mafia.

“Heard about Sonia. How is she?” he asks, walking over to the decanter and pouring himself a dark splash.

“Doc stitched her up. She’ll live,” I say, rubbing my temples. “The bastard who cut her was Petrov muscle sent to spook us. We must send him back to them in pieces. A clear message.”

“No.”

I look up, my hand pausing on my desk. “No?”