3. Three Gia
Three: Gia
It had been a week since that night at the club. A fucking week since giving the order to collect that little blonde slip from the tower. And nothing. So… today was the reckoning. Someone would pay for the lack of results. My gaze flicked across John and Kai Christian—I knew why John was here, but why was his impulsive idiot of a son? Clearly John didn’t trust him enough to lead, so why should I trust him to be in my meetings?
"Where's that spineless rat?" I muttered under my breath.
As if summoned by the dark thoughts swirling in the room, Peter’s jittery ass stumbled in. His eyes did that skittish dance, the one that screamed he'd rather be anywhere but here. He found his seat, hands trembling so goddamn much it was a wonder he could sit without shaking off the chair. Not far behind was a couple of his Lost Boys. Unfortunate looking things. Skeletal with sunken in eyes from all the drugs.
"Update," I barked, not giving a damn about niceties. "Calliope. Now."
Peter's lips moved, but it took a hot second before words actually tumbled out—a garbled mess about difficulties and unforeseen complications. But I wasn't in the market for excuses; I dealt in results.
"Try again," I snapped, eyes narrowing into slits. "And this time, make it worth my while."
His mouth opened, closed, then opened again—a fish gaping for air that wouldn't come. He knew what was on the line, and it sure as hell wasn't just his pride.
"Tick-tock, Petey," I said coldly, tapping an impatient rhythm against the wood, the sound echoing. "Or do I need to remind you what happens when my time's wasted?"
Fear rippled through him, a visible shiver running down his spine. Damn right, he was scared, because everyone knew I didn't play—I fucking dominated. And anyone who forgot got a brutal reminder of where they stood in my world.
"Good boy," I sneered, my voice laced with mockery. "Start talking before I lose my patience."
"Can't—can't get close to her," he stammered, spittle flying. "There's a guy—a psycho—guarding her now. Fucking untouchable. Like, he’s fucking crazy, Gia! He’s slaughtering anyone who comes close to her!"
My fingers clenched into a fist, the knuckles whitening. A guard? That was new. Who the fuck was he? Calliope’s dad was a loser. It can’t be him. My anger flared, hot and vicious, like the burn of whiskey down a raw throat.
"Untouchable?" I spat out the word as if it were poison on my tongue. The audacity—to think anyone could keep something from me.
"Give me something to work with, Peter, or so help me, I will do something you regret.”
His eyes darted around the room, seeking an escape that didn’t exist. He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing, his tongue darting out to wet dry lips.
"Nothing else, Gia. I swear, we’re trying… he’s just… he’s just insane. That's all we got."
All they’ve got. Useless fucking incompetence. My hand moved before the thought even registered, gun drawn and aimed with a precision born of years of control and rage. The sound of the gunshot was deafening, the acrid smell of gunpowder filling the air immediately after.
One of the Lost Boys slumped over, a neat hole drilled between his wide, shocked eyes—a red blossom spreading across his forehead before dripping onto the table. His body hit the floor with a thud that seemed to resonate, and then nothing but silence, thick and suffocating.
I lowered the gun with a heavy sigh, as I fixed Peter with an icy glare. “That’s what happens when you fuck up, Petey. When you waste my time.”
The others at the table flinched, their fear rolling off them in waves, sour and pungent as rotting fruit. Good. Let them remember this—the cost of failure, the price of my wrath. They hated that I was the one in charge. They hated that a woman was leading. Fine. Let them. But one thing I’d make sure they remembered was that I didn’t give a fuck if they hated me. They just needed to fear me enough to obey me.
"Clean this mess," I ordered sharply, gesturing to the lifeless heap on the floor.
"Anyone else feeling incompetent today?" No answer came, just the sound of shuffling feet and ragged breaths. Silence was golden, especially when it was steeped in terror.
"Dismissed."
They scattered, eager to escape my presence. Calliope would be mine, one way or another. I didn’t come from the fucking gutter, watch my dad finally become accepted into the Crew after my mom died, become appointed the head of Arizona, only to let some snivelling bitch-ass men decide I wasn’t good enough. I’d kill them all if I needed to prove a point.
I walked out and got into my car, the roar of my engine soothing as I drove back to my mansion. My bar awaited, with its bright LED’s and plush couches. The minute I made it home, I took off my heels and grabbed the tequila. The stiff drink I poured wasn’t enough, the burn a fleeting distraction from the chaos threatening to unravel everything I'd built. I’d never been good enough. Perhaps I never would be.
Anger surged. Without Calliope, loyalty would crumble, and with it, my dominion. I wouldn't allow it. The Cinder Crew needed a leader forged from steel and ice; I would be that leader, no matter the bloodshed required.
Picking up my phone, I texted Damien asking how he was doing on locating my mystery man. I’d become rather obsessed with him over the last week and after a night like tonight, I could use a good whipping boy. Unfortunately, he hadn’t returned to my club.
Laying down on one of the couches, I lit a cigarette. Fuck it all to hell. I’d find this guy, but not tonight.
No, tonight I would drink myself into a stupor and sleep. Peter would deal with Calliope. I would find my sex puppet.
The world would right itself.