TWENTY-THREE
The world came crashing down around Benedict’s ears scant hours later. He stood in front of The Pub, noting the armed guards outside of it, the boarded-up windows, and, most particularly, the guy who slammed an arm into him and shoved him back when he tried to enter.
“Got orders from the boss,” he drawled, and Benedict tilted his head. The guy grinned.
“The boss?” Benedict inquired when the goon didn’t bother elaborating.
“You know,” the guy continued in that easy accent. “The guy with the teeth. Been by to talk to you a few times.”
“The guy with the—Vito?”
The goon just kept grinning, and Benedict stared at the scene before him, before realization dawned on him.
His time was up. Vito was taking over his businesses.
“Shit,” he spat, and the goon howled, even as Benedict scampered away from The Pub, through the back alleys toward Saveur. He had to get there and warn everyone to stay away, not to open up?—
What if Vito knew where the employees lived? What if he sent goons over there too? Benedict had no idea how large Vito’s organization was, how many people he had at his beck and call.
He’d been here for six weeks, and he still had no idea about anything. The realization was a bitter pill as he stumbled through the streets, hoping against hope that he could somehow be in time.
In time for what, he wasn’t sure, but it definitely wasn’t to see Vito taking over the host club. That was what he got, though, because just as he darted in through the kitchen door, barging into the bar, someone kicked the front door wide open, and Vito strolled in, machine gun in hand.
Benedict skidded to a stop, and Sassa and Shakes looked between the monk and the mobster, confusion written all over their faces.
“Benny!” Vito cried, his voice full of cheer. “Fancy meeting you here—whaddya think of my new line of business?”
Benedict bristled. “It’s not yours,” he said sharply.
Vito grinned, his teeth daggers, and his voice went low. “Ain’t it now?”
Before Benedict could reply, he strolled deeper into the room, snapping his suspenders. “That was the deal, wasn’t it? You had six weeks to cough up, or I was taking you for everything. Including these fine establishments.”
“You can’t do that,” Benedict lobbed back, balling his hands into fists, letting his claws dig into his skin. He gritted his teeth. “I won’t let you.”
Vito’s grin cracked wider. “Won’t let me?” He chortled. “Won’t let me. That’s cute, Benny. And how are you gonna stop me?”
Benedict opened his mouth, but he had no words. What was there to say, really?
“In case you hadn’t noticed,” Vito drawled, waving a hand, “I got the place surrounded. I’ve got a gun. And what have you got?”
There was a thump and a click, and they both turned to Sassa, who had a laser rifle trained on Vito’s forehead now. “He’s got me, for one,” she said.
“And me!” Shakes cried, brandishing what looked like a chef’s knife, which she had probably pilfered from the kitchen.
Vito’s mouth twisted in a frown. Then his eyes widened as the front door crashed open and the two guards from Serbsec pressed their hands to the slimeball mobster’s back. “And he has us,” the taller of the two said, to which the second grunted.
Benedict trembled with relief. Maybe they could pull this off. Maybe this wasn’t the end, they could scare Vito off, and?—
Vito sneered, then lowered the gun. “This ain’t over, kitty-cat,” he snapped, pointing a finger at Benedict. “Mark my words, this time tomorrow, you’ll be sitting in a gutter out there while I sip champagne in my fancy new club.”
With that, he brushed by the two Noida guards, who watched him go without moving a muscle. Part of Benedict wished they’d tackle the mobster to the ground, break his neck, but he also didn’t want to deal with the fallout. He knew the two guards were waiting for his signal; they wouldn’t make a move against Vito without his approval. Which was probably for the best.
Benedict sucked in a breath, then said, “What if I get you what you actually want?”
“Eh?” Vito paused in his dramatic exit, turning back to quirk an eyebrow at Benedict. “What I actually want?”
“What my aunt owed you.” He resisted the urge to twist his paws together. “I mean, that’s what this is all about. You’re only taking over because I haven’t delivered.”
Vito snorted. “Oh, Benny.” His voice was syrupy sweet. “I gave you six weeks to come up with it, and you ain’t managed yet. And you’re not going to.”
With that, he turned on his heel. “Wait!” Benedict cried. “Just give me more time, I promise!”
The door swung shut behind the mobster, and Benedict could have kicked his own ass. He still didn’t even know what the hell Vito wanted.
The mobster was right—if Benedict hadn’t come up with it in six weeks, how the hell was he supposed to come up with it in less than twenty-four hours? Especially when he still didn’t know what he was looking for.
He stood there for what felt like eternity, staring at the spot where Vito had been. Eventually, he felt eyes on him, and turned to look at Sassa and Shakes, who were watching him.
“What now?” Sassa asked.
Benedict sucked in a breath.
“Do you want us to open up for the night?” Shakes asked.
Benedict glanced around, only now noting that the club was devoid of patrons. “Er, yeah.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “I … guess we should, huh?”
“Sure thing, boss!” Shakes bounced off with a cheery smile, like they all hadn’t just been held at gunpoint and threatened by a mob boss. Like it was something that happened every day on Kateria.
Maybe it happened more often than anyone liked to admit. He almost shuddered with the thought.
X and Y nodded to him when he met their gazes. “We’ll get back out there,” Y said, and the two of them returned to their posts patrolling around the premise.
He turned back to Sassa, whose glowing gaze was still leveled on him. “I?—”
“Need to call Mugs,” she said, putting her hand on her hip. The other was still wrapped tightly around the gun.
“Why?” Benedict asked, letting a frown cross his face.
Sassa glowered at him. “Because von Baron got us into this mess? Because he promised to help you get out ?”
“He … did?” Benedict blinked slowly, trying to recall the conversation he’d had with the purple alien. He couldn’t; everything was foggy.
Sassa sighed, flicking an ear with annoyance. “Yes,” she practically hissed. “This is why we’re not allowed to drink on the job.”
Benedict felt heat in his cheeks. “I’m the boss,” he said, like that was some kind of excuse.
Sassa’s expression went slack with amazement. Then she physically shoved him toward the kitchen. “Go,” she all but ordered, and Benedict had to resist the urge to snap at her. Who was she to order him around?
But he knew she was right. He vaguely recalled von Baron promising to get him out of this mess. Vaguely hinting he might have had something to do with La Chef’s debt to Vito.
He hesitated by the phone. There was a list of “VIP patrons” next to it, Mugs’s name scrawled there with a ton of others. He stared at the ink, wondering if it was his aunt who had written out the list or someone else—maybe a bunch of harried bar employees.
The kitchen was nearly silent; he could hear the clatter and clank of Shakes, Sassa, Nzx, and the others getting ready to open for the evening in the other room.
Slowly, he picked up the phone and dialed the number listed.
He had to get out of this mess somehow, and if Mugs had an answer, then he was willing to listen.