Rage

Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Jazz

T he next morning, I dropped the papers off at Barkada Industries, then received an urgent call that I had to be at our newly purchased docks. I avoided Jareth, because I knew he would try to ask me why, after all this time, the Greens had finally accepted our bid.

I couldn’t tell him. Not until I had found a suitable lie.

If I told him the truth, then Kieran O’Malley would never be found breathing. An outcome I should have wanted, but didn’t.

I went to the docks, driving the gold Audi A6, winding through the narrow streets of New York. The people who say it’s hard to drive in the city have never driven in Manila. That is a high stress environment. NYC taxi drivers were quite pleasant because they gave a shit about not killing themselves or their passengers.

It takes two to make an accident, and the person who cares the least always has the advantage.

The docks were laid out in long rows that jutted out into the water, lined with rails, with warehouses. The entrance was gated by a menacing chain link fence that reminded me of a penitentiary.

Shipping was big business in this city. This was prime real estate. This one had a large, historic building that was the size of an aircraft hangar made of red brick with victorian crown molding around the high windows. It was the reason I had pitched so hard for the property. I wanted that building. I wanted that to be the spot of our underground Circuit.

This would be the site of my championship arena!

A man in a black suit was standing at the entrance of the chain link, his hands clasped in front of him, a bodyguard’s earpiece coiled over the conch of his ear.

“Miss Barkada?” he asked, with a nod as I approached.

“Yes.”

He stepped aside, opening the gate. “Come on through, ma’am. They’re waiting for you in the main building.”

With a twitch of his hand, he indicated the site of my soon-to-be arena, where the best fighters would come to rake in the dollars of rich, blood-thirsty gamblers.

I went in through a side door, already picturing the octagon I could place in the middle of this building. This would be my coliseum! My area. My world to conquer.

Sunlight came in from the high windows, though the walls up to twenty feet high were completely blank, blocking the view of the outside.

The place was dark, save for a single chair in the middle of the room, with a sad fluorescent light shining down from above.

I squinted, looking to see the occupant and almost laughed. “Feldon?”

He moaned, fighting against restraints that I couldn’t see. His hands and feet were bound by the chair, and duct tape covered his mouth. There was a wet stain, and aroma wafting from his clothes that suggested he had soiled, or at least wet himself.

I looked at him, and he seemed… mostly unbroken, but for the bruises and cuts along his face. Superficial. Someone worked him over. A professional that didn’t break bones or cause internal bleeding as they inflicted maximum pain.

It was a real skillset.

I looked around, feeling another presence in the room before his voice crawled over my skin, sending a shiver into my aching, sore, insides.

“Pleasure to see you again, Miss Barkada.”

He came out of the darkness like a demon, approaching with a cool, calm demeanor.

“What is the meaning of this?” I asked, lifting a brow.

I should have been afraid. He was obviously no stranger to cruelty or violence. But I was certain none of it would be directed at me.

O’Malley pulled a folder out from behind his back, and offered it to me. I took it, and looked at the contents. It was a simple yellow folder, with papers inside, clipped together by a cheap black clamp.

“Feldon hired a Private Investigator,” O’Malley circled Feldon, placing my former paramour between us. He kept pacing as he spoke. “He wanted to look into your family, your past… you .”

I pulled out the summary page, and started reading as O’Malley narrated the contest. Jesus, he had memorized it!

“Jasmine Barkada, born to Josiah and Emily Bautista, nee Ocenea. Born in Quezon City, Philippines. Graduate from the Ateneo de Manila Law School.” He looked at me and raised a brow.

“With honors,” I added, smirking.

Barkadas did not half-ass anything.

“The allegations against Miss Barkada are,” he started to count on his fingers, “money laundering through Jomari Barkada’s concert hall. The mysterious disappearance of her father was never solved, they suspect foul play. She is allegedly the mastermind behind the Underground Fighting Circuit which was deemed illegal, and a front for backroom deals. And, oh! Here’s a list of mysterious disappearances that seem to be related to you…”

He smiled. Beamed, in fact. As if the accusation of murder was a compliment.

“It also says that you and your siblings have applied for membership at the Baskerville, but been denied.”

I flinched.

The Baskerville was the only place that had more backroom dealings than the Underground Circuit. It was nothing but a social club, with a gym, restaurant, grounds, a clubhouse, sauna and so much more. It wasn’t like the Underground where people met and talked over cocktails while people pummeled each other bloody for sport. It was a place where they relaxed, sipped their favorite drinks, and smoked cigars, enjoying their positions as titans of industry, and looked down on the rest of us.

Barkadas were billionaires in their own right, our money was as clean, and as dirty, as any one of them. But we were barred entry as new money. A sore spot for Jareth, still.

“And why do you have this folder now?” I asked.

“The PI he hired happened to be Irish.” O’Malley pulled a lighter from his pocket, and held the flame below a corner of the file. “He knew I had a… particular interest… in your family.” He plucked the papers from my hand. “In you. ”

He tossed the burning papers onto Feldon’s lap, where the fire spread, catching on his silk and polyester clothes. His screams bled through the tape on his mouth, as the smell of burnt flesh permeated the air.

“That was the only copy of that information,” O’Malley said softly, “now, the only place it lives is up here.”

He tapped his temple.

“So this is blackmail?”

“No, Lovely.” He leaned down until his lips were almost at my forehead. “It’s a gesture of good will.” He leaned down further, bumping his nose against mine. “I’d like to work closely with you. Everything in that folder tells me I want you as an ally.”

I stepped back, because I always looked a predator in the eye. And that’s what he was.

“And what do you plan to do with him?” My former paramour no longer merited a name.

“I will offer a sort of mutually assured destruction,” he said. “We kill and dispose of him together, as a means of… christening our new alliance.”

Of all the romantic gestures I’d ever received, this was the most interesting.

I placed my hand on O’Malley’s shoulders, standing on my tiptoes to give him a kiss. A closed-lip kiss on the mouth, as caste and sweet as though we had done this a million times before. The sound of Feldon’s screams just heightened the sweetness of it.

But if I let him have his way, he’d own me. And I refused to be owned by anyone.

I might have rented him my body for these docks, but that was done now.

We stood on even ground.

“Let him go,” I whispered.

“Are you sure?” O’Malley’s eyes looked pained, as he stared at me. Offended on my behalf.

“Yes,” I said, with condescending clarity to make sure he understood every single sound of those three letters. “Let. Him. Go.”

O’Malley was suspicious of my intentions, but stepped aside. He pulled a knife from his sheath, and walked behind Feldon, cutting his hands and feet free. He didn’t bother with the duct tape.

Feldon, terrified of his new luck, came to his unsteady feet, swatting the flames and paper off of him. He walked around me, giving me a wide berth as he stared at me like I was a coiled serpent.

I hissed at him, baring my teeth before laughing as he stumbled, fell, then half-crawled away.

“He’s going to try to harm you, now,” O’Malley put his knife away and came to his feet. “We protect our allies as best we can but you must know, the Lauders aren’t without power.”

I smirked.

“It’s time the west understood the Barkadas,” I said, stepping towards him, my heels clicking on the cement ground. “We stand on our own.”

I reached up and placed my fingers around his lapels, gliding up and down the soft, expensive fabric.

His brilliant eyes looked down at me, his lips pulled down in a frown.

“There’s no better way to make an impression than by placing your boot on your enemy’s neck.” I pulled at the long strand of his navy blue tie. “We do not ride on anyone’s coattails, Mr. O’Malley. And you rob me of a good kill.”

This was the art of me Feldon never knew. This was the part I kept beneath the layers of fine clothes, and the civility my brother, Jareth, taught me.

O’Malley’s nostrils flared, his hand grasped at my waist, pulling me to him until our bodies pressed together. I felt his hard abs, strong thighs, and the pulsing cock throbbing against the back of his zipper.

He was aroused by the vicious side of me. That was… very interesting.

His eyes were molten with desire, as he leaned down, his lips just a hair’s breadth from mine.

He smiled as if I had given him a gift, as he whispered, “Happy hunting.”