Chapter 8
Luka
Acool draft sifts through the broken windows of the long-forgotten textile factory.
It’s a blessing, considering the amount of rat shit scattered over the concrete floors.
The crisp hundred-dollar bills rustle as I count them, loving the feel.
The world has gone too fucking virtual. Hearing my phone peep with a payment isn’t nearly as satisfying as this right here.
“You know,” a shaky voice breaks through my thoughts. Finishing counting, I turn my attention to the low life behind me. “The Russians have offered me a lower price.” I purse my lips, so he quickly continues, “I love working with you. But business is business.”
I grit my teeth, trying to keep my cool. “Lower price for a low-quality product. You know their shit is cut.”
He makes a poor attempt at smiling. “Like I said. Business is business.”
Any trace of a smile disappears after noticing my expression. I grab him by the lapels of his designer suit and push him into the chipped wall, lifting him to his tiptoes. He was a common street dealer before I got my hands on him. Now he wears expensive suits and plans to cut me loose.
“Want to say that again?”
“It’s not personal. This just isn’t profitable for me,” he blurts out, his eyes wide as saucers. I’m at least four inches taller than him and he looks like a frightened little mouse.
“Of course. Your greed has grown. And now you plan to poison your clients to buy more tacky suits.”
“Nobody sells clean anymore.”
My vision grows tunnel, red appearing in the corners. “We do.”
I drop him to the floor, turning away. As soon as I hear him release a breath, I whip around, punching him straight in his nose.
He presses his hands to his face, a wail tearing from him. “We sell clean shit. And so do you.”
With a snap of my fingers, I signal to my men to get him out of here before I get into my Range Rover. I flex my hand, noticing I cracked the skin of my knuckles.
Fuck, I haven’t been an enforcer for too long. Father always had bigger plans for me. But I can’t deny it feels good to split someone’s face wide open.
The motor of my car rumbles to life, and I dial Leon before heading home. “We got a problem. Russians started poaching.”
“I know,” he responds, and I grip the steering wheel tighter. “Uncle Toma came to me, concerned about the way I’m handling things.”
“How convenient.”
“He says I still haven’t avenged his brother, and our territory is being decimated.”
“I’m working on it. On both of those things,” I growl.
“I know you are. It’s an excuse. For him to show others how weak and unprepared I am to lead the family business.”
“Let me guess. He has an amazing plan to get everything back on track.”
“Of course. He gave us ten days to find him.” By him, he means Landers, Sophie’s father.
“And the Russians?”
“He’ll look into it.”
“Jebemu mater,” I groan, running a hand through my hair.
Our uncle is an idiot with a God complex. I’m not looking forward to cleaning his messes.
“Can you do a few more drop-offs tomorrow?” His voice turns lower. “I think some of the guys are under Toma’s thumb, and I’d rather he not be privy to every detail of our business.”
“Of course, brate.”
“We need to find the girl’s motherfucking dad. STAT. We avenge our father and keep control of our men.”
“I’m aware,” I grit out, grinding my teeth.
I hear him swallow a sip of something. Rakia, if I had to take a guess.
A voice sounds in the distance, and I realize someone must have entered his office. “We have a problem, boss.”
My brother lets out a loud sigh, making me chuckle. “Have a good night, brate.”
He snickers. “Yeah, you too.”
Danica, my housekeeper, takes care of the dogs during the day, but I still like to spend at least some time with them. Hades reacts like he hasn’t seen me in months, but a few belly rubs later, he trots happily next to me on our brief walk before I have to get back to work.
Parking in front of the club, I light a cigarette on my way out of the car. The first inhale fills my lungs, giving me a false sense of calmness.
It was always the plan for Leon to take over the family business, but we thought we had time to hand it over smoothly once Father retired.
How incredibly na?ve of us, expecting a mafia boss to live long enough to see retirement.
But he was larger than life. He showed no fear, never mentioned the possibility of dying.
Somehow, somewhere, we forgot he was mortal.
Now we got shit to do. And sitting around moping won’t do any good.
I drop the cigarette butt on the ground, stomping it with my boot before entering the club. Drunken debauchery awaits me inside. Weird older guys in cheap suits grind on skimpy clothed girls, most of them looking like drug addicts.
Unlimited alcohol and sex clubs don’t mix. I wipe my face with my hand, deciding to deal with this as soon as I find some time.
My feet carry me straight down to the dungeon to check on our guest. There are three dungeons total, but I blocked off the other two. The last thing I need is for someone to snoop around here. Approaching the door, the sounds from within stop me in my tracks.
Desperate. Wailing. Pleading.
My heart pumps harder in my chest, and I barrel through the door, almost knocking it off its hinges. Andre jumps up off the couch, his phone falling out of his hands.
“Shit, man,” he says, but my eyes snap to the bed.
“What the hell is going on here?”
“It’s been happening ever since she fell asleep.” He shrugs.
Sophie’s thrashing on the bed, her face wet with tears.
“Please, no. Please,” she begs, her voice breaking.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
Leon’s little stunt from today obviously broke her. He had to put a gun to her head to make it more dramatic, didn’t he?
My eyes roll to the back of my head as I scramble to think. She’s been kidnapped and threatened. She hasn’t eaten anything in the three days she’s been here. There’s nothing for her to do here, nothing to shift her focus from what’s happening.
“We might as well waterboarded her,” I mumble beneath my breath.
“What?” Andre asks.
“No more cuffing her. Stay here. And pay attention. You almost shit your pants when I entered.”
He drops his chin, and I head back upstairs.
There’s an office behind the bar. I’ve started clearing it out, but a ton of junk is still there.
The room is straight out of a vintage porno.
The dark wood paneling, maroon drapes covering a nonexistent window, and velvet chairs I’d rather not use a black light on.
I scan the contents of the room to find what could be useful, my eyes landing on a few books on the bookshelf and an old chess set.
That’ll have to do. I grab a random, discarded bag, pop the items in, and make my way to the dungeon. Passing the bar on my way, I bump into a scantily dressed waitress. She looks like she is about Sophie’s size.
“Monica,” I say.
“It’s Mia. But you can call me whatever you like,” she says in a sultry voice, running her tongue over her teeth.
“Right.” She looks like a good time, but I have way too much shit on my mind to do anything about it.
“I have a job for you.” Her ears perk up.
“I need you to buy some clothes in your size. Everything, from underwear to,” I gesture over her body, “everything else. Some towels and some hygiene products, as well.”
She nods enthusiastically and I drop a few hundred-dollar bills on the bar. Wrapping her fingers around them, she slips them into her cleavage, shooting me a wink. I grab another disgusting bottle of whiskey and make my way downstairs.
“You’re free,” I bark at Andre, entering the dungeon.
His round face covered in a blond scruff twists in disbelief. “But my shift…”
“I know how long your shift is. I’m the one who set it. And I’m telling you you’re done here.”
He dips his head before getting up and leaving. I drop the bag on the bed and slump down onto the couch. Her loud wails turned into soft sobs, and I’m not sure if it’s better or worse.
Taking a long swig from the bottle, I scrunch my face and take my boots off, lifting my feet on the couch. Leon is the suit guy. I’m the guy in combat boots and black tactical gear. He’s the guy you do business with. I’m the last guy you see before you die.