15. Cade
Chapter 15
Cade
I disconnect my cell, and place it on the desk.
“He’s found her,” I say to Rafe, not wanting to mention Lia’s name.
In our world, even walls have ears, and her safety is paramount.
“Thank fuck she’s okay,” he replies, leaning to kiss me. His lips are warm, familiar, tender. "How is she?"
“He’s going to call later.” I point to my ear, just in case we’re being bugged. I checked the office before work, as I do every day—a meticulous sweep for devices, a habit born from years of vigilance. But we still don’t take too many chances, especially now that we’re getting so close to what we want.
With his mask now covering the top half of his face, he confidently heads towards the door, pumped up and ready to deal with tonight’s auction.
His hand hovers over the handle, and he stares at me. "I want her Cade."
I smile. "Me too."
As Rafe opens the door, a warm smile spreads across his face and his eyes light up with joy. “It’s all coming together.” His words carry so much weight. Once, we only wanted Lia because it propelled Dante’s position and safeguarded our future, but now we know she’s part of our destiny.
As he disappears into the club, I turn my attention to the wall of monitors.
Most screens offer a slice of the debauchery—my kingdom of sin.
Angels and Sinners’ has come to life. Near naked women straddle fully dressed men. Some in full view and some hidden in corners, some obscured by the smoke machines that create a hazy veil.
In the high-roller poker room, amid the shuffling of chips and cards, Ricardo Bianchi, Eduardo Gallo, and Dominic de Luca are here.
I connect to Rafe and say, “Your father’s here.”
“Tonight? Where is he?” The Syndicate men never normally come to the club on a weekend.
“Positive. He’s at the high-stakes table with Ricci, Eduardo, and some other men.”
“Any idea who?”
I zoom in on the table and start our facial software program. It looks at noses, eyes and chin, and gives, ninety-nine percent of the time, an accurate answer despite the mask.
“Malek Volkonsky, a Russian oligarch, and a man called Santiago Garcia, who is the head of a Mexican cartel.”
“Interesting,” Rafe says.
“I agree. It looks not only like it’s a high-stakes poker game…” I say, “But a summit. But where is Antonio Conti?”
“Are my father, Eduardo, and Ricardo, going into bed with the Russians and Mexicans?” Rafe muses. “It won’t end well. In fact, wipe the recording.”
“Done. And Rafe...”
“I know, I know. No direct contact.”
“I don’t want to lose you,” I say, disconnecting the call and scanning screens again.
As the music pulses through the speakers, bodies on the dance floor effortlessly glide and intertwine, creating a rousing scene. It’s what truly defines ‘Angels and Sinners’, that along with the masks.
Every patron, every dancer, every bartender, even Rafe and I all wear a disguise.
We can provide masks, but some patrons bring their own. Some are simple domino masks, while others are elaborate creations of feathers, lace, sometimes metal.
It’s a debauched masquerade here. A place where CEOs, politicians, and crime lords can shed their public personas, hide their identity. Which, for some, is far more monstrous than any mask can ever cover.
I suspect some men, such as the ones Dominic is getting involved with, like the anonymity we provide.
I scan the screens methodically. First, the main floor, then the VIP section, and to the private rooms—each area telling its own sordid story.
In one booth, I spot two couples engaged in a strip poker game. The chips they’re throwing down could buy small countries under normal circumstances. Here, their clothes are the only things they are losing. On purpose, no doubt.
One screen goes black. It’s the room Dominic is in. I grab the remote to reset it.
And that’s when everything goes to shit.
There’s a colossal commotion going down near the main entrance. I zoom in to see cops pouring in, their presence causing panic to spread like wildfire.
People grab their clothes, the emcee on the stage shoves the girl being sold into the wings.
I scan the screens, searching for Rafe.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is a raid! Everyone stay where you are!” a voice booms over a speaker. The command cuts through the music, triggering more chaos.
Patrons scramble, their carefully constructed facades crumbling. Some are already trying to bolt for the exits, while others attempt to hide under tables and behind the stage.
The aide to a high-profile politician frantically pushes him behind the bar.
In the VIP section, a famous actress dives under the table, desperate to avoid the fallout.
With a few keystrokes, I activate protocols that wipe out certain camera feeds, ensuring that while the raid is documented, the most sensitive areas remain clandestine.
This club promises the utmost discretion and for that, some people here tonight will have their attendance wiped. Though it’s saved on my secret server—you never know what information you need to retrieve.
It’s a precarious balance—providing enough evidence to satisfy the authorities while protecting my high-profile clientele.
The Syndicate’s area is still blacked out. I work quickly to rectify it. My fingers dance across the keyboard. The screen flickers to life. The poker room is now empty as I scan to find Dominic.
When I do, he’s no longer playing poker and remains eerily calm, considering he must have heard the commotion.
“Shit,” I mutter. Switching to my earpiece and connecting to our private channel. “Rafe, your father’s in a voyeur room, watching...” I narrow my eyes, seeing a woman on his knee, but only see her back. “He’s not moving.”
Rafe curses in Italian. “Of course he won’t. He thinks he’s untouchable. He probably owns half the officers.”
“Maybe, but we can’t risk it. You need to get him out. Fuck, the cops are in the Sinner’s room arresting … Oh! Thank fuck! Your father is finally making his escape.” I watch as Dominic de Luca has the female over his shoulder. She bounces as he rushes from the room and toward the exit that only a few, including the Syndicate men, know about.
“Good.”
I watch the door swing open and slam shut to an empty corridor. “And Rafe...”
“I know, I know. I’m on my way back now.”
As he signs off, I refocus on my screens. Outside, more police cars arrive, their sirens howling, their lights painting the night in red and blue.
The rap at my door breaks my attention. Glancing through my lashes, I watch as a curled finger beckons me to open the door. I hesitate for a split second before I slide out of my chair and approach cautiously.
“Mr. Saunders? Detective Quinn, Brisbane Police.” His gruff voice sounds like he smokes too many cigarettes. His weathered features and piercing eyes suggest he’s seen more than his fair share of crime scenes.
I lean against the door frame, projecting an air of restraint despite my racing heart. “I’d love to know the reason for your raid, Detective?”
“Of course,” he says dryly. “I’ll need to see your club’s license and permits.”
Without missing a beat, I stride to my desk and retrieve the documents from a locked drawer. Years in this business have taught me to keep everything unblemished. I hand them over, watching as Quinn scrutinizes each page.
“Everything seems in order,” he admits, though his tone suggests he wishes it weren’t. “But this raid isn’t just about tonight’s... activities. A detective named Sean Finnegan was investigating this club for illegal operations. He was found on a beach … dead.”
I maintain a careful blend of shock and concern. “That’s horrific. But surely you don’t think my establishment is connected? We run a sex club, Detective, not a crime cartel.”
Quinn’s eyes bore into me. “We believe he was getting close to something big. Human trafficking, underground auctions—the kind of depravity that hides behind masks and membership fees.”
His words hit uncomfortably close to home, but I don’t flinch. Years of playing high-stakes poker come in handy in moments like these. “Detective, I assure you, while our entertainment pushes boundaries, we operate strictly within the law. And honestly, I’m appalled by the crimes you’re describing. And I’m deeply sorry for your loss, but I have no knowledge that could help you.”
That’s not entirely true.
As Quinn speaks, a memory surfaces—a detail from months ago, when Mateo Conti eliminated a threat. On the dead man, they found a note with Amara’s name and the date, which was her eighteenth birthday.
That date came and went, and nothing happened at the club. The only thing that did was Lia eliminated Giuseppe Rossi. I wonder if his murder stopped what was planned.
Was it a coincidence?
Now, considering Quinn’s revelations, those puzzle pieces are aligning in a deeply unsettling pattern.
But I say nothing.
Not out of loyalty to the Syndicate, but out of a need to understand more. If this web extends to Amara, then rashly sharing information could put her and others at even greater risk.
Quinn observes me, frustration etched in the lines around his mouth. He knows I’m withholding something, but he also knows he can’t crack me—not here, not now.
“Like I told you, I know nothing, and I’m deeply sorry that you lost a colleague.” My gaze shifts to a screen.
“Are you?” Quinn leans in, his breath smelling of stale coffee and smoke. “Because right now, you seem more concerned with watching your monitors than talking about my murdered colleague.”
Over his shoulder, I watch the screens that show the road outside and see a girl running away from the club, heels in her hand. As a car nears her, my heart leaps into my throat.
Detective Quinn stands at the door and says, “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Saunders.” There’s an unmistakable warning in his tone as he turns back to me. “Don’t leave town.”
As he exits, I wait for the door to close, and then I collapse into my chair and press my earpiece, and say, "Rafe, where the fuck are you?"
When he doesn't answer, I scan through the rest of the screens, but my fingers stop when I see the girl is now in the middle of the road, prone, still.
“Fuck!” I rush to the door and yell for the detective. While he makes his way back, I dash back into the office and to the screen.
My stomach tightens with a sickening knot as I gaze at the screen and at the figure sprawled on the floor, my breath catching in my throat as I realize who it is.