Chapter 32
W alking in, the bright light beams. It showcases the natural state of Humble: dim, dark, and seedy. The once sultry space, with its plush purple-and-crimson cushions, dark mahogany woodwork moldings and furniture, is starkly disgusting with the lights on full. Humble has always been a simple pinhole of light protruding through the mire. This? The gleaming hell broadcasts the stark government goons in their 1930’s gangster attire. In the velvety red room of Humble, they look like an old timey noir picture.
Wearing a peachy, clearly expensive dress shirt with pastel-blue pants, his right arm is tied up in a bright azure sling. The smile on his face gives off an air of comfort that in no way he should possess.
Murianos is at ease. A man such as Murianos should be behind bars rotting or in the ground, not seemingly content in the company of those he attempted to destroy. He is far more relaxed than he should be. I’d like nothing more than to shoot him in the face, stake his heart, and chop him into steak tartare before feeding him to the gulls at the pier.
Pulling my gun, pointing it at Murianos and cocking the hammer, I narrow my eyes at his smarmy grin. “Tempt me.”
“Death, it’s lovely to see you.” Dragging out the word lovely as if we’re long-lost friends, the hairs on the back of my neck stick up so hard they’ll never come down. “Mayate was just highlighting to all of us his disgust with this interaction as well. I expected no less from you.” With his accented voice, thick and posh sounding, using the demeaning nickname he had given Busta while he was in the Huesos fight rings, Murianos is comfortable. Anyone else but Murianos would be uncomfortable, but he feels superior and sassy in our company.
Through gritted teeth, I growl, “I’d love nothing more than to change your perspective, asshole.”
Shifting from me to Busta, then to Toni, his leery gaze makes my skin crawl as he addresses me with a gleam in his eye, “You’ve been hiding this beauty all to yourself.” With a sizable grin, he talks to her directly, “I must admit. You’re quite a lovely woman, considering your parentage, Ms. Morriso.”
As his darkened eyes travel the length of Toni, tearing her down inch by inch, inspecting her and marginalizing her beauty, I become exceedingly jealous and protective. Taking two steps, placing her just behind me, I know all it would take is a simple pull of the trigger to eradicate him.
“Give me a reason. A simple blink will do. Trust me, I’d love nothing more than to splatter your brains across the dancers’ stage. So, make me do it. Please. Just one more comment about Toni and I’ll gladly ask Teary Cleary and Misty to Jell-O wrestle in your gray matter when we open in a few hours. Believe me, I won’t lose a wink of sleep if I go back to jail over your death.”
“Tut, tut. That’s no way to act. I’m unarmed and clearly no threat.” Raising his left hand and slung right, showing he’s without a weapon, to us, those who have come across his cunning, we know that doesn’t mean he’s not a threat. It just means he cannot return fire.
I’ll admit; even though he is dressed well-appointed he looks worn out and disheveled. The peach is somewhat subdued, and the suit almost seems thread-worn. Though, in my opinion, he should be in a plastic bag floating off the coast of Africa, not sitting here smugly, breathing like the disgusting prick he is.
Tearing my eyes from him, and not giving him the satisfaction of my ire, I noticed Miss, Trigger, and Joker are sitting in the plush velvet red chairs, guarded by no less than two agents apiece. Stewing with a brewing anger, each with guns pointed in their direction, we all know we’re outnumbered. Busta and Cap, who are standing uncomfortably yet deadly, are staring down the man who had so graciously orchestrated our demise.
He cuts the tension with a simple sentence, placing a heavy accent on the first words. “We—cannot have you killing him, Bennett,” Johnson states. Lifting my eyes from Murianos to the agents surrounding us, their guns are pointed at my chest and head.
I don’t comply. I don’t care. “If they take a shot at me, I’ll make sure I take Murianos with me. I know the men who have my back will do the same to yours if you make a move against me.”
“After all the work I’ve put into this situation to keep the clubs from being mutilated further, I need your support. Trust that this will help us all survive.” Johnson holds out his hand. “Now, give Greg your fucking gun, Death.”
After a moment’s thought and against my better judgment, I hand it over. Gritting my teeth and attempting to calm my anger, I remind the smug motherfucker who is still breathing, “A gun won’t stop me from killing you, Murianos. I only need my hands.”
Stepping between us, after I’ve been disarmed, Johnson points to a chair behind me. “Take a seat.”
I don’t. Sitting leaves me vulnerable. Noticing I’m not about to, Johnson moves to stand on the right side of the devil, as it were. Addressing the room he turns to Busta, Cap and me. “Have the clubs made their decision?”
Busta’s seething glare states far more than his words could ever impart. He’s probably planning all the ways he can tear Murianos into a million pieces without Johnson’s intervention. I’m pretty sure Johnson understood that coming into this, but making sure he knows it, Busta speaks up, “Why again are we keeping him alive? Just send me back to the ring. I’ll get close to these Mano fuckers and I’ll get you the intel you want.”
“Not an option, Lucius. Boss says, I do. That’s the rules. They set up a premise and we need to keep it on track.” Johnson sounds defeated, like he’s already tried to find another means and the options were struck down.
Sitting on his lap, worrying her fingers, Cap toys with a bouncy curl of Pipers. “Set a new course,” Cap interjects.
“Look, it’s not that I think we need Murianos directly for this to succeed, but the boss does, and if I thought that you in the ring would get the job done, I would. I trust you more than him.”
Rising out of his chair, kicking it back sharply, Busta steps toward Johnson. “Then I’ll kill him if he doesn’t matter anyway.”
“Their boss and mine say that Murianos matters. I can’t change the outcome.” Looking at his watch, seeing the time ticking down just like we do, Johnson huffs, “I really hate this, I do, but if we don’t have that answer now the decision will be made for all of you. Think of how this will all affect your daughter, Lucius. She deserves so much more.”
“If you’re all dead, she’ll be fine and I’ll sleep like a baby in a lovely ten by ten, with three squares a day and a workout regime. I don’t see a downside.” His tone brokers no remorse, he’s set in his decision to go down with the ship.
Laughing darkly, crowing, and seemingly amused, Murianos slaps the arm of the chair with his good hand. “Bom! Bom. That fire of yours made me a lot of cash, Mayate.” Smiling, he leans back. “If you want to come with me and Jazmine, you’re more than welcome to fight. I won’t stop you.”
“Fuck it.” Tossing a few chairs to the side, narrowly missing Cap and Piper, leaping over Johnson and a small team of his agents, Joker, Miss, and the agents each do their best to hold Busta back by the arms. Wrapping themselves tightly around his torso to halt his attack, they’re having a hard time holding him. When he’s no more than an inch from Murianos’s face, with seething hatred, spitting in his face as he spews the words, “You know you’re not leaving this room alive.”
Murianos doesn’t flinch, sitting, wiping a small bit of spittle off his cheek with a peach pocket square. “I’ve never been a stupid man, Mayate. I know when the odds are in my favor and how to set the board to win when necessary. Correct, Agent Johnson?”
Johnson tucks himself between them. “Lucius, there’s more at stake than ever. You need him.”
Through gritted teeth, he barks, “We’ve never needed anything from him. I can simply snap his neck and we’ll be done with him. Let me do what’s necessary.”
With my attention solely on Murianos’s and Busta’s interaction, I barely noticed more agents and officers cockily entering this meeting. A tall motherfucker, nearly as big as Miss, steps up to Johnson, speaking low.
“Are you sure?” Talking to the asshole, Johnson seems surprised.
“Yeah,” his growly voice agrees.
“Fine.” Looking to Murianos, Johnson gives directives to the agent, “Take him to the office.”
Stepping up between Busta and Murianos, a dick sizing moment occurs. “Move. I need him,” he states, puffing out his chest, hoping to seem credible against a man like Busta.
Not moving an inch, holding his ground, this asshole somehow thinks he’s about to win with the likes of Busta. Bitch doesn’t realize he’s squaring off with a goddamn moose-bear-orca hybrid beast. Size doesn’t matter when you don’t have the power behind you. FBI boy is a damn ballerina in comparison.
“He needs to go upstairs. Now.”
“It better be to drown him in a vat of his own blood.” Squaring his shoulders, not allowing the agent to shift Murianos out of the way, Busta becomes an immovable force.
Unsettled with the dick swinging, Johnson counters, “Busta, this has to happen. He needs to go upstairs, out of sight for the next while. And I’m not asking, I’m telling.”
Reminding the room he is the big dick swinging; Johnson pushes past the two hulking jerks and steps to Murianos. “Get up, move to the office, and stay fucking quiet.”
Stepping past the two gorillas fighting, he retorts, “I’ll just watch the calamity on the TVs anyway.” Wandering to the stairs, Murianos is out of sight but not forgotten as he leaves with three agents in tow.
As he leaves, Johnson states, “Busta, Death, please have a seat. We have business to finish.” Checking his watch, noting the time, “What was your answer from the club membership?” As easily as asking for the check at a restaurant, Johnson has just asked us if we’re tipping. “There are sacrifices to be made in all wars. Know that this is the last sacrifice I’ll ask of you.”
Answering curtly, gripping the arm of the chair so tightly my nails bend back, I reply, “I doubt that. You’re asking me for the war chest and the war horse. You’ll come looking for the spoils of war once it’s done. We can’t give more, Johnson.”
“I’m not asking for more. Only what they require now. Now, I need to know what your decision was.” He peers at his watch once more. “‘N’ now is when I need to know. The boss is asking for a call and I have ten minutes before they open the flood gates, taking your clubs, families and homes.”
Each of us stays silent. Piper takes a seat on Cap’s lap as he reclines on a chaise, as Busta takes the seat Murianos recently occupied. Flipping a chair back over, Joker takes a seat across from him. Motioning for Toni to join me, she takes a seat on the armrest.
“I’ll ask once more and I expect an answer,” Johnson clips tersely.
“We’re not volunteering for this choice—”
“Yes. N’ your clubs chose. This decision was made with and without you.” Pacing for a moment, Johnson comes back with a quieter tone. “I can tell by your pushback the clubs decided and you’re not comfortable with the choice.” Turning from us, gathering his phone, he taps away. Raising the phone to his ear, as they answer. “It’s done. Yes, sir. I will. Of course. Are you sure? Okay. Yes. Thank you, sir,” he states tersely, hanging up the line and pocketing his phone once more.
“My boss wants me to make sure she understands this fully, and that all of you know there is nothing you can do to change this.” He looks at each of us. “I hate that it is happening too.” Pulling his gun free, checking the safety is off, Johnson addresses us, as he points it in my and Busta’s direction. “I don’t want any trouble from each of you.” Eyeing his gathered agents, he orders, “Be prepared. Guns at the ready, and if any of these guys make a move, shoot to slow them.”
“Yeah, like that’s going to save you,” Busta quips. “None of us are getting free of the blowback from this fight. Might as well put it between my eyes, as not much is going to slow me down.”
“She is going to hate everyone,” Piper clips off. “I know I would. Especially you.” Her gaze is transfixed on me. Piper knows this better than any of us. It’s indentured servitude to a monster, and we can’t do a thing about it.
It sends a quiver through my soul.
My sister is going to be owned by the devil and I handed her over.
As we watch, all sitting uncomfortably and anxiously waiting for what is about to happen next, two excessively large assholes walk in. One holds the bag from my ride that houses the Queen’s book, while the other holds my sister’s arm tightly, directing her. Jaz in her usual arrogant way strides across the empty dance floor with her head held high and poised to kill. Following along, Miss and Gunner step through behind her with two men escorting each themselves.
Feeling my ire sky rocket, my anger seething to the surface and my hatred crawling at my skin to be released, I move to stand. Before I can, two men cock and point their weapons at Antonia. The asshole closest sneers, “Don’t. It’s not worth her life.” I have to choose between my sister and the woman I’ve loved my whole life? Not much of a choice. I’m fucked and Johnson’s goons know it. Gotta give it to Johnson, he brought a squadron of steroid-jacked motherfuckers to control us. If it weren’t for the guns, we wouldn’t be outnumbered and we’d be a match for them, for sure.
“Does anyone want to pipe up n’ tell me what this is about?” J clips off as she traverses the space.
Each of us silently calculate our chances at escaping this unscathed.
We can’t.
We know it.