Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
REV
“Two of our security cameras were damaged last night.”
I lean over Alaric’s desk to watch the feed on one of his computer monitors. It shows a figure in dark, baggy clothes lurking in front of Sinro’s lobby doors. He’s wearing a black demon mask with curved horns and sharp teeth.
He’s toying with a gun in his gloved hand, doing nothing to hide it from view.
Alaric flips over to the parking garage feed, where the figure eventually moves. His head tips up to the camera.
And then he just stands there as the feed rolls and rolls.
“What the fuck is he doing?” Cain asks.
“He did that for over twenty minutes,” Alaric replies, speeding up the footage. As the minutes tick by, the SIXX member barely moves more than some twitching of his head side-to-side. It’s like something out of a horror movie.
My ego flares at the boldness of it. “Clearly, he was taunting us.”
“That’s not all.” Alaric pushes his frames up the bridge of his small nose. “He had his creepy little friends join him.”
Another clip of camera footage shows figures surrounding our building. Their masks are similar only in that they’re designed to strike fear in others.
“Why didn’t you notify me sooner?” Cain demands.
Alaric squirms in his chair. “I called as soon as I noticed.”
He’s not usually so on edge around us. Others, yes. But he’s had enough exposure to his brother’s temper and my unique personality to not feel the need to hide his quirkiness.
Cain softens. “If you need more time off—”
“I don’t.” Alaric cuts him off. “More snacks in the break room would be nice, though.”
Sighing, Cain runs a hand along his stubbled jaw. I’m sure I’ll hear about this interaction from Cain later. Alaric may think his brothers are overbearing, but it’s how they show they care.
“Any more suspects from your fucked up cartel family tree or the black notebook?” I question.
Alaric clicks into a folder of hundreds of portraits. One in particular brings a prickle of awareness to the back of my neck.
“That one right there.” I point to a photo of a man who looks familiar. The quality isn’t great. It’s hard to tell if one of his eyes is slightly lighter than the other.
However, something is off about his expression.
“I’d be willing to bet money he was one of our visitors last night,” I state.
Alaric’s fingers tear over his keyboard, and dozens of video boxes pop up on his screen. Before he hits play on one of them, he snatches an opened bag of Red Vines, fishes a rope of licorice out, and rips off a bite.
Again, the footage is grainy, but the man could pass as a match to the photo.
“Cristián Valencia Ramírez is his name,” Alaric informs us.
“He was at Astra & Vine last night, which is two miles from the Bergamore Hotel. No transactions under his name. Probably used a card under a fake name. Rorik can pay the staff a visit and ask questions. Unlike both of you, he actually answered when I called.”
I can’t help the smile curling on my lips. “Does he often answer calls for you? Say, late at night?”
Alaric looks up at me with horror-stricken eyes. Thankfully, Cain’s too focused on the details displayed on the computer screen to pick up on the silent exchange between us.
Oh, I’ve discovered your little secret.
Now, do I believe Alaric’s acting upon his interest in Rorik?
I suppose I’d have to press Rorik for the answer to that.
I haven’t heard him talk about seeing anyone since he’s been working for us.
He mentioned something about an arranged marriage with a Mafia princess that went south shortly after we hired him, but nothing since.
“So, we have this guy’s name but no restaurant bill, camera footage of SIXX basically holding up middle fingers to us, property damage, the drug dealing son of a fallen plaza de jefe tied to a murder scene, and a bunch of bodies being dropped around the city by scum in Halloween masks,” Cain rattles off.
“Sounds about right,” Alaric says.
“I’ll give Isaac a call and see if he has any updates. Meanwhile, can we get some addresses on these motherfuckers?” I ask.
“You think I’m not already working on it?” Alaric bites into another Red Vine. Around a mouthful, he says, “Rorik’s team is checking up on the list I put together.”
Cain strides out of the room without another word. It’s clear he’s stressed about the constraints of his company with so many jobs piling up on our desks.
“Moody asshole,” Alaric mumbles under his breath.
I chuckle. “Moody indeed. You need help with anything?”
“Did I ask?”
“No, but I doubt you would, even if you were overwhelmed.”
It starts with a text.
Hey
Smiling, I pick up my phone and spin my desk chair away from the security contract and emails displayed on my dual computer screens. Work tasks slip entirely from my brain, replaced by thoughts of Dante.
It’s been three days since I fucked him in the shower stall of Club Saturn. Three days of impatiently waiting for him to reach out. Three days of fantasizing about all the ways I’m going to pleasure him again when he blesses me with the opportunity.
I do question if I should slow things down between us.
I’m not normally one to linger on emotions. I don’t worry about much. But I’m debating whether or not to keep involving Dante in updates about SIXX after witnessing how vulnerable he can be. I suspected he was soft, but not to the degree I witnessed at his work.
Surprisingly, Dante answers my call on the first ring.
“You know you could just text back,” he grumbles.
“But then I don’t get to hear your chipper voice.”
He’s quiet for a moment. I wonder if he’s gonna go all shy on me now. Break down one wall with him, and you’re met with two others.
“Want some company?” I ask.
“I…I’m just…” He pushes out a long breath. “You’re working.”
I spin around and shut everything down on my screens. “Already logged off for the afternoon. Don’t worry, I’ll speed to get to you.”
He covers up his laugh as a huff. “You’re so annoying.”
“You love it.”
“Hate is the word you’re looking for.”
“You can hate me and love me at the same time,” I tease.
The line falls silent once more. My grin spreads as I gather up my things and head for the door. “See you soon. Oh, and make sure to grab your dance bag.”
I hang up before he can ask questions. As I drive to Dante’s house, I call in a favor to the owner of the Ormond Theatre.
Even before I park against his curb, it’s easy to gauge Dante’s mood. His level of anger is practically melting the fresh-fallen snow around him. With his hood drawn and his sweatpants half tucked into clunky, unlaced brown boots, he’s a whole vibe.
I walk over to him, tucking my hands into my coat. “Where’s your dance bag?”
“Why do I need it?” he asks in a sassy tone.
Sighing, I brush past him to the front door, unlocking it with the key I had made from a mold I snuck off his own.
“Excuse me, but what the fuck?”
Ignoring Dante’s outburst, I march up the steps and rifle through his closet, securing the dance bag I spotted there the night I snuggled him in his bed.
He’s still fuming on the porch when I stride out with his belongings and slide into my truck. Eventually, he joins me with a scowl.
I feed off his anger. I love him volatile. But I love him vulnerable, too.
“Really? A fucking key to my house?” he grumbles.
“Not the worst thing I’ve done.”
He snorts and shakes his head. “So, are you going to tell me what we’re doing?”
“Where’s the excitement in that?”
Dante slumps on the bench seat. Unable to leave him alone, I reach over to take his hand and draw him closer. Should I get a smaller vehicle? Force him to sit closer so I don’t have to do this every time?
I count it as a win when he doesn’t pull away from me.
“Missed you,” I tell him.
“Still angry,” he mumbles, but he gives my hand a little squeeze that brings a smile to my face.
Navigating my truck through an alleyway behind the old, red-bricked Ormond theatre, I get out and punch the code in the lock on the back door. Dante’s confused gaze stays on me after I wave him over.
“Please don’t murder me,” he mutters, bumping his shoulder against mine as he enters the dark building.
Finding his hand, I guide him through the back rooms.
“Seriously. What are we—”
Dante’s words cut off as I push open a heavy door. Muted light spills into the historic theatre from the stained-glass windows on the vaulted ceiling. His jaw drops as he soaks in every gilded piece of handcrafted architecture along the jutting balconies and the grand stage.
It’s a smaller theatre. Nothing like his old ballet company would have performed at, but I’ve been to dozens of shows here. It’s stunning when it’s all lit up. Chandeliers glitter like diamonds, and sconces fill the vast space with a warm, golden glow.
However, I find its beauty is better appreciated in the quiet moments when it’s not swarming with people. In the silence, you can almost feel its soul calling to you.
Dante spins around in awe. “Do I want to know how you pulled this off?”
“I have connections.” I shrug.
A glare is tossed my way, and I chuckle. “Sinro provided security for some of the events here. I’m in good standing with the owner.”
I won’t share that I’ve fucked the artistic director. Possibly some of the performers, too. If Dante asks, I have no problem coming clean about my past escapades.
However, he seems the jealous type, and I don’t want to ruin this special moment for him.
“Why did you bring me here?” he asks softly.
“You said you wanted to dance on a different stage. Is this the stage you meant?”
Dante’s throat bobs as he looks at me. It’s becoming easier to see through the hard looks and tense muscles he employs to hide his sensitivity.
With cautious steps, he weaves through the plush red chairs toward the stage. He pauses in front of it, seeming to dig deep to find the strength to toss his dance bag onto the surface.