11. Chapter 11
11
Luca
Sweat drips off my cousin’s back as he pummels the Albanian fighter once, twice, three times in the face. Blood splatters onto his knuckles, his fists, and his tattoos.
Rome and I aren’t supposed to be here, but Duchess asked for more people, and, well, I like Duchess.
The crowd erupts around us, and I can smell the metallic scent of blood in the air.
My men are scanning the crowd.
“Trouble,” Rome whispers in my ear and nods to where Fletcher is now locked in his own death fight with three members of the audience. The volume of the club gets louder as chaos quickly unfolds.
“Gun!” someone shouts and patrons around us start screaming, Duchess’ girls drop their drink trays and start to run to the exits along with everyone else who has realised the safety of the event has been compromised.
There’s something fascinating about watching human instinct take hold and civility disappear, as it becomes every man and woman for themselves. Pushing, shoving and trampling anyone to get to the exit.
Levi runs his fight rings on respect: you come, you watch, you gamble, but all violence happens in the ring.
That rule was broken tonight, and I need one guess to know who’s responsible.
The Albanians.
“Help Duchess,” I instruct Roman, who’s armed and is as pissed as I am. “I’ll meet you back at the club.”
He nods once, then pushes his way through the carnage.
Levi’s still in the cage, the mangled face of the Albanian a gruesome sight as he continues to pummel him. Leaping up to the temporary ring Duchess has set up on her dance floor, I grab the rope and call, “Levi, we’ve gotta go.”
Blood lust drives him, “Levi, move!” ducking down as the sounds of shots ring out. Our men taking cover as bullets begin to fly.
His gaze falls on Duchess, standing by the bar, a gun in her hand.
“Fucking move!” I shout again, dropping behind the front row of chairs. Levi rolls with the grace of a seasoned gymnast, and runs towards Duchess, grabbing her before taking cover behind the bar.
“Rome!” I yell, grabbing my own gun from where it was tucked and I poke my head over the chair to get a visual on who the fuck is where. No easy feat when bullets are flying.
“Two o’clock,” he shouts, and I spot him with two of Duchess’ girls.
“Get ready, boys,” a female voice rings out above the shots, from behind the bar. Duchess holds up two bottles of alcohol with linen in the top. Molotov cocktails.
“Are you insane?” My eyes widen as she launches the bottles into the chaos, one landing in centre ring, lighting the remains of the Albanian, the second towards the seat where Arben Marku was last seen. As she ducks, Levi appears and launches the next two.
The missiles hit, and fire explodes, spreading across the room, the plush fabrics that surround the support beams, and the velvet drapes that gave the club a rich and indulgent feel accelerate the blaze.
Smoke billows around, the poisonous tendrils encroaching on the men where they seek shelter, the heat already unbearably stifling.
Everyone stops firing, the sound of shots replaced by the sound of roaring fire, men from both sides disperse through the various doors onto the street. I crouch-run to where Levi and Duchess are sitting, laughing like naughty children behind the imposing oak bar.
Not many things shock me but seeing Levi carefree with Duchess is something that will give me nightmares. They look positively unhinged.
“Are you two staying here and burning to death?”
Levi quickly adopts his usual bored expression. “You had one job, Luca…stop any trouble.”
“Not now,” Duchess says quickly. “Are the girls out?”
“Rome’s with two of them, I’m assuming the rest were closer to the doors. Burning the place down seems a bit extreme.” I raise an eyebrow.
She shrugs. “Fire damage is easier to explain than bullet holes. Besides, it needed a refurbishment. The sprinkler system will kick in any second now.” The words have barely left her mouth when the little units that pepper the ceiling burst into action and start dousing the flames. “Right on schedule. You guys better go. It would be great if you could take your Albanian friend with you.”
Levi looks over my shoulder and I follow his gaze to the burnt-out remains of the fighter.
“Toasty,” Levi says and Duchess grins at him with a manic twinkle in her eye.
Fucking fruit cakes, the pair of them.
I look at the devastation that was created in less than five minutes, the last of the flames extinguished, a layer of water over everything, mixing with the blood of the fighter in the ring.
“We have two minutes,” I call out over the showering water. I spin my finger. “Wrap it up.”
Bennett, Fletcher, and Jackson start a quick walk-about with Levi’s men in tow. Every so often they bend down and pick up a bullet casing. Roman joins them, pulling on surgical gloves.
“Rome,” Duchess calls, climbing out from behind the bar.
She drops her high-heeled shoes on the top of it and pulls her red dress down her long bronze legs, ties her blonde hair in a messy bun as she walks over to Roman.
Isabella Langley, the rightful heir to the Langley seat. She started going by Duchess when she turned her back on her family, and as far as her idiotic father is aware, she’s in North America. Terrance, completely oblivious that his daughter is right under his nose, thriving.
“The girls?”
“Safe, they wanted to come back in to help, but I’ve sent them to Jade’s.” Rome climbs into what is left of the ring, “How are you going to explain this?”
“That,” Duchess points to the body, “you are taking with you. This,” she points to the ring, “was the Women’s Wrestling Night we were prepping for that’s on Saturday.” She nods to the wall, where there’s a poster advertising the event. “What is it you always say, ‘Always be prepared,' remember!” She turns her nose up at the burnt remains. “Now get this crispy fried body out of here. You don’t have long.”
“Any other ones?” Levi asks, stepping into the ring as Roman crouches and prods the body with his gloved hands.
“I think it should be safe to pick up.” He pulls out more gloves and passes them to me and Levi.
“Why do you have gloves in your pocket?” Levi asks, frowning.
“I ask that question regularly,” I mutter as I pull them on.
“Duchess, have you got anything we can wrap him in, maybe a curtain or something, I don’t want the blistered skin to fall on the floor.” Roman says.
“That’s…gross.” I turn my nose up, and Roman looks at me questioningly.
“I’ve watched you cut out tongues, slit throats, and smash people’s faces in so they are unrecognisable, but this, this is the thing that grosses you out.”
“It’s just something about burnt skin.”
“Don’t be such a fucking wet wipe,” Levi snaps, grabbing hold of one of the guy’s arms. As soon as his hand makes contact the skin breaks.
“I’m going to need a fucking wet wipe after all this,” Duchess mutters as she grabs the remains of a curtain from the pillar, ripping it down and handing it to Rome.
“You need shoes on.” Levi nods down at her feet. “There’s glass—”
“There’s more than fucking glass on the floor, Levi. Now get out of my club, I don’t need you guys in here when emergency services appear. Go out the third door on the right, it will take you into the alleyway. Throw the body in the bin until you can dispose of it sensibly.”
“Your boys good to get rid of it?” Levi asks me, and I nod.
I hate being his sodding lackey, he should be doing it himself, but I’m playing the game, and my men have certain skill sets, and this job has the name Fletcher written all over it. What that man can do with chemicals is something terrifying.
Rome works on the body, laying the curtain on the floor and rolling the remains onto it, along with wiping up some of the bloodied water before wrapping it up. He works quickly and methodically. The other boys finish their sweep, standing off to the side, waiting for orders.
“Get out of here, Jackson. Go check that the girls made it back to Jade’s.”
“Will do.” Jackson turns and leaves through the main doors. He returns quickly. “Time’s up.” He jogs to the side of the bar and exits into the ally.
“Let’s go.” I bend and grab the top of the curtain as Rome grabs the bottom.
Levi just stands there staring at Duchess.
“I’ll meet you at yours,” he says to me.
That’s us being excused, and at no point do I remember inviting him back to mine, but fuck it, time’s up.
We can’t afford to be standing here holding an Albanian’s charred remains when the police walk through the front door.