Chapter 2
MATEI
The bass throbs through the walls as we descend the back stairs, a relentless pulse that reminds me of the underground clubs of my youth back in Bucharest.
Behind me, my men follow, our weapons already concealed beneath our jackets.
The air shifts as we reach the lower level. Up in the VIP section, it was gunpowder and expensive cocktails. Down here, it's sweat and cheap body spray, fighting with the sweetness of fruity drinks and the musk of too many bodies packed into too small a space.
The music pounds louder. The beat vibrates through my chest. These people below us dance and drink and fuck in dark corners, completely oblivious to the fact that seven men just died one floor above them.
I check my cuffs, smoothing the fabric where a single drop of blood has landed on the white cotton. I'll need to toss it, no sense trying to get it out.
I roll my shoulders, straightening my jacket.
There's no tremor in my hands. No racing pulse. No adrenaline crash that lesser men experience after violence.
I've been doing this far too long, and this is just business.
Though I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy it.
The weight of the gun in my hand, the split second before I pull the trigger when time seems to suspend itself, the way a body crumples when you've placed the shot exactly where you intended.
There's an art to it that satisfies something fundamental in my nature.
Some men get off on power. Others on money or sex or drugs.
I get off on control. On the moment when I decide whether someone continues breathing or not.
That feeling is better than anything.
We're almost to the exit door when one of my men stops me, his hand shooting out to catch my arm.
I halt, and everyone stops.
"?ef." His voice is low. "Am g?sit asta pe ca?iva dintre ei."
I turn as he pulls something from his pocket, holding it up to the dim emergency lighting. A small glass vial filled with liquid that shouldn't glow but does. It's faintly blue, almost luminescent, catching the light in a way that makes it almost confusing.
I take it from him, holding it up, rotating it between my fingers. The liquid moves slowly, viscous, clinging to the sides of the glass. It looks synthetic, and that means it's dangerous.
"Trebuie s? afl?m ce este asta," I say, still studying the vial. "And where it came from. Da?"
The man who handed it to me nods, and I pocket the vial and continue toward the exit.
The door opens, and cool Los Angeles night air hits my face, a relief after the heat of the club.
Three black SUVs idle along the curb, engines running. Between them sits my Rolls-Royce Phantom. The driver stands beside it, phone in hand, straightening when he sees us emerge.
My men disperse to the SUVs without needing direction, and my driver opens my door. I slide into the back seat. The door closes with a solid thud that seals out the world.
I pull out my phone, scrolling through contacts until I find the number I need. Three rings.
"Da?"
"S-a terminat. Trimite echipa," I say, keeping my voice level.
"Cand?"
"Acum. Asigur?-te c? Taylor nu vorbe?te."
A pause on the other end, then acknowledgment.
The cleanup crew will be there within twenty minutes.
They'll sanitize the VIP section, remove the bodies, eliminate any forensic evidence.
By morning, the club will be ready to open as usual, and no one will know anything except that there might have been some kind of incident that management has already handled.
Taylor will keep his mouth shut because he knows what happens to people who don't. The cash we gave him is insurance, but the words my men told him are the real guarantee.
I end the call and lean back against the seat.
The girls we left behind will run. They're probably already gone, scrambling out side exits with shaking hands, makeup streaked with tears and other people's blood. They'll go home, shower frantically, maybe call each other in the middle of the night to confirm what they saw was real.
But they won't talk. Not to police. Not to anyone who matters.
Fear is an excellent motivator for silence.
Their world operates in the understanding that survival means forgetting, means keeping your head down and never becoming a liability to people more powerful than you.
They'll convince themselves it was a nightmare, that it didn't concern them, that they never really saw anything clearly in the chaos.
Self-preservation is predictable no matter where you are in the world.
The car pulls away from the curb, merging into late-night LA traffic. I stare at the partition that stays up between me and my driver.
I pull the blue vial from my pocket again, holding it up to examine it in the passing streetlights. The liquid shifts with that unnatural glow. What the fuck were the Bulgarians doing with this?
They're not chemists. They're mid-level distribution networks at best, too greedy to run anything sophisticated.
I turn the vial over and over in my hand.
What I know for sure is the Bulgarians have been expanding into LA for the past six months, aggressive and sloppy, stepping on toes, making noise. They've been funding their operation somehow, spending money they shouldn't have, buying loyalty they couldn't afford. Maybe this could be why.
I slip the vial back into my pocket and pull out the ID card instead.
California Driver's License.
I look at the photo of her in front of a blue screen. Her smile looks genuine. The dark hair flowing down the sides of her face, framing it well. Her eye color is listed as brown, but they looked lighter to me.
It says she's twenty-five and that she's five foot eight. I believe it.
I run my thumb over her name.
Jordan Robertson.
It sounds so American.
I study the photo, replaying the moment in the VIP section. She had been different from the other girls. They had all been performing, touching, giggling, playing their roles. But she seemed uncomfortable, out of place, like she was going through the motions rather than living them.
Too pretty to be doing that shit.
The other girls put everything they had on display, clinging to a kind of beauty that's all surface and performance, designed to attract and distract.
Jordan's beauty was quieter, real, because there's something behind the eyes.
I'd noticed her immediately when we arrived. Noticed the tension in her shoulders, the way she poured drinks mechanically rather than with flirtation.
She didn't belong there.
Doesn't belong there.
Which makes me wonder what brought her to a place like that. What circumstances force someone with her face to serve drinks to men like the Bulgarians, to smile and pretend and tolerate hands on her body for tips.
Debt? Drugs? Bad choices compounding into worse ones?
Or maybe she's exactly like every other girl in LA, chasing something that doesn't exist, burning through opportunities until this is all that's left.
I tap her license against my thigh.
We let all the girls live, so why should I care about her? She won't talk, just like the others. But what if she does?
It's possible. I don't make mistakes often, but when I do, they're calculated. Letting her walk away after approaching her, touching her, that's a risk.
Risks require management.
Management requires proximity.
No.
I dismiss the thought. I let her live because I don't like killing women. It's not a moral stance. Morality is a luxury I can't afford, but a practical one. Killing women creates different problems than killing men. More emotion, more unpredictability.
Men die in LA every night and no one blinks.
Women die, and suddenly everyone cares.
Besides, she was terrified. I saw it in her eyes when I crouched beside her, felt it in the tremor of her wrist when I held it. That kind of fear doesn't inspire courage. It inspires compliance.
She'll stay quiet because she's smart enough to know that survival means forgetting.
But the tattoo.
I close my eyes, remembering the moment I turn her wrist over and see it.
Fluture.
I'd said it without thinking, the word pulling itself from somewhere instinctive.
Butterflies are fragile. They're also beautiful and temporary. They live for weeks, maybe months if they're lucky, and then they're gone.
She's naive to have it.
Pretty, though.
I pull out my phone, opening the camera. I position the ID in the light from the window, making sure every detail is visible: her name, address, date of birth, the photo.
I take the picture, and the image appears on my screen, crisp and clear.
I open my encrypted messaging app, attaching the photo. My fingers move across the screen as I type.
Afl? tot despre ea.
I hit send.
The men on our tech side will receive this message and begin compiling information.
Within twenty-four hours, I'll have complete background intel about her: employment history, financial records, social connections, criminal background if any exists, medical records if I want them.
Every digital footprint she's ever left will be catalogued and analyzed.
Every secret she thinks she's kept will be exposed.
Knowledge is control, and I will control this situation before it controls me.
I slide the ID into my breast pocket as the car turns onto the street that leads toward the mansion.
I look out the window at the twinkle of the lights below. She's out there somewhere, probably still shaking, still seeing bodies when she closes her eyes, still feeling my thumb on her cheek.
She thinks this is over.
She thinks she can go home, wash off the night, and pretend it never happened.
She's wrong.
This is just beginning.
I pull out the blue vial one more time, holding it up to watch the liquid glow in the darkness.
It's the same distinct blue I saw in her purse.
When I rifled through her bag for the ID, I pushed aside lipstick and keys, but I also pushed aside three of these vials.
Why did Jordan Robertson have a stash of this shit?
Is she a user? A dealer? Or is she working for the Bulgarians?
She looked innocent. She looked terrified. But innocent girls don't carry drugs to work.
Now I have two mysteries to figure out.
What the hell this is, and who the girl with the butterfly tattoo really is.
She isn't just a loose end anymore. She's a lead. A potential mule for my enemies.
I'll solve both and get what I want.
I always do.