Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
ALESSIO
There’s lingering humidity tonight, even though the sun went down hours ago, and it’s amplifying the stench of garbage and piss on this side of the city. I’m a world away from penthouses and buildings with doormen, even if it was only a short walk.
Instead of my usual tailored suit and expensive Italian loafers, I have on a pair of worn sneakers and old sweats.
I almost considered putting on a hoodie so I could pull it up to hide my face if I needed to, but wearing a hoodie when it’s eighty degrees with two hundred percent humidity felt like it would draw more attention than the possibility of anyone catching a glimpse of my face on the dark street.
And tonight my main goal is to go unnoticed. It’s a recon mission, nothing more.
I can’t help but wonder as I stride down the shadowy sidewalk, most of the streetlights on this block burned out and never replaced, if my intruder lives nearby.
There are dozens of buildings that would fit the bill for someone who makes their entire living robbing penthouses in Wildcliff, and part of me is tempted to abandon my current mission and start knocking on doors.
That would be a whole new level of desperation I’m not sure I’m ready for though. Not tonight, anyway.
The rumble of motorcycle engines cuts through the ambient city noise, letting me know I’m on the right block, if I hadn’t already been sure.
I stop and peek down the alley, looking for a fire escape to climb, but there isn’t one.
Is that even legal? Not that I’m an expert on building codes or anything.
Come to think of it, I think I remember Salvatore saying something about a couple of guys in the mayor’s office being more than willing to rubber stamp anything as long as you slide a nice wad of cash across the desk with your request.
I tilt my head back and look up towards the roof of the building. I could try a different one, but I’m almost positive this one will have the best vantage point. The question is, how do I get up to the roof?
A man steps out with a little stagger in his gait and a bleary look in his eyes. Whether he’s drunk or overtired, I really couldn’t say, and it doesn’t matter much to me either way.
“Hey, excuse me.”
He frowns and takes a step back, looking me up and down suspiciously.
“I don’t have any money,” he says gruffly.
“No, uh, that wasn’t what I was going to ask.
” I chuckle and rub the back of my neck, doing my best to seem flustered and a little embarrassed.
“I matched with this woman on Cupid, and she wanted me to meet her up on the roof of this building. Now I’m not sure if she was fucking with me or if there’s actually a way up. ”
He glares at me for another few seconds and then tilts his head towards the main door.
“Stairs lead up to the roof,” he grumbles, then he stumbles away.
“Great,” I mutter under my breath. It looks like it’s at least ten stories.
There’s no lock or buzzer system on the main door, at least. The stairway inside smells even worse than the city outside, like the people who live here can’t be bothered to piss or vomit in their own bathrooms and choose to use the stairwell instead.
I pull my shirt up over my nose and power my way up the steps until I reach the door at the very top and push it open.
I let my shirt fall back down as I drag in a breath of relatively fresh air.
The glow of the city lights is brighter from up here than it was down on the streets, and the rumble of laughter and motorcycle engines echoes from the far side of the building.
A shadow in the corner of my eye makes me freeze. There’s no way I just happened to pick a random rooftop and stumbled on The Ghost. My luck isn’t that good.
“Alessio?” A familiar, deep voice cuts through the night quietly.
I squint as he steps out of the darkness. “Xav?”
He grunts in acknowledgment and I take him in, dressed all in black with a pistol holstered to his chest in plain sight and a pair of binoculars in his hand. Damn, why didn’t I think of that?
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
I huff out a laugh. “Same thing you are, I would assume.”
I turn and make my way over to the ledge on the far side of the roof to look across the street at what I came to see.
Between a couple of much taller buildings is the Sleepless Reapers’ clubhouse.
There was a large manufacturing plant there at one point, but it was demolished more than a decade ago.
Once the lot was empty, the Reapers moved in.
Whether they actually bought the land or just started squatting there and no one ever ousted them, I don’t have the first clue.
They’ve built a structure themselves where they throw their parties, and at least half of them live there.
It doesn’t look like there’s a party going on tonight, just their usual revelry of drugs and engine revving.
“Thought we were supposed to be working on this one together.” I try to keep any accusation out of my tone, but the hairs on the back of my neck are already up. Why did Xav decide to come out here without me? What was his plan if he happened to spot The Ghost lurking around the clubhouse?
“Just doing some recon.” He shrugs, raising the binoculars to peer across the street. “I must’ve missed the text from you telling me to meet you up here.”
“Just doing some recon,” I echo with just a hint of sarcasm.
He makes an amused noise in his throat that might as well be a hysterical outburst for the stoic triggerman.
“You should be careful.”
“How’s that?” I straighten up, feeling a little defensive. I’ve known Xaviaro as long as I’ve known Lorenzo and Elio, and I’ve never felt threatened by him, but I don’t know how else to take a comment like that.
“You’re bordering on obsession, and there’s a good chance this Ghost isn’t going to live to see old age.”
I scoff. “That’s fucking rich coming from you.
Last I checked, you go home at night and curl up next to a vigilante psychopath.
It’s okay for you but not for me? Besides, I’m not obsessed.
I think anyone who has the balls to take out the Reapers one by one like this must be an interesting guy, that’s all.
And I doubt Sparrow would be doling out any of those ‘good boys’ you lap up if he knew you were planning to end The Ghost’s vigilante career. ”
“I didn’t say I was planning to end anything. I told you I’m here on recon. He’s playing with fire though. You and I both know that.”
I bristle and grind my teeth together, shoving my hands into my pockets.
Xaviaro quietly watches the clubhouse through his binoculars, and I try not to feel like an unprepared, defensive idiot.
I know that The Ghost could end up dead at the hands of the Reapers, and I still can’t figure out why I care.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out.
There’s a notification from the forum I follow.
I’m about to clear it when I realize it’s a message, not just a reply to a comment or an alert about a new post. I glance at Xaviaro, who’s still focused on his surveillance, and click to open the message.
ALREADY_DEAD: Hey, I saw your comment about The Ghost being a low-key hero and that you’d buy him a drink if you ever met him…
LES_IS_MORE: Yeah…
ALREADY_DEAD: Not sure if the rumors are true, but I heard he likes to hang out at Wonderland.
LES_IS_MORE: Who did you hear that from?
The user logs off without responding. It could be a troll or even someone hoping to lure an unsuspecting person to Wonderland for one nefarious reason or another.
But I have to admit, my interest is piqued.
And it’s not like I’m any use here, squinting into the darkness, hoping The Ghost will walk across the street towards the clubhouse wearing a flashing neon sign.
I shove my phone back into my pocket.
“It looks like you have this handled,” I say, and Xaviaro grunts again, the binoculars still glued to his face as I turn and head back towards the stairwell.
Wonderland is only a few blocks away. It couldn’t hurt to swing by for a drink.
GHOST
I can never decide whether I love Wonderland or hate it. It has a dreamlike feel, like a horny hallucination brought to life. The colored lights and the raw uninhibitedness of everyone inside keeps me on edge while giving me the strange comfort of feeling lost in a crowd of sinners just like me.
Scrolling through posts and comments until I found the avatar that matched the one I saw on his screen last night was the hardest part, but I have no doubt he’s going to take the bait now that I’ve dangled it in front of him. The only thing I’m unsure of is how long it will take him to get here.
I don’t want to look like I’m waiting for him, so I do my best to focus on the ginger ale in front of me, even though every press of a body against my back not only triggers my heart to race, it reminds me how easy it would be to miss him in this crowd.
The bartender sidles past, wearing a crooked top hat with bills peeking out from under the rim.
“You good?” he checks, glancing at my nearly full glass.
“Yup.” I wave him off and do a quick glance over my shoulder.
“Waiting for someone?” he asks. Seriously, doesn’t he have people waiting who actually want something from him?
“Nope,” I lie, picking up my drink and swirling it, just for something to do with all the impatient energy starting to build inside me.
“We’re all waiting for something, even if we don’t know it.”
I turn back to him with a frown. “What?”
“Just saying.” He grins and shrugs. “Holler if you need anything.”
Maybe I do actually hate this place. Being weird as hell definitely seems to be a requirement to work here, and while I don’t generally have anything against freaks and weirdos, I draw the line at people who speak in riddles.
He wanders away and I swivel in my seat just enough to make it look like I’m watching the eerie, strobing lights hit the dance floor and the go-go dancers in the elevated cages, while I keep an eye on the people coming from the direction of the main entrance.
Luring him here might have been impulsive.
I still haven’t worked out a specific plan other than the orchestrated run-in.
I’m sure I’ll figure it out though. I can’t remember who I used to be, but I have a feeling that impulsiveness has always been my fatal flaw.
Hell, you don’t end up hooked on meth, living with a motorcycle club if you think through your life choices, right?
A little bit of heat curls in my stomach that has nothing to do with the people writhing half-naked in cages or the general pulse of lust that permeates the air.
I run one hand absently along my leather pants and lift my drink to take a sip.
I’m tempted to log back into the app to see if he responded, but I fight the urge, remembering the needy look in his eyes and the little whimper that fell from his lips when I shoved my glove down the front of his briefs.
He’ll come. I know he will. I just have to be patient.