Chapter 5 Brooks
Brooks
Of course the club is on Canal Street. And of course it’s big and glitzy and freshly painted, like it’s new construction rather than something that’s been here for years, standing up in the face of time and watching as parades of people walked through history on the sidewalk in front of it.
The last place I experienced on Canal Street was exactly the same. Bright new paint slapped on a building that should have brought joy and dancing, and was instead being used for the worst sort of trade known to man.
I blow quietly through my nose, trying to control the emotions that come rolling back with that memory, and then step out of the car into the afternoon sunshine. I do my best to look at the building with nothing more than casual interest, but I already know I’m probably failing.
That damn glass face again.
When I feel my father gazing at me, I fight to make my face as blank as possible, take another second to be sure I’ve succeeded, and then turn to him with one eyebrow lifted and my lips pressed together.
“What?”
The twitch of his mouth tells me that he doesn’t like my tone, but he can fuck right off over that.
He kidnapped me, did something with my best ally–maybe–and has forced me into some sort of leadership position in his family.
Now he’s brought me on a field trip to a night club on Canal Street without telling me what we’re actually doing here.
Honestly, he’s lucky I haven’t stabbed him yet.
I lift my eyebrows, indicating that it’s his turn to use words, and then wait until he finally gives in.
“La Petite Mort,” he says, gesturing grandly to the building. “Little Death.”
I nearly snort. Of course it’s called Little Death. La Petite Mort, the French euphemism for orgasm, has run rampant through the city since its inception, as far as I know, and if I had a dollar for every place carrying that name I’d probably be rich enough to buy everything my father owns.
And if I did, I’d turn around and sell it all to the man he hated the most, just to watch my father’s face when I did it.
“Original,” I mutter, letting my eyes run over the place again.
God, it’s horrible. Painted black with dark purple trim, the place screams gothic luxury, all balustrades and columns and second-floor porches. All the fixtures are gold, all the floors some sort of very dark wood, and everything about it gives me the creeps.
Or maybe that’s the fact that ‘little death’ can mean something a lot more literal than just an orgasm, under the circumstances.
Sure, it might refer to the fact that girls are being sold to men who’ll use them for orgasm after orgasm.
Or it might refer to those same girls being killed in the process, and no one caring enough about their deaths to make them any more more than a small inconvenience.
“I thought it was fitting,” my father says, his voice suddenly too close to my ear, his breath brushing along my skin like he fucking owns it.
I nearly turn and bury my fist in his face, my instincts jumping at his proximity, but stop myself before I can. I’m supposed to be on his side, I remind myself. Or at least not his enemy. Right now, I’m playing a game that requires me to at least pretend to be nice.
Until I figure out how to take him down.
Until I know enough to destroy him.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t poke at him, at least a little bit.
“You did?” I ask, sliding my gaze sideways to watch his face. “Or was it the men who actually run this ring?”
I catch the flicker of hatred as it rushes across this face, the sneer of distaste on his lips, and allow myself one quick grin.
There it is; the evidence that I’m right about that.
My father is trying to play big man on campus here, like he’s the one running the show, but the truth is rather different.
He’s never had enough power or money to pull something like this off, which means he must be working for someone who does–and that quick flash of disquiet on his face was all the proof I needed to know that for the truth.
He’s working for someone else.
And he hates it.
More importantly, that means I have two targets: my father, who I want to destroy, and whoever is actually running the ring.
My father grabs my upper arm, squeezing so hard he’s going to leave a bruise, and starts dragging me up the front walkway without answering.
More proof that I’ve made him angry.
Good.
He might think I’m going to play nice, but he’s got another thing coming. I’m cooperating for now, because I don’t know where Lucien is, and Dom has information I need. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to make it easy on him.
And he’s an idiot if he thought I would.
* * *
The moment we walk through the front doors of the club, I become even more certain about someone else running the ring. Because this place looked wrong from the outside, with its bright, shiny golden fixtures, but it looks even stranger in here.
The layout is standard for a night club: bar along one wall, big and spacious, and sitting area along enough, with booths and tables where people can rest in between dances–or when they’re doing deals.
A stage sits along the front wall, complete with a walkway and poles for dancing, and in the middle of it all is the dance floor itself.
I’ve seen all of that before. Been in enough nightclubs to know their layout by heart.
Hell, even in New York, where real estate is at a premium and the clubs are half the size of this one, the basic construction stays the same.
No, the thing that’s different is the decor.
In New York, most clubs are shiny and modern–unless they’ve bot a specific vibe they’re going for.
Retro. Speak Easy. Western. European. In New Orleans, though, every place tends to have the same flavor.
The culture down here has soaked into everything so deeply that even when a club owner wants their club to look different, it ends up looking like the rest of the city.
Shabby chic. Gothic, dark, nearly vampiric glamour.
Deep reds, greens, and purples highlighted by aged bronze and cloudy nickel.
Ancient stone that sports angels, demons, and everything in between. Magnolias and ivy, beads and lace.
New Orleans speaks its own language, and imposes its own imprint on everything within city limits. And I would know it anywhere. I could got to sleep in Los Angeles and wake up in a club in New Orleans, take one look around, and know immediately where I was.
I wouldn’t even question the fact that I’d just been transported across the nation. Because that would feel like New Orleans, too.
But this club? All this gold and marble, the strange lavender touches and those disgusting streaks of too-bright purple?
This isn’t New Orleans.
The furniture in here is too new, the paint too fresh. The marble too shiny, everything too well-lit.
And don’t even get me started on the fucking golden fixtures.
This...
No one who actually lives in this city would ever design anything like this.
Hell, I don’t even know many Americans who would design something like this.
The place reeks of new money and bad taste, the kind that comes with the scene of cheap European cologne and men who wear too much of it.
I saw a lot of different cultures when I was in New York, and each of them brought a different feel with them.
Italians like old leather and deep red upholstery.
The Irish like anything loud and chaotic, and always smell of whiskey and bad decisions.
The Armenians, the Mexican cartels, the Chinese.
.. Each has a different feel, a different look.
As does the Russian mob. The Bratva.
The Russians really, really like their gold fixtures.
This takes that to a whole new level, though, which makes me think that if these are Russians–and they must be–they’re not the Bratva. Because they have even less class. They have money, and no taste.
And if I’m right, and these are Russians, it’s going to make everything a whole lot more complicated.
I’m jerked to the side moments after I have that thought, and stumble on the ridiculous heels I pulled out of my closet.
I look down, trying to get my feet back under me, and then scowl at whoever just grabbed me.
Andre is striding along in front of me, one hand reached back and attached to my arm, and I lengthen my strides, then jerk my arm out of his grip.
“Touch me again and you’re going to lose your fingers,” I snarl.
He tosses one dark look back over his shoulder. “Keep your mouth shut, bitch, or you’re going to lose that tongue.”
I stick the tongue in question out at him, just to piss him off, and then give him a cold, hard grin. “Try it, Andre, and you’ll be missing far more important pieces of your anatomy. You seem to be forgetting who I am.”
His eyes flick from my gaze down to my grin and back up, and suddenly turn opaque, like he’s trying to hide something. Or like he’s just remembered that I’m my father’s daughter, and that he hasn’t seen me in some time.
The butterfly knife I’m now twirling in my hand might also have something to do with it.
“Where are we going?” I ask, changing the subject.
He looks like he wants to kill me, but is smart enough not to say so, and instead looks out over the dance floor.
I turn my eyes that way, too, and see that people are starting to filter in now.
At least ten men have arrived, all of them in tight black jeans and t-shirts, along with boots, and the dance floor, so open when we arrived, is growing crowded.
Because each man has brought along a string of girls.
And I recognize the expressions on their faces. Fear. Anguish. Confusion and betrayal and absolute, horrified realization as they look around them.
I don’t know any of the faces, not at first glance, but I know those expressions, because I spent several days inside the trafficking ring with girls who looked exactly like that.