3
Cade
Enigma is a cesspit of desperation masked by cheap cologne and neon lights.
From my shadowy booth, I catalog every face, my fingers absently tracing the rim of my untouched scotch.
Tonight’s hit is Hector Lobo, a trafficker, and human garbage in designer clothes. He’s late, but patience is a weapon I’ve honed to perfection.
My gaze drifts to the willowy blonde plastered to Scar’s side in the corner booth. Katarina is my “merchandise” for the night—a former CIA spy who now works for me.
Kat’s talents shine tonight as she plays the ignorant girlfriend about to be trafficked, making out with Scar, her “evil boyfriend” and supposed facilitator for tonight’s sale.
The stage is set. All we need is Hector, our esteemed middleman for the flesh trade across Chicago and the Midwest.
Across the room, Hector’s sidekick, Delilah Sinclair, lounges in a booth, a vision in red. A maneater and flesh peddler, Delilah always has her ear to the ground to sniff out new prey.
She hasn’t made it on my list yet. Maybe in a few years, when I have no trace of humanity left, she and other women like her, will make the cut.
Movement catches my eye, and there he is: Hector. Sauntering through the doors like he owns the place. Young, broad-shouldered, thick around the waist, with greasy black slicked-back hair. Like me, he comes from darkness, but we’ve carved different ways out of it.
Hector’s father was one of my first kills. I was fifteen, and the old bastard hadn’t even recognized me as the kid who escaped his trafficking ring two years before.
And now, little Hector has decided to follow in Daddy’s footsteps. And I—well, I’m here to see that he pays for that choice.
Hector slides into the seat across me with a shit-eating grin.
He’s excited. That’s new.
“You’re early, Rocky,” he says.
I only nod toward Kat and Scar who are still making out like they’re auditioning for a porno in the corner.
Hector scratches his jaw, eyes gleaming. “Blonde. Big tits,” he leers, licking his lips. “Even hotter than advertised.”
I shrug. “I see no point in boasting. Let the product speak for itself.”
Hector chuckles and then checks his watch. “That’s where you’re wrong, Rocky. Ain’t a lot of honest people in this business. They promise you a fresh-looking piece of ass, and you get a toothless hag.”
His bouncing enthusiasm grates on me. Usually, I make people nervous—it’s in their fidgeting hands, their averted gazes. But tonight, Hector’s like a kid on Christmas morning.
“Are we still on for ten at the docks?” The thought of our later meeting—under very different circumstances—almost brings a smile to my face.
Hector’s smirk vanishes. “Nah. ‘Fraid I can’t take your merch personally. Got another big one coming in tonight.”
Disappointment coils in my gut like a cold fist. “So who’s taking my delivery?”
“My man, Eduardo,” Hector says, nodding toward the dark-haired guy sitting with Delilah. “He’ll deliver the cash and take your merch. Trust me, he knows what he’s doing.”
My jaw clenches. Well, that throws a fucking wrench in the works. I’d hoped to keep the body count low tonight. Eduardo looks barely old enough to grow a beard, and I’m supposed to kill this kid?
Hector’s phone rings. He holds up a finger to me then turns away to take the call while I strain to catch the conversation.
“Yeah,” Hector says. “It’s all ready. Calm down, Mr. Brando, your princess is in expert hands, okay?”
My brain snags on the name like a hook. As in Clemenza Brando? Alfred Romano’s right-hand man?
Hector continues, “Didn’t Ricardo tell you about me? I’ve been working with him for a while now. Yes, I know this is different. If anyone can deliver, it’s me. Now, just go to sleep and let me handle the rest.”
Hector hangs up with a disgusted sigh. “Amateurs. Have to reassure them all the time.”
I arch an eyebrow, maintaining my silence while my mind races. If he means Clemenza Brando, something’s very wrong. The Romano family is dying because of their trafficking ventures. They’re supposed to be pulling themselves out of that mess, not digging deeper.
“Who’s the new client?” I ask casually, not expecting much.
Hector settles back, satisfaction oozing from his grin. “Some hotshot Romano soldier. They’re the worst—come in like they own the business, but you end up leading them by the fucking nose.”
“I see. And where’s the merch?”
“On her way,” Hector preens. “Alone.”
I frown. “Alone?”
Usually, they’re lured in by boyfriends. I glance at my own team, still maintaining their cover. I suppress a smile at Scar and Kat’s antics, wondering when they decided to drop the act and admit they’d like to bone each other.
“This one’s very special,” Hector’s grin stretches wider. “Delilah reeled her in. And the girl can’t wait to jump into the net.”
Something cold settles in my gut. Another woman, desperate for escape, groomed by Delilah no doubt. “Where’s the merch bound for? Havana?”
Hector leans forward, eyes gleaming. “Nah. I told you, Rocky, this one’s special. She’s bound for Al-Dawahi.”
The name hits me like a punch. Al-Dawahi—a luxury desert enclave where the richest indulge their darkest desires. The trafficker’s El Dorado. I’ve dismissed it as a fantasy for years.
I school my expression, keeping my voice level. “Surely, that’s just a myth.”
Hector’s grin widens. “And if I told you it’s not?”
I take a measured sip of scotch. The burn of alcohol does nothing to quell the acid churning in my gut. “I’d say you’ve been sampling too much of your own product.”
He chuckles, savoring my skepticism. “Twelfth sale this year alone. Going rate? Thirty large.”
I let out a low whistle. “Someone’s being ripped off. Thirty million for a piece of ass? Come on, Hector.”
“Not just any piece of ass.” Hector’s voice drops as if sharing the world’s best-kept secret. “For anywhere else, a few hundred grand, tops. But Al-Dawahi . . .” He trails off, licking his lips like a wolf spotting prey. “Money’s no object over there.”
I flash an avaricious look and flick my wrist. “Cut a fucker in, will you?”
Hector’s belly laugh echoes across the table. He’s so goddamn eager to show off, he has no idea he’s signing several death warrants with every word.
“I’m telling you, Rocky, Al-Dawahi is the future,” he boasts. “They don’t play by any rules. And the merch? Top-tier. Royals, celebrities, daughters of politicians. You wouldn’t believe the kind of girls they bring in.”
I offer an appreciative nod, though I’m seconds away from snapping his neck just to silence him.
Then Hector pauses, his gaze shifting over my shoulder. “And there she is.”
I follow his line of sight, and for a moment, I think the club lighting is playing tricks on me. But no—it’s Alfred Romano’s daughter.
The woman whose stats I know like the back of my hand.
My mind races to make sense of her presence in this shithole. And then I realize she’s the merchandise. Clemenza is selling his boss’s daughter.
Rage bubbles under my skin—the old, familiar heat that ignites whenever I see an innocent woman walk into a trap. But this is different. This is personal. This isn’t some nameless, faceless victim.
It’s her.
Hector, oblivious to the storm building inside me, announces. “Told you, Rocky. This one is special.”