Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Fiero
Eight nights to go.
After a twenty-four-hour long display of gut-crushing tension, the Ring is coming to a close.
Cass hasn’t slept but he still manages to look like a damn Men’s Health cover model with his dark hair falling over one brow and clear green eyes watching the players like a hawk. He beckons me over and leans into my ear, lowering his voice.
“Remo needs to talk to you outside.”
“What about?”
“He wouldn’t say.” He floats an eye over the room. “We’re almost done here anyway. I’ll let you know if anything exciting happens.”
By exciting he means a party of bullets. It has been known to occur at the end of a Ring game, hence the sound-proof walls, though we do try to keep such antics to a minimum. It’s not worth the cost of a deep clean.
Not one pair of eyes follows as I leave again. The pressure is so swollen it could split the room open.
Remo is standing outside, his back leaning up against the wall. His head turns when I close the door, and we walk side-by-side down the corridor.
“The Irish want to meet. Tonight,” he says, matching me stride for stride, until I pause.
“Why?”
He pushes open a door to the back of the club, and we step out into an area not a hundred yards from where I just buried my cock in Pfeiffer. A wave of heat rolls up my body, taking me by surprise.
“They’re being cagey.”
That doesn’t sound comforting. “You talked to them about the Cuban shipment?”
He shrugs. “Yeah. They seemed fine about it. Appeased. Didn’t think we’d hear from them again to be honest.”
We walk out to the parking lot, a soft drizzle coating our skin. “And they haven’t given you any clue about why they want to meet?”
“Nope.”
I unlock my car with the key fob and it lights up in the distance. “Where are they?”
“I’ve been there before. I’ll show you.”
I stop and face him. “No need. I don’t think they pose a threat, and you have shit to deal with in Jersey. I’ll call you after and let you know what’s going on.”
“Okay,” he squints, communicating his reluctance to let me go alone. “You sure?”
“Positive.”
I have a feeling I need to do this on my own.
Remo slides his phone out his jacket and types something out, then my phone pings.
“Just sent you the address.”
“Thanks.”
I turn to walk away but something gives me pause.
“Pfeiffer just arrived. Don’t let her back in the basement.”
Remo shoves his hands into his pockets, his thick hair growing damp in the rain.
“The Ring?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
Because if shit goes down, I won’t be able to protect her.
“It’s crunch time—the game’s coming to an end. Don’t want her wrapping her ears around any secrets.”
Remo winks. “Gotcha.”
I watch him walk back to the club with my chest splitting in two. I hate lying to my brothers, especially with something that threatens our bond.
The end of the month is getting closer—time to let Pfeiffer go. And I have a gnawing feeling in my gut that I won’t be able to.
I pull up to the abandoned church Remo wrote in his text and scan it for lights. It looks as though there’s no one inside, but maybe that’s the point.
I quickly fire off a text to Remo:
Me: You sure this is legit? The church looks derelict
Remo: It’s where the Fagan Brotherhood base themselves
Me: There’s no one here
Remo: Go out back—the maintenance shed…
I lift my gaze to a side alley to the left of the building.
…but mind you don’t trip over the body parts
Me: WTF?
Remo: Yeah. They’re known for cutting up their enemies, right there on the altar
A sour taste forms in my mouth. We, the Bellucci’s, aren’t exactly the most humane family of killers but I’d like to think we draw the line at recreational axe play.
Me: I’m going in
I pocket the phone and climb out of the car, stepping carefully along the alleyway. No body parts in sight, thankfully. A light glows faintly at the back of the church and the sound of voices draws me in that direction.
Built onto the back of the church is a decent-sized shed, debris scattered around it. The door opens before I can brace my fist to knock, and a dark-haired pretty boy wearing brass knuckles and a smirk appears.
“Il Diavolo,” he grins. “Come on in.”
I look around as I enter, scanning for threats and hidden exits, but the sight stuns me. The walls, though small, are lined with every size and kind of knife I could imagine.
Not decorative or ornamental ones either. They’re obviously functional.
And lethal.
There are thick-handled hunting knives, curved skinning blades that look like they’d peel more than flesh if needed. A row of compact switchblades, built for quick work in close quarters, and heavy, square-edged cleavers hang lower down.
Further along are serrated combat knives, narrow fillet knives and even a battered old butcher’s knife, its blade nicked and stained.
My gaze cuts across them all. There’s more than a collection here—it’s someone’s legacy. And it’s a harsh reminder that, in this world, violence isn’t just a means to an end. It’s a craft.
Two more men stand at the edge of the room waiting patiently for me to complete my inventory.
“Interesting décor you have here.”
“Tanks.” One of the men steps forward and extends a hand. I take it and receive the firm shake.
“Pádraig Fagan,” he says, warmly. “Paddy for short.” He nods to the man on his left. “This is my eldest boy, Brody, and that one there, ‘tis my youngest, Lorcan.”
I nod to each of the sons.
“Thanks for inviting me. Is this about the truce?”
Paddy’s eyes widen a touch. “No, lad. We’re happy with that. Appreciate it an’ all.”
My brows knit. “So, you wanted to see me about something else?”
“Aye. I understand we have Callum McAllister in common.”
My spine stiffens at the name. What has the imbecile done now?
“Well, my friend,” Paddy continues. “It seems he’s trying to get us to blackmail ye. Thought ye might want to see the evidence he got.”
Paddy gestures to a high, narrow table with a wooden stool by it—both of them splattered with dried flecks of blood. I take a seat and wait as he disappears through a door, returning with a manila envelope. He hands it to me and I peer inside.
The contents look safe enough, so I tip them out onto the wooden table. Straight away I can see they’re photographs of a naked woman posing in a variety of provocative positions.
Before I can question them, the same door bangs open and the two sons haul into the room a short skinny man with pale reddish hair. There’s a cocky expression on his face despite the fact two large Irishmen have him contained by both arms.
This must be Callum McAllister, the little shit who stole from me and stood back while I took his niece as payment.
I don’t grace his presence with a word. Instead, I flick through the photos, confused as to what they mean and what they have to do with me.
“Go on then, McAllister,” Paddy jeers. “Tell him what they are—the photographs.”
“I will if these two punks let go of me,” he replies with a sinister lilt.
I lift my gaze slowly, already unimpressed by whatever it is he has to say for himself.
“Just spit it the fuck out,” I drawl. “I don’t have all night.”
Sitting in a butcher’s shop surrounded by every kind of blade is making me feel a little green to be honest, and as someone who grew up a killer, that’s saying something.
The two sons release him and he shakes out his arms, as if to make himself appear taller than his five foot six meagre height.
“That’s your woman there,” Callum says, nodding to the photographs. “That’s Pfeiffer.”
I drag my gaze back to the pictures and look a little closer.
The photographs are slightly dated—they must have been taken over a decade ago—and the woman’s head has been cut off in all of them, but her long hair is splayed across her body.
It’s visible in the shot of her on her belly, on her back, on her side.
The same strawberry blonde strands I had wrapped around my fist only hours ago.
One of the photos shows an arm thrown out to the side. I peer at it closely, my heart stopping at the familiar sight. There’s a small tattoo of a swallow on the inside wrist of her right arm. The exact same tattoo Pfeiffer has.
It is her. Fully naked. And posing like a—
I don’t want to say it. I don’t want to think it.
“Where did you get these photographs?” My voice sounds distant and hollow.
“They were in one of her father’s drawers.”
My gaze lifts to him like a laser gun. “Her father’s drawers?”
Callum shrugs like that’s nothing. “She will have put them there. He’s losing his marbles. Doesn’t know what day it is half the time, or decade for that matter. That’s why she came home, you know. He has dementia.”
I feel a bolt of anger crack inside my chest. That’s why she came back? Why she gave up her job? To care for her father?
He shakes his head but there’s nothing about his tone that convinces me he gives a shit.
“She’s obviously a sex worker,” he continues, nodding toward the incriminating photographs.
“No idea why. She trained in a perfectly respectable profession and could get a job at any New York hospital. But for some reason, she chose that.” He shrugs.
“She always was a little slut, mind. I thought it best you knew. Don’t want a scandal like that rocking your… business, right?”
A small but highly flammable ball is forming in the pit of my stomach, drawing in heat like oxygen to a flame.
“Pfeiffer is not a sex worker.” My voice sounds like it’s languishing in the bowels of hell.
“Not now, maybe, but—”
“Shut the FUCK up while I’m speaking.”
The ball is growing bigger, filling out my stomach, leaching into my chest, filling me with red, raging lava.
“Pfeiffer is not and never has been a sex worker,” I grit out low and slow. “You wanna know how I know this?”
Callum takes a small step back and I realize I’ve risen from my stool, taken three slow strides toward him and am now bearing down over his measly, pathetic frame.
“Because I’ve had eyes on her the last fifteen years and up until two nights ago, she was a virgin.”