30. Saverio
30
SAVERIO
T he Destroyers’ clubhouse is exactly what I expect—dark, grimy, and reeking of oil, sweat, and bad decisions. The dull roar of motorcycles echoes across the empty field outside as I step through the door, my boots crunching on broken glass and cigarette butts. Faded posters of scantily clad women and vintage motorcycles adorn the walls, barely visible in the dim light cast by neon beer signs. I’m met with the low murmur of conversations dying as I enter, replaced by the clinking of beer bottles and the scratching of pool cues. Eyes follow me, sizing me up, but I’m not here to be intimidated.
Raffaele walks in behind me like a quiet shadow, his footsteps barely audible over the ambient noise. His presence is a subtle reminder that I’m not alone in this. I might be here on a personal mission, but Raffaele is the Family muscle, ready to intervene if things go south. His eyes scan the room methodically, taking in every detail and potential threat. He’s supposed to be guarding Lucia, but I needed him here for this. Besides, I trust him to juggle both tasks without dropping the ball.
“Everything good?” I ask Raffaele under my breath, keeping my eyes forward.
Raffaele shrugs, his expression unreadable. “Could be better, could be worse,” he replies noncommittally.
I don’t press him for more details. If there were an immediate problem, he’d tell me. Right now, our focus is on the man in front of us.
Raiden Drake is at the back, leaning against the bar like he owns the place—which, in a way, he does. He’s got that look about him, the kind that says he’s seen too much and come out on the other side meaner for it. His presence dominates the room, a silent threat to anyone who might consider crossing him. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth when he spots me, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Those stay cold and calculating, daring me to do something he’ll make me regret. His fingers tap an idle rhythm on the bar top, a deceptively casual gesture. It’s clear he’s not just another thug in the Destroyers motorcycle gang—this is a man who’s clawed his way to the top and has no intention of giving up his throne.
“Saverio,” Raiden greets me as I approach, his voice gravelly and rough around the edges. His eyes, hard as flint, never leave mine as I close the distance between us. “Didn’t think I’d see you around these parts—especially not in the clubhouse. What brings you to our humble abode?”
“Business,” I say flatly, cutting through the pleasantries. I’m not here for small talk.
Raiden raises an eyebrow, amused by my directness. “Business, huh? Well, then, let’s get to it.” He gestures toward a booth in the corner sectioned off from the prying eyes of his men.
We slide into the booth, Raffaele positioning himself strategically near the edge. His vigilant eyes sweep across the room in a practiced manner, deliberately avoiding Raiden’s gaze but meticulously cataloging every other Destroyer present.
Raiden settles back into his seat and fixes me with a predatory stare. I can almost see the gears turning in his mind as he assesses me, trying to gauge my limits and vulnerabilities. The air between us crackles with unspoken challenge, each of us waiting to see who will make the first move in this delicate dance of power and negotiation.
“I need information,” I start, my voice steady despite the tension coiling in my gut. “There was a guy who was involved in your organization a few years ago. You might have known him. Kris Castiglione.” The name tastes like acid on my tongue, burning through my patience and threatening to erode my carefully constructed composure. I watch Raiden’s face intently, searching for any flicker of recognition or surprise that might betray his knowledge.
Raiden’s smirk falters a fraction, but he recovers quickly. “Kris Castiglione, huh? Same Castiglione as you, I assume. The name rings a bell, but it’s been a while.”
I lean in, letting a bit of my impatience show so he knows I’m serious. “Don’t play dumb with me, Drake. You know exactly who I’m talking about,” I say, my voice low and dangerous. “He ran with your crew for a couple of years. Not just some random prospect, but someone who was in deep. Either you or that meathead you have running guns knew him well. Probably both of you.” I pause, letting my words sink in. “I just want to know what he was up to. What kind of jobs did he pull, and who did he associate with? And while we’re at it, why didn’t your President reach out to me when a Castiglione joined your ranks? That’s not the kind of thing that usually slips through the cracks in an organization like yours.”
Raiden’s eyes narrow as the smirk on his face hardens into displeasure, his jaw clenching visibly. “You come into my clubhouse, uninvited , and ask for information like you’re gonna walk out with it for free. That’s not how things work around here, and you know that.” He leans forward, his massive frame casting a shadow over the table between us. “I’ve got a business to run, Castiglione.” He stretches my last name out with an Americanized twist, making my blood curdle and my fists clench involuntarily. “Information’s a commodity in our world, same as guns or drugs. If you want it, you gotta pay for it. And the price just went up.”
I expected this. Raiden’s not the type to give anything away without getting something in return. I keep my voice low and measured as I remind him who he’s dealing with. “You want something in return? Fine. I know your drug operations have been… complicated … by some of the members of the Castiglione Family.” Drugs are a lucrative business. I don’t deal in powders and substances, but some of the more unsavory elements in the Family do. “I can make those complications disappear.”
I lean back in my chair, my eyes never leaving Raiden’s face. The air between us is thick with tension, like a rubber band stretched to its limit. “You know as well as I do that the Family’s reach extends far beyond what’s visible on the surface. We have our fingers in many pies, and some of those pies have been… interfering with your slice.” I pause, letting the implications sink in. “But I have influence. I can pull strings, make phone calls. Those complications? They’ll vanish like smoke in the wind. No more territory disputes, no more hijacked shipments. Just smooth sailing for your operation.”
Raiden’s eyes flicker with interest, but he’s not sold yet. “You’ve got the pull to do that?”
“You know I do,” I say, letting the threat hang in the air. My voice drops to a near-whisper, forcing Raiden to lean in closer. “But you’ll only get it if you tell me what I need to know. Every last detail.” I pause, allowing the weight of my words to settle. This will undoubtedly cause a rift among my Family, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and I’m willing to gamble with the stability of our organization if it means getting the information I need.
Raiden considers this for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he weighs his options. His gaze flicks over to Raffaele, lingering on my bodyguard. He looks my enforcer up and down, a flicker of apprehension crossing his face before he turns back to me. Finally, he nods, but there’s a guarded edge to his tone when he speaks, his words measured and careful.
“Kris was a good earner for a while; I’ll give him that,” Raiden begins, his voice low and gravelly. “Smart, resourceful, you know the type. The kind of guy who could talk his way out of anything and always seemed to land on his feet.” I gesture for him to go on, keeping my expression neutral.
“But he had his secrets,” Raiden continues. “Things he kept from me and Bash. Hell, probably things he kept from everyone.” He pauses, glancing around as if checking for eavesdroppers. “I know he ran with Bash’s crew, running guns and making deals. Nothing too unusual there, but there was always something… off about it. About him.”
Raiden’s voice drops even lower, forcing me to lean in to catch his words. “There were whispers, you see. Rumors that he was deeper in than he let on. That he wasn’t just another cog in the machine but had connections right to the top.” His eyes lock onto mine, conveying the weight of his next words. “Word is, he knew Priest personally, ya know? And I mean, really knew him, not just as some lowly grunt.”
Priest is the President of the Destroyers motorcycle gang. I’ve never met him face-to-face, but I’ve caught glimpses of him prowling the streets of Manhattan. He’s always flanked by an intimidating posse of leather-clad bikers, their choppers rumbling like thunder as they cruise through the city. The way people scatter when they hear those engines approaching speaks volumes about Priest’s reputation and the iron grip he holds over his territory.
“Priest never took too kindly to double-crossers,” Raiden alludes. “Word on the street is he’s got a special kind of punishment for those who dare to cross him. I’ve heard stories that’d make even the toughest bikers lose sleep.”
I shift in the booth, feeling a trickle of discomfort slide down my spine. “Did Kris double-cross the Destroyers?”
“He disappeared,” Raiden says with a shrug. “I don’t know what happened. One day, Kris was here, laughing and dealing like always; the next, he was gone without a trace: no warning, no goodbye, nothing. Priest came in, cool as ice, and told us Kris was out and not to worry about him anymore. Just like that, as if Kris had never existed.”
Raiden’s face darkens. “Here’s the kicker: Kris had a shitload of drugs he was offloading for me, high-grade stuff worth a small fortune. When I worked up the nerve to ask Priest about it, he said to write it off. Just like that.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “You gotta understand, Priest never writes shit off. Ever. He’d shake down his own grandmother for a nickel. So you know, whatever happened with the kid, it was at his behest. There was probably a shit ton of money involved, the kind of cash that makes people disappear and others look the other way.”
I narrow my eyes. “And you never asked what happened to him?”
Raiden snorts, a harsh sound of derision. “Of course I fucking did. But like I said, Prez told me not to worry, so I wasn’t fucking worried. You don’t question the boss, not if you want to keep breathing.” He leans back, his eyes hard. “And Kris? That little prick walked around here like he had a dick stuck sideways up his ass. He was wound so goddamn tight; I had to warn my guys not to fuck with him because I was afraid he’d snap one day and come in here guns blazing, turn the whole place into a fucking slaughterhouse. I figure he found a better deal elsewhere, probably some high-roller who could afford his particular brand of crazy. Whatever happened, he wasn’t my problem anymore, and good fucking riddance.”
I lean back and consider his words, my mind churning over the implications. It’s not the whole story, but it’s enough to make me even more suspicious of Kristopher. The fact that my brother was on a first-name basis with Priest is bad enough. But when I factor in all the other shit Raiden told me—the hair-trigger temper, the barely contained violence, the way he set everyone on edge—it paints a picture of a man I’d rather not cross paths with again. And yet, here I am, neck-deep in whatever mess he’s left behind.
“Here’s the deal,” I say, my voice low and dangerous, leaning in close so Raiden doesn’t miss a single word. “You keep your boys out of my way, and I’ll make sure your drug operations run without Family interference. Not a single one of my people will touch your product or your dealers. But if I find out you didn’t tell me everything—if there’s even a whisper of something you’ve held back—it’s open season on your ass, Drake. I’ll shut you down faster than you can blink. Permanently .”
Raiden’s eyes flash with a volatile mix of anger and begrudging respect, but he nods. “Fair enough, Castiglione. But remember, this is our turf,” he gestures to the dimly lit clubhouse around us. “You don’t come in here and start making demands without giving me something in return. That’s not how this game works, and you know it.”
“You got what you want,” I scoff as I stand up and signal to Raffaele.
Raiden watches us leave with the same calculating look in his eyes, his gaze boring into our backs as we make our way to the exit. As I step out of the clubhouse, the heavy door slamming shut behind us with a resounding thud, I can’t shake the unsettling feeling that I’ve only scratched the surface of what Kristopher was involved in. The pieces of the puzzle are there, but they’re not fitting together quite right. But one thing’s crystal clear: I wasn’t the only person he was keeping secrets from. The web of lies and half-truths seems to stretch far beyond what I’d initially imagined, and I can’t help but wonder just how deep this rabbit hole goes.
“You can take the night off,” I tell Raffaele as we leave. “I’m going to see Lucia. Be back in the AM.”
Raffaele nods, falling in step beside me. “I can see it, you know.”
“See what?”
“See why you fell for Lucia. She’s a hell of a woman. Smart as a fucking whip. Hard-working. Beautiful.” Raffaele’s voice carries a hint of admiration, maybe even a touch of envy. “I’ve seen her in action. The way she handles herself, how she commands a room without even trying. It’s impressive, to say the least.”
I pause mid-stride to glare at him. “Don’t even fucking think about hitting on my wife, Raff.”
Raffaele snorts in derision. “I wouldn’t. Trust me. But I just wanna say that I get why you’re doing all this shit for her. She’s worth it.”
My nerves settle as we reach my car, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly. I can’t even begin to explain the history of Lucia and me to Raffaele. What’s there to say? I woke up one day ready to go to a funeral, just another grim obligation in a life full of them, and now, eleven years later, I’m moving heaven and earth for the girl I met at that very funeral.
“Thanks,” I reply gruffly as I climb inside my car, the leather seat creaking beneath me. I pause for a moment, my hand on the door handle. “Enjoy your night off. Try not to get into too much trouble.” The words come out gruff, but Raffaele understands the sentiment behind them. With a nod, I pull the door shut, encasing myself in the quiet sanctuary of my vehicle.
All of this Kristopher shit is draining me. I need to bury myself in Lucia and purge my soul of this darkness.