22. Cupid
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CUPID
As soon as Vanessa is asleep, I hop in the shower. The day is still young, and I have business to attend to, including a phone call I don’t want to make.
Normally, I handle club business in my office, but I made a promise to Vanessa as she drifted off to sleep that I’d be here when she woke up. I failed the first time and won’t be failing again.
After throwing on some jeans and a t-shirt, I head toward the dining room. I plant my ass in a chair at the circular table and pull out my cell to make the first crucial call of my day.
Atlas answers after a couple of rings. The first thing I hear is the laughter of little children, banging on things and running around in the background.
“Cruz! Easton! Quiet down. Your mama needs to rest,” he says, scolding who I assume are his young twins. “Hello?”
“Atlas, it’s Cupid. If this is a bad time, I can try again later.”
“It’s fine,” he says, the noise dying down in the background as if he had moved into a quieter area to speak with me. “What’s going on?”
There’s no easy way to say it other than ripping off the Band-Aid. “My woman—Vanessa—was nearly abducted last night on her way home from work.”
“WHAT?!” he thunders before lowering his voice, probably recalling his wife is napping. “Shit. Is she okay?”
“Other than a concussion, she’s fine and safe with me and my crew.”
“You should have told me sooner,” Atlas gripes. “My crew could have been on the case right away, possibly even caught the fuckers.”
“I understand Fort Collins is your city and you want to protect your community. However, my priorities were to take care of my woman’s injuries and to move her out of her apartment and into mine. Yeah, I should have contacted you sooner, but I’ve had my hands full the last twelve hours.”
Atlas breathes heavy down the line. “Tell me everything. When? Where? Who? Every goddamn detail.”
I share all the information from the night before, how Vanessa fought off her attackers outside her apartment complex, how there were three of them with a white van, how I got there and knocked out the one guy closest to Vanessa, and how the other two got away.
“You have one of them, don’t you?” Atlas says, his tone shifting with a hint of dark amusement.
“I do. But I’m not giving him to you,” I say with a hard edge to my voice. Atlas seems like the type of man who bulldozes his way through everything to have things go his way. It may work with his men, but it won’t work with me. “He tried to take my woman from me, and he needs to pay for it.”
Atlas is quiet on the other end of the line for a few seconds before saying, “You can have him. All I ask is for me and a few of my men to be present to ask questions. What you do with him afterwards is not my business.”
Thinking about my club, my property, and mine and my crew’s privacy, I’m not okay with his request. The Mercy Ravens MC may be fine to interact with occasionally, but they’re not Royal Bastards.
We’re not friends—we’re associates at best, existing in close proximity.
They don’t need to see where we keep people who have wronged our club.
They don’t need to see what my buildings look like on the inside other than Whiskey Wheelers.
We may work together on getting to the bottom of who’s behind these abductions, but that doesn’t mean we have to share everything.
“Not going to happen,” I say firmly. “My club will handle him, and I’ll pass along whatever information we collect.”
“That would be unwise,” Atlas says deadpan. “Handling interrogations is what my club does—this is our bread and butter. The military has trained us to interrogate efficiently with successful results. I’m not saying you or your man can’t do it, but my club does this on the regular.”
He has a point. Interrogations are not my crew’s forte—torture is. Torture is great for sending a message, but it doesn’t necessarily garner answers to questions.
Torn between my club’s privacy and getting the most out of my hostage, I stare up at my ceiling like I can find the answers in the rafters.
“Look, I get not wanting outsiders where you conduct club business. It would be easier if my crew handled questioning the fucker, but you can still run the show. We’ll compromise. Have me on a video call. My crew and I can still listen in and give you advice on how or what to ask.”
“Seems fair,” I say, getting behind the plan. The only issue I can foresee is getting cellular service down in the stone basement where I’ll question the prisoner. Although I’m sure Cipher has a workaround for that issue. “Let’s do it your way.”
“Deal. Can you take a picture of the perp? I’ll have my head of tech do a deep dive. We have connections with the Federal Bureau of Investigation and can run his image through their facial recognition software.”
“I don’t want the Feds involved,” I say, nearly growling.
“Fuck no. Chase—my head of tech—can access their software through our connections without the Feds getting involved,” Atlas explains.
Ah. Now that’s something I can get behind. Any dirty work that keeps Cipher off the radar, I approve of. He has enough business to manage selling our smuggled weapons on the dark web without adding to his plate. If Atlas’s tech man can ease my club’s workload, so be it.
“I’ll have an image of the guy sent to you shortly.”
“Good. Have you tried questioning him yet? Has he said anything?”
“Not yet. He’s in solitary confinement. I’m letting him sit in the dark with his thoughts for a bit. I want him anxious by the time I question him.”
“Time is of the essence—I would not wait long. When do you plan on interrogating him?”
“Tonight, after I get Vanessa settled for the evening.”
“Call me when you do.” And then he disconnects.
With the phone call with Atlas out of the way, I send a quick text to Scalpel with an update on Vanessa. He texts back saying she sounds like she’s doing okay, and he promises to stop by tomorrow to check on her. I let out a little sigh of relief, knowing she’s in excellent hands.
Next, I make my second serious call of the day.
Crypt answers right away, almost as if he’s been waiting for me to check in. “Yes, Prez?”
“How’s our guest?” I ask stiffly, hoping the douchebag is miserable as hell.
When my crew returned last night from Vanessa’s apartment, Drift and Ruger carried Vanessa’s attacker into the basement of the bunkhouse.
Most of the basements in the older buildings in the historic downtown area of Loveland were meant for storage and not to be inhabited.
They’re dark, cold, and often damp. Perfect as a cellar for Whiskey Wheelers, not as great for anyone who has wronged us to stay imprisoned in.
“Agitated, as he should be. He keeps bitching about his foot. It sounds like Vanessa broke it by stomping on it.”
My chest puffs out with pride, knowing my little baddie fights hard. “That’s my Butterfly.”
“You want me to do anything with him? Break his other foot? Bust a kneecap?”
“Mmm, tempting. Maybe later. We need answers from him first. I need him conscious in order to have that conversation, not writhing in pain. We’ll question him tonight—let him sweat it out longer. I need one thing from you, though.”
“Name it.”
“Take a few pictures of his face—some good close-ups from all angles.”
“Sure thing, Prez.”
A few minutes after I end the call with Crypt, he sends me the images I requested.
Ruger holds the asshole in place by his hair in each image, probably the only way to get our prisoner to cooperate for Crypt to take pictures.
I forward the images onto Atlas as promised and then text Oaks to meet me in my apartment.
I’m putting Vanessa’s kitchen supplies away in my cupboards when Oaks comes into my home, not bothering to knock. If the door is unlocked, he knows he’s welcomed.
“Hey, Cupid? Where you at?”
“In here,” I answer, breaking down the last of the boxes from Vanessa’s kitchen and setting them next to my recycling bin.
Oaks enters the room, making a beeline for my fridge. He pulls out a Coke and then takes a seat at the island. “How’s domestic life treating you?”
Taking the seat next to him, I say, “I survived my first argument with the missus, so I’d say it’s going well.”
Oaks snorts, nearly shooting Coke out his nose. When he catches his breath, his shoulders shake with laughter. “I thought for sure she’d have your balls.”
“The day is still young. Who knows what this evening will bring,” I say, humoring him. “Honestly, I’m surprised it went as well as it did. I didn’t sugarcoat my explanation, telling her I want her safe and I want her with me—permanently.”
My VP raises his eyebrows. “You’re that serious?”
“Dead serious, that’s why I wanted to speak with you.”
“I’m listening, brother,” he says, putting his Coke can down on the island and turning toward me on his stool to give me his full attention.
“I reassured Vanessa I’d be here when she wakes up later, meaning I can’t leave and break that promise.
The problem is that I have an errand to run.
I made a call last night to Tyrese, requesting rush service.
He said he’d have it ready by this afternoon.
It’s already paid for, but I need someone to pick it up for me from his leather shop. ”
Oaks leans back in his chair, letting out a low whistle between his teeth. “Whoa! You’re not joking around, are you?”
“No, I’m not. Besides, the sooner she has my property patch on her, the sooner it will work as a deterrent from anyone who may watch her. I want her in a cut by tonight.”
“No problem. I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks, Oaks. I knew I could count on you to help me. Speaking of helping me, do you think Marlene would sit with Vanessa this evening while we question the asshole in the basement next door? I don’t want to leave her alone.”
“Afraid she’ll give you the slip?” Oaks teases, elbowing me.
“Not until you mentioned it,” I say, suddenly apprehensive. “You don’t think she’ll try it, do you?”
“Nah,” Oaks says, waving off my concern. “And if she tries to escape, Muscles can handle her. She handles me all the time, just fine.”
No shit. Marlene, or Muscles as she’s known in the club, is not a dainty woman.
She’s nearly six-foot and powerlifts with Oaks in our club’s gym daily.
I’ve seen her discus-toss drunk assholes out of Whiskey Wheelers more times than I can count.
She’s one of the sweetest women I know, but I would never want to be on her bad side. Marlene can hold her own in any fight.
“How she puts up with you, I don’t understand,” I joke, shaking my head. “The woman is a saint.”
“Every saint needs its bastard,” Oaks says, rising from his stool. “I’ll pick up Vanessa’s cut before I bring Marlene over. It’s going to be eventful questioning the Russian prick.”
“Let’s hope it goes smoothly,” I say, my voice low and lethal. “It will only make it harder for our captive if he’s not. Either way, we’re getting answers tonight.”