Chapter Forty-Nine
Chloe
Entering the warehouse felt as uninviting as the first time.
Inside, men were moving around with silent efficiency, hauling heavy boxes, checking their contents. Some assembled weapons like it was a simple puzzle.
Their discipline was eerie, everything looked very militaristic.
And none of them acknowledged me, as if it was forbidden, but they all nodded or muttered something to Zane in some way as we passed.
From the bits and pieces I’d gathered since I arrived, along with what I already knew from the rumors on the streets, I already had a pretty good idea of how his operation worked.
Zane’s uncle in Italy would send the weapons over in parts, hidden in cargo shipments. Zane then collected, transported, assembled, and tested them before transporting them or shipping them out again for all sorts of buyers.
The main part of it went to political and military clients, others to private and security firms.
The rest probably went straight into the black market, to those exclusive bidding wars only the criminal elite had access to. Because everything was for sale there, wasn’t it?
Zane controlled the weapons, who had them and limited them on his streets.
Just like an exclusive car, his product wasn’t for just anyone. The scarcer he made it, the higher the demand rose… classic supply and demand. And that was why their shipments and their business were always threatened, always under attack.
Zane led me into a room at the far end of the warehouse that looked like it was built for interrogation.
Inside, Ivar, Andy, and Mike were already waiting, and I couldn’t shake the discomfort creeping up my spine with their unwelcoming eyes set on me.
Zane guided me to a board at the center of the room, cluttered with photos of people I didn’t recognize. Colorful wires connected the images to locations and handwritten notes.
I tried to follow the connections, to memorize anything that might be useful, but it was far too much. It would take me hours to even try to understand what I was looking at.
Then my gaze landed on something familiar.
Bruce’s club.
My fingers traced the red wire on instinct, following it across the board until it connected to a photo that looked like a crime scene with bodies on the bloodstained carpet of the VIP room in which I’d almost been gang raped.
The red tattoos on their necks unmistakable now, and the blood on them made me stutter.
I blinked and forced myself to follow the line further to the next image—a picture of me connecting me to all of it.
My pulse faltered.
It was an old picture, and I had no idea how Zane had found it, but looking at it was chilling; I barely recognized the girl staring back. Her eyes hadn’t glowed like they did now. And she looked as if she didn't know how to smile. She was stiff, pallid, almost lifeless.
A lot like Malia looks now.
Only a couple of months with Zane and I felt like a completely different person.
I glanced up at him to find his eyes already on me, and waited for him to say something.
“Twenty-something years ago,” he finally started, “a cartel that called themselves the Red Scorpions moved their operations from Colombia into the U.S., and it didn’t take them long to climb the food chain, forcing their way into the bigger cities.”
“Like New York,” I whispered.
He nodded once.
“The guns we manufacture would give them a big advantage, not just to expand here, but also to tighten their grip in Colombia. So, Martin, their leader, came to my father, trying to convince him into a deal.”
“But your father refused,” I guessed.
Zane’s jaw ticked. “He did. My father wasn’t the kind of man to bow to egos and would never make deals with men with God complexes.” His shoulders tensed. “But Martin, driven by his thirst for power, didn’t take no for an answer and that was when the attacks started and—”
“—and he killed your parents.”
“Yes.” Zane’s expression darkened, an old memory flickering through his eyes just for a second. “The payback only hit them a couple of years later, when I took my father’s place. We almost wiped them out…”
A chill crawled down my spine at the way he said it so calm and so detached, so devoid of emotion.
“Almost?” I swallowed hard. There was still so much about this story I didn’t know.
“Some of them, including their leaders, still managed to escape and they’ve been lying low, hiding and regrouping ever since.”
Zane’s eyes locked onto mine, waiting for my reaction.
Behind him, Ivar, Andy, and Mike remained silent.
Then Zane led me to a chair and sat across from me.
Without a word, he simply nudged a stack of papers toward me, flipping the first one over.
A photograph.
It showed an older man, maybe late sixties. Medium brown skin with golden undertones, grizzled black hair, a hardened expression. His eyes void of any warmth. Evil.
I didn’t recognize him and my eyes lifted back to Zane, waiting for him to explain.
He didn’t, he just wanted to study my reaction. Then he slid the photo aside and replaced it with three more. One showed a bald white man covered in tattoos and the other a man sporting a long, dark beard. And the last one, a man with a long Glasgow smile carved into his face.
All of them with that red scorpion tattooed on their neck.
“Do you recognize any of them?” Zane asked, his voice contained.
I swallowed hard, my eyes scanning their faces again. “No…”
He slid those away and flipped another one.
A younger man this time, in his thirties maybe. Long black hair tied into a man bun, his features were eerily similar to the first man he showed me.
But this one I recognized. The sight of him chilled me to the bone, and the memories of that night came back in flashes.
The slap. The assault. Zane. The bodies hitting the ground. The screams.
“Him.” I said quickly. “He was there that night, with the ones who attacked me at Bruce’s club.”
I almost didn’t hear myself speak, but Zane’s eyes narrowed sharply, understanding every word but as if he hadn’t expected that answer.
The other three men in the room with us also eyed each other.
“He looked like the one in charge of the rest,” I continued. “Said he was going to get a van and left the room before the others tried to… you know.”
There was no point in lying about it because Zane would know.
Then suddenly, he shoved back from the table, rising to his feet and raking his hands through his hair. I flinched at the reaction. He was always so in control that whenever he behaved like this it shifted the air.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, pacing like he needed to burn off the heat crawling under his skin.
Ivar took over, jabbing a finger at the photo and snarling into my face. “Are you sure it was him?”
“I think I can tell the difference between random guys and the ones who tried to kidnap me,” I bit back, and he pulled back with a stern look, but said nothing more.
I didn’t understand what was happening.
“What’s going on?” I asked carefully, the words suddenly feeling like broken glass in my throat.
Zane returned to his seat, flipping back to the first photograph.
“Mateo Martin. Their leader.” His finger pressed down on the older man’s face. Then it slid to the younger one, the one I recognized. “His son.” He explained, “His son was there.”
Oh.
Zane could’ve gone after his enemy’s son but chose to protect me instead?
And then, the interrogation ended as abruptly as it had begun. Zane stood and walked out. Ivar, Andy, and Mike followed, their eyes burning holes into me as they passed. The door shut behind them, and I stood still, doing my best to hide my nerves in case they were still watching me from outside.
A few minutes later, the door creaked open again. Andy stepped back in, a glass of water in his hand, placing it in front of me. I eyed it warily before looking up at him.
“Do you think I spiked it or something?” He chuckled. “Cazzo, Chloe. It’s just water. I’m sure you’ll survive.”
I believed him. Andy had never been unkind, not like the others. He didn’t trust me, but he didn’t despise me either. He’d always been somewhere in the middle, quiet, distant, but never cruel.
“Thanks,” I muttered, taking a sip.
He leaned back against the table, watching me as I studied him in return.
He was tall, leaner than Zane, but there was something familiar about his features. The shape of his mouth, his nose. Subtle, but there. I wondered if they could be blood related.
“Is Andy a nickname or...?” I asked.
His expression softened.
“Andrea Santino,” he said. “But everyone calls me Andy.”
“Santino?” I raised an eyebrow. “So, are you like… his cousin or something?”
“Distant cousins.” He corrected almost playfully, like it was some sort of inside joke, his accent thicker than the others.
I nodded, and he nodded back with a small smirk, something close to understanding. It was almost like we were meeting for the first time all over again, and this time, it felt nice.