17. Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Fifteen
Bronx
I pushed open the heavy door to our back room. The brothers were already waiting, their broad shoulders hunched over bottles of beer.
"You're on time," I said, pulling out a chair across from them. “And thanks, Pres, for letting me take the lead this time.”
Vegas nodded.
I studied my brothers in the dim light. "Rayburn's becoming a problem. I need eyes on him. Every move, every stop, every person he talks to."
Miami leaned forward. "For how long?"
"Until I say otherwise." I pulled a folded map from my inside pocket, spreading it across the table. "He lives here." I tapped a location with my index finger. "Works here." Another tap. "And spends most evenings here." A third tap on what we all knew was a rundown strip club on the edge of our territory. “But I don’t know where else he goes, what his schedule is like, or if he even has one.”
Diego’s eyes narrowed. "This about those goones of his coming for Ginger?"
I met his gaze steadily. "To put it plainly, yeah. She’s mine and Reno’s, which means she’s part of this club. I’m not going to just sit back while these fuckers try to take her."
Rayburn had crossed a line, and now he needed to learn his place. "I want schedules, patterns. I want to know when he takes a piss. I want to know who he talks to, what he drives, if he carries. I want to know if he's alone or if he's got muscle twenty-four-seven. Photograph and document everything."
Memphis crossed his arms over his chest. "You expecting trouble?"
"I'm preventing it," I replied. "Rayburn's connected. How connected, I'm not sure yet. That's part of what you're going to find out. If I have to put this fucker down, I need to know it won’t come back to bite the club in the ass."
"I’m in. Consider it done." Diego gave me a nod. "When do we start?"
“I’m in too,” Baltimore said.
"It starts now." I stood, my chair scraping back. "Follow him from a distance. Don't engage. Just observe."
They finished their beers, set the bottles down with identical thuds, and rose to their feet. Diego gave me a final nod before they slipped out, the door closing behind them with a metallic click that echoed in the small space.
“Before you make a move, you bring everything to the table,” Vegas said. “I have no problem with you protecting your woman, but I need to make sure everyone here stays safe.”
I nodded. “Got it, Pres.”
Three hours later, the first photos came through on my phone. Rayburn outside a café, cigarette dangling from his lips, checking his watch. Another showed him entering a gas station, the timestamps indicating he spent precisely seven minutes inside.
I kept an eye on my messages as they tailed him throughout the day. The café at 10 AM, where he met with a man in a tailored suit. The gas station at noon, where he picked up cigarettes and made a call from the payphone outside—who the hell still used payphones? The strip club at 2 PM, hours before it opened to customers.
For the next four days, I kept an eye on things. The images told a story: Rayburn was a creature of habit. He wore expensive clothes that stood out in our part of town—tailored jackets that probably cost more than most of the bikes in our garage. He smoked incessantly, trailing a cloud behind him that marked his path like breadcrumbs. And he walked with a slight limp, favoring his right leg. A weakness, possibly. Something to remember.
More importantly, he was consistent. The same route, the same stops, the same schedule day after day. His predictability would be his downfall.
Baltimore sent a message: Fourth day. Same routine. No variation.
I texted back: Keep watching.
By the fifth day, I had compiled enough data to fill a small notebook. I sat at a table in the corner of the clubhouse, away from the main action, surrounded by maps, notes, and printed photographs. I traced my finger along the route Rayburn took each day, mentally calculating distances and timing.
The picture had become clear. Rayburn was a man who thrived on routine and predictability. He visited the same places at the same times each day. He spoke to the same people. He even parked in the same spots. His patterns were so consistent that I could predict with near-certainty where he would be at any given time.
I also knew that he carried—a small pistol tucked into an ankle holster, visible only when he sat and his pant leg rode up. The brothers had captured a clear image on day three. He traveled alone for the most part, but there were two bodyguards who kept a distance of at least ten yards at all times. He met with various associates throughout the day, some had bodyguards that stuck to their sides.
Most importantly, I had identified the perfect spot for an interception. The alley behind the strip club. Isolated, poorly lit, with no security cameras. Rayburn always parked his car there, a sleek black machine that seemed at odds with his polished appearance.
I circled the location on the map, then checked my watch. It was time to bring the brothers back in.
Within twenty minutes, they were all present, sliding into seats at the table in our back room.
"He's predictable," Diego said, cutting straight to the point.
I nodded. "Too predictable. Makes our job easier."
I laid out what I had learned, pointing to specific locations on the map, showing them the timeline I had constructed. They listened intently, occasionally adding details they had observed that hadn't made it into their reports.
"So what's the play?" Baltimore asked when I finished.
I tapped the circled location on the map. "I'm going to have a conversation with Mr. Rayburn. Tomorrow night, behind the strip club. Assuming Vegas is cool with it."
"What kind of conversation?" Vegas asked.
"The kind that ensures he understands exactly who he's dealing with." I folded the map. "The kind that makes sure he leaves Ginger and the rest of our people alone. I don’t plan to use violence unless he gives me no choice."
"And if he doesn't listen to reason?" Vegas asked, his fingers resuming their endless drumming against the table.
I met his gaze steadily. "Then I suggest we move to the kind of conversation that doesn't involve words."
The brothers exchanged a look, a silent communication born from years of shared blood and brotherhood. Vegas finally nodded his consent.
"We'll be ready," Diego said simply. “I’ll back you up, along with Baltimore.”
“What about me?” Reno asked. “I want in on this.”
I shook my head. “I need you with Ginger. Keep her calm and distracted. I don’t need her to know where I am. Not until it’s finished.”
“Fine.” He sighed, but I knew he understood my reasoning.
Vegas dismissed everyone. They rose, disappearing through the door as quietly as they had entered.
Alone with Vegas, I flipped through the photographs one last time. Rayburn's face stared back at me from a dozen different angles—outside the café, entering the gas station, kickstarting his bike behind the strip club. In each image, he wore the same expression: a man who believed himself untouchable, superior, safe.
Tomorrow night, that would change. Tomorrow night, Mr. Rayburn would learn that in our territory, no one was untouchable. No one was safe. Not when they threatened what was ours.
I gathered the photos and notes. The plan was set. The trap was laid. All that remained was the execution—and that was the part I did best.
“Keep things clean,” Vegas said. “If you need more than the three of you to pull it off, back down and pick another day. Understood?”
“Got it, Pres.”
I leaned against the brick wall in the alley behind The Pink Kitten, my leather cut keeping most of the chill at bay as I waited. The neon sign above the back door buzzed and flickered, casting sickly pink shadows that danced across the puddles at my feet. The bass from inside thumped through the walls, a heartbeat for the sins happening within. I checked my watch. Eleven forty-five. Rayburn would be here in fifteen minutes if he stuck to his schedule. And I knew he would.
The brothers were positioned strategically—one at the mouth of the alley, the other on the roof of the adjacent building with a rifle, ready in case things went south. I didn't need to see them to know they were watching, ready to move at my signal. But this conversation needed to happen one-on-one. Man to man. Predator to prey.
I lit a cigarette, the flame from my lighter briefly illuminating my face before darkness swallowed it again. The nicotine hit my lungs, calming the rage that had been simmering since I'd heard Rayburn wanted to own Ginger.
He’d fucked up by sending those goons after her. No one threatened what was mine.
Rain started to fall, light at first, then heavier. It drummed against the metal dumpsters and fire escapes, creating a symphony of urban decay. The pavement grew slick, reflecting the neon signs and distant streetlights like a painting left out in the rain. The smell of wet asphalt mixed with cigarette smoke and the faint scent of perfume and sweat that always lingered around strip clubs.
An engine growled in the distance, growing louder as it approached. I took one last drag of my cigarette before dropping it, crushing it under my boot. Showtime.
The sleek black sports car turned into the alley, its headlights cutting through the rain. Rayburn guided it to his usual spot near the back door, killing the engine but leaving the lights on. He stepped out, straightening his jacket.
He hadn't noticed me yet, standing in the shadows just beyond the reach of his headlights. I watched him run a hand through his hair. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, placed one between his lips, and reached for his lighter.
That's when I stepped forward, the sound of my boots on wet pavement announcing my presence before the lights revealed my face.
Rayburn froze, cigarette dangling unlit from his mouth, eyes widening slightly before he controlled his expression. "Can I help you?" he asked, his voice steady despite the tension I could see in his shoulders.
"You're in a position to help yourself," I replied, stopping a few feet away from him. Close enough to strike if necessary, far enough to react if he went for his ankle piece.
Recognition dawned in his eyes. "Dark Wrath, right?" He removed the cigarette from his lips and tucking it back into the pack. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I think you know." I kept my voice low, forcing him to strain to hear me over the rain and the muffled thump of bass from inside the club.
He tried for a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I'm afraid I don't. I'm just here for some entertainment after a long day."
"Cut the shit, Rayburn." I took another step forward. "I know you think Ginger belongs to you."
The smile fell from his face, replaced by something harder, more calculating. "The redhead? She's just a piece of ass. One I paid a pretty penny for."
My hand shot out before I could even think about it, gripping his throat and slamming him back against his car. Rayburn's hands flew up to claw at my grip.
"She's under my protection," I growled, my face inches from his. "Under the club’s protection. And you think you can threaten what's mine?"
I loosened my grip enough for him to speak, but kept my hand around his throat—a reminder of how quickly I could squeeze the life from him if I chose.
"I didn't know she was yours," he gasped, his eyes darting around the alley, looking for an escape or backup that wouldn't come.
"Now we're going to have a conversation, and you're going to listen very carefully."
Rayburn rubbed his throat, straightening his jacket with a trembling hand. The rain had slicked his hair to his forehead, making him look younger, more vulnerable. If his hired thugs were nearby, they hadn’t noticed what was going on. Not yet. "I'm listening."
"If you don't back off and leave Ginger alone, your entire operation will be dismantled within 48 hours." I delivered the words slowly, making sure each one landed with the weight of the promise behind it.
He stiffened, eyes narrowing as he assessed the threat. "You don't know what you're talking about. I don't have an 'operation.'"
"The drugs coming in and being distributed through the gas station. The girls you're moving through your 'modeling agency.' The money you're laundering through that café you visit every morning at precisely ten o'clock." I smiled coldly. "Should I continue?"
The color drained from his face, visible even in the dim, pinkish light from the neon sign. His eyes flickered to the puddles at our feet, to the fire escape above us, anywhere but at me.
"How did you—"
"I know everything about you, Rayburn. I know you carry a Beretta Nano in an ankle holster on your right leg. I know you meet with a man in a tailored suit at that shitty café every morning. I know you've been trying to expand your territory, thinking no one would notice or care."
I took a step closer, my voice dropping even lower. "But I noticed. And I care very fucking much when someone comes into my territory and threatens what's mine."
Rayburn swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing beneath the reddened skin where I'd gripped his throat. "Look, there's been a misunderstanding. I didn't know the girl was connected to you. I paid her uncle to have her."
"Well, now you know. As for her uncle, you can’t get a refund. Fucker is dead. If you so much as look at Ginger or any other person under my protection again, they won't find enough of you to identify."
The rain intensified, drumming against the metal dumpsters. Rayburn flinched at the sound, his nerves clearly frayed.
"I didn't mean any disrespect," he said, attempting to salvage what little dignity he had left. "I'm a businessman. I understand territories, respect. It was my understandting the Dark Wrath didn’t dabble in my… areas of interest."
"Are you sure?" I cocked my head, studying him like a wolf studies a wounded deer. "Because sending men to scare a woman half your size doesn't strike me as the action of a man who understands respect."
He shifted his weight, and I noticed his right hand drifting toward his ankle. I moved before he could, my boot coming down hard on his instep while my hand clamped around his wrist. He gasped in pain.
"That would be the biggest mistake of your very short life," I whispered, bending his wrist back just enough to make him understand how easily I could break it.
"I wasn't—" he started, but the lie died on his lips when he saw my expression.
I reached down and retrieved the Beretta from his ankle holster, checking the chamber before tucking it into my waistband. "Consider this a security deposit. You'll get it back when I'm convinced you've learned your lesson."
The fight seemed to drain out of him. His shoulders slumped, and for the first time, I saw real fear in his eyes. Not just the momentary fear of physical pain, but the deeper fear of a man who realizes he's miscalculated badly and may not live to correct his mistake.
"What do you want from me?" he asked, his voice barely audible over the rain.
"I want you to leave Ginger alone. I want you to stay out of my territory unless you're here as a paying customer, keeping your hands to yourself and your mouth shut. I want you to understand that the only reason you're still breathing is because I'm choosing to let you."
I stepped back, giving him space that felt more threatening than comforting. "Can you do that, Rayburn? Can you be a good boy and play by the rules?"
He nodded, water dripping from his chin. "Yes. I understand. It won't happen again."
"It better not." I gestured toward his car. "Now get the fuck out of my sight. And remember—I'm watching you. Always."
Rayburn didn't need to be told twice. He fumbled with his keys, hands shaking as he slid back into the car. The engine roared to life, echoing off the brick walls of the alley. He backed up, turned onto the street, and sped away, the red taillights disappearing down the road.
I stood in the rain for a moment longer, feeling the weight of Rayburn's gun against my lower back. The confrontation had gone exactly as planned. I'd seen the fear in his eyes, the understanding that he had wandered into the territory of a predator far more dangerous than himself.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out, seeing a text from Diego: Clean exit. No stops. Heading straight back to his place.
I typed back a quick response: Good. Keep eyes on him for 72 hours. Make sure the message stuck.
Tucking the phone away, I walked toward my bike. It was time to head back to the clubhouse. I needed to let Ginger know she was safe, that Rayburn wouldn't be bothering her again. That I had handled it.