Chapter 17
ELLE
Ipromised Nico that I would stay away from that nightclub. I lied.
There isn’t a chance in hell that I’m not going to that nightclub to search out the mafia boss who might be tied to my mother’s murder. Besides, it’s not like Nico hasn’t lied to me before.
What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
It feels a little wrong to leave his safe house and head straight toward the place he told me not to go, but not wrong enough to stop me from doing it.
Last night, I let myself lie with the enemy, literally, and now Nico no longer feels like the enemy at all.
Instead of the years’ worth of feeling like he and I were on a collision course with each other, it now feels like we are heading down parallel tracks.
Only I want to reach the answer at the end faster than he seems to.
So, after making a quick stop back at my apartment to change into something that looks more “club appropriate,” I sit in my car outside the exact location that Nico pinpointed until the sun sets and the club opens. I watch the line to get in start to form and join it.
“ID?” the bouncer says with his hand stretched out toward me.
If I give him my ID, he could link me to the cops or my dad, and I most definitely will not be allowed entry if that happens.
So, I do what any attractive woman trying to get into a nightclub would do.
I pretend to reach down the cleavage of my top, rooting my hand around as if I’m looking for something.
“Oh, damn it!” I exclaim with a fake pout. “I must have left it back at my apartment." I make puppy dog eyes up at the bouncer, who is covered in tattoos and scars more than he has skin to hold them all. “And I really wanted to let loose and have a few drinks and some fun tonight.”
For a second, it doesn’t look like my act is going to work, and I get ready to leave the line and try to come up with another way to get inside. But then, the bouncer lifts the red, braided rope in front of the entryway and waves me through.
“Just remember what a nice guy I am later when I come around looking to buy you a drink,” he says with a gross grin.
“You got it!” I force a smile so hard that my cheeks hurt before quickly heading inside the nightclub.
As soon as I step inside, I notice two things right away.
The first is that the place is going off.
The crowd is thick, the music is loud, and the drinks are flowing from the tap in a near constant stream.
This place is certainly popular tonight.
The second thing that catches my attention is that there seems to be amped-up security here.
Lots of nightclubs have security guards at the doors and usually a bouncer or two near the bar, but this place has security mingling with the crowd, something a regular civilian might not notice.
That’s something I haven’t seen at a club before.
Usually, the security patrol and the patrons don’t mix, but I can tell by the way they sweep the crowd.
It heightens my alert level a bit and makes me wonder if there’s something else going on here tonight besides my meager attempt to infiltrate the Bratva nightclub in search of further answers about my mother’s death.
I head to the bar and take a seat all the way at the end of the counter, where the bartender’s station is. If there’s any eavesdropping to be done, the bartender’s station is the best place to do it. Bartenders hear everything, and it’s not as if they have to sign an NDA to do their job.
Sometimes, some of them even have a drink or two during their shift, and then their filter comes off a bit.
Just like that old saying, “loose lips sink ships”, I’m hoping to catch some unfiltered truths that might slip out of someone’s mouth tonight.
Perhaps I can even avoid having to press deeper into this hornet’s nest altogether and elude being spotted by the mafia boss that Nico warned me about.
I order a glass of wine and glance around the club from my seat at the bar.
I can see the man who I think is the kingpin Nico referenced.
It’s hard not to notice that he’s taking up more of a presence than almost anyone else here.
He’s got a whole corner booth, flanked by his own personal security, and two women sitting in his lap.
His small, beady eyes look like pimples on his fat face.
If I’m unable to pick up any useful information sitting here, I’ll have to make my way closer to that booth.
But for now, I simply sit here to watch and listen and try not to seem out of place or get noticed.
If anyone here recognizes me, then I’m sure I won’t get a warm welcome.
I keep my head down, my ears open, and sip my wine as I steal intermittent looks around the club.
In the corner of the club, there’s a woman who sticks out to me.
Her appearance isn’t what sets her apart from the other women here, since she’s lovely and dressed for a night out.
It’s her behavior that doesn’t seem to fit in with the nightclub scene.
She looks to be around my age, but instead of dancing or drinking or interacting with the slew of good-looking men at the club, she’s sitting at a small, high-top table alone, hunched over a laptop as the club lighting reflects a small glimmer against an earpiece in her ear.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’s trying to conduct some sort of side-mission without being noticed, just like me.
I stare at her for a bit too long, watching her and wondering what she’s doing.
It isn’t until I hear the bartender speaking quietly to the bouncer beside me that I realize my staring has drawn their attention.
Before I can think of anything to do to stop it, the bouncer makes his way over to the woman’s table.
I can’t hear what he says to her once he gets there, but I can see him reach his arm out as if he’s getting ready to escort her out of the club.
Her eyes dart around for a moment, as if she’s trying to find a way out of her current predicament and keep from being forced out of here.
And when her gaze lands on me, her expression changes.
Instantly, her hand goes up, and her finger points directly at me.
“Cop!” she shouts.
I can feel all the blood suddenly rush from my face as all eyes in the club turn to stare at me.
The music stops, the dancing and boisterous conversations stop, and every single person in the bar is now glaring at me with utter disdain.
Nico said this place was a Bratva meeting spot, but he failed to mention that all the patrons in here seem to be mafia-aligned.
I’ve walked into the lion’s den, and I’m about to get bitten. Shit.
The bouncer no longer seems to care at all about the woman who has strangely brought a laptop into a nightclub, and instead, he makes a beeline for where I’m sitting at the bar. Whoever she is, this was her play—to create a distraction that gets the attention off her and onto me.
I stand up and instinctively reach for the gun that I sometimes have on me while out in the field. But since I wasn’t planning on this being a confrontational evening, and I was attempting to dress the part of nightclub patron tonight, I left my gun at home. Double shit.
“I’m not a cop,” I say. My lie sounds as shaky as my legs are currently feeling as I watch several security guards close in on me at once.
I turn to the bartender with pleading eyes, as if I expect him to help me at all.
“Please, I’m not a cop. I’m just here to have a drink and find a date.”
“Sure, you are, sweetheart,” the bartender sneers. “Except for the fact that all you’ve been doing since you got here is sit on that stool and case the place.”
From the corner of my eye, I see the mafia kingpin motion for his own personal security to come get me. If he truly did have something to do with my mother’s death, I fear that I’m next. I need to get out of here now.
The very same kind of adrenaline rush that swept over me the night in the alley surges through me again now.
I spot a quick path through the crowd toward the exit and push off my heels to run out of here as fast as I can.
Unfortunately, the bouncers are not as nimble as I am.
One of them reaches an arm out and grabs the side of my shirt, sending me toppling over my own feet as I fail to catch myself before falling to the floor.
My ankle twists, and I scrape my arm against a nearby table, but I don’t allow myself a second to wince before getting up to take off running again.
I just need to make it to the door. I can see my way out of here within reach, just a few feet away, as I push club patrons out of my path.
If I can just make it onto the street, then there will be people around who will see these guys trying to hurt me.
And since the mafia is notoriously careful about not being seen or getting caught, I don’t think they’ll try to mess with me out in the public space.
But just as soon as I reach the exit, the sound of a shot fired makes me freeze in place.
It’s a trauma reaction that I still haven’t been able to shake, even after all the time that’s passed.
Most people would take off like a bat out of hell when they hear a shot fired, but my reaction is the exact opposite.
Instead of running or ducking out of the way, I freeze.
It’s as if I’m standing there reliving the whole thing again, holding my mom’s hand as her shirt pools with blood and her body crumbles to the ground.