Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
ENZO
Luca stops the car outside Frenchy’s and turns off the engine.
Then he simply sits and waits for me to make a move.
I fucking detest this place, and he knows why.
I had to drag him out of here once, halfway to death.
He promised me he’d never do something so reckless again, but he still won’t stop coming here. Says these are his people.
I take a breath, bristling at the thought of walking into this place, and still running through my altercation with Rayne before I left.
The truth is I have no fucking idea how long I need to keep her locked up in my penthouse.
So we find this video, and then what? She seems to think that us finding it will make me let her go, but how does a sex tape prove anything?
Maybe the fact that the Bertellis summoned her back here with it has nothing at all to do with whatever they had on the don.
Maybe Carmine has played the Bertelli situation straight down the line and really did just get fed up of Oscar running his mouth.
How do I let her go when she knows I killed Vinny?
How do I keep her when she drives me insane?
Both options feel like a blade at my throat.
If I let her walk out, I’m trusting the one person I swore I would never trust again.
If I keep her, I’m admitting that some part of me would rather chain her to my life than risk losing her a second time.
Neither truth sits well. Both make me want to put my fist through the windshield.
Luca clears his throat.
I screw my eyes closed. “Let’s get this over with.”
Frenchy’s has no sign outside. No windows.
Just a concrete box a mile from the Strip.
The kind of place you come seeking oblivion.
Luca shoves open the faded blue steel doors that lead inside.
It’s not even eleven a.m., but I’m immediately assaulted by European house music—which I detest even on my best day—so loud it vibrates through my entire body.
The thumping bass is giving me a headache already, but, thankfully, we’re headed away from the main part of the club, where bodies pack the dance floor, grinding against each other like they’re trying to forget who they are.
I follow Luca down the dark staircase, every step feeling like a descent into the pits of hell.
I know we all have our demons, but that this is how he deals with his makes me feel sick with guilt.
I should have done more to protect him, both when he was a kid and after Mama died.
The concrete walls seep with moisture, stained yellow and brown from years of smoke and neglect.
The air gets more cloying the farther into hell we descend, thick with the smell of cheap perfume, sweat, and something metallic.
Luca pushes open the steel door first, and then he walks right on into hell’s waiting room without a second’s pause.
No music plays here, but the bass from upstairs pulses through the ceiling, like a steady heartbeat.
Every head turns when we walk into the room, except for one guy.
He’s naked other than a collar and a mask, kneeling on the concrete floor at the feet of a Domme.
There’s an undercurrent of recognition upon seeing Luca, before they all go back to their own business—in whatever form of escape that takes, from hard drugs to orgies.
This place is fucking insane.
Luca snakes his way through the room, moving with much more grace than any man of his size should be capable of, carefully avoiding touching anyone or anything.
We head to a dark corridor, passing by two women and a guy, all of whom bow their heads in deference to my brother as he passes by.
He stops briefly in front of the shorter of the two women—a redhead dressed in violet lace underwear and black stockings—dusts the tip of his index finger across her cheek, and then moves on without a word.
I wonder if he knows her, or if he’s marking her for his own later.
He stops at a doorway at the end of the corridor, rolls his neck from side to side, like he’s prepping for a fight, and then pushes open the door.
Frenchy herself is inside, draped over a chaise lounge and wearing a lavender chiffon housecoat, her white-blonde hair swept up into a beehive.
Nobody actually knows Frenchy’s age. She could pass for an old forty but is probably closer to seventy-five given that she’s been around since Carmine and my father were young.
She has a fondness for young men, and two who appear in their early twenties kneel either side of her chaise lounge, one holding a tray with a half-empty martini glass, and the other with his head bowed, waiting for his orders no doubt.
Luca calls it an affiliation rather than a fondness and swears there’s nothing sexual in her attraction to them.
Rather, she fulfills some kind of maternal role for some of the lost souls spat out by the Las Vegas machine.
As usual, her trademark thick black eyeliner and harsh red lipstick are immaculately applied.
She pushes a lock of hair from her forehead, a cigarette clamped between her fingers, the love child of Bette Davis and Don Corleone.
“Luca,” she says his name with affection, and he immediately goes to her, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. Then she peers over his shoulder. “And if it isn’t the King himself. What brings such royalty to our establishment this morning?”
“I’d like to speak with one of your employees,” I tell her.
She takes a drag of her cigarette. “Regarding?”
“Oscar Bertelli and some information he may have disclosed to her.”
“Does this have anything to do with the entire Bertelli family being found dead this morning?” she asks, deadpan. “Along with Vinny Falcone.”
That’s not public knowledge yet, but it doesn’t surprise me that Frenchy knows.
Her little network of feral delinquents are like rats scurrying around this city for her, stealing her little tidbits of information that she uses as currency to remain safely tucked behind the walls of this wonderland she’s built for herself. “It might. I don’t know yet.”
“Are you here seeking retribution for the Bertellis, Enzo Medici?”
“No. Simply information.”
She eyes me with suspicion before her gaze drifts back to my younger brother. “You will keep him in check, Luca.” It’s a statement not a question.
“Of course,” he replies.
“Then go find Eliza and do not keep her long. She has customers to see to this afternoon.”
“Thank you,” Luca says before giving her another light kiss on the cheek. She strokes his hair fondly, letting her index finger curl into some strands at the nape of his neck.
I have no idea what their relationship is about, but as with most things with Luca, I’ve learned not to question it and accept him for who he is.
Luca didn’t need a mother figure when they first met.
Out of all us boys, he was always closest to our mom—her baby boy.
But Frenchy cares for him, and him for her, that’s abundantly obvious.
She was the one who called me when he almost died, and for that she will always have my gratitude.
Luca knows exactly where to find Eliza, and I follow him through the labyrinth of Frenchy’s hallways to a small private bar area.
There are a few women in the room. Two sitting at the bar talking to a barman the size of a house while he polishes a martini glass, and one sitting alone in a corner reading a law textbook.
Luca heads straight for her, so I figure she’s Eliza.
Her eyes light up when she sees him and she squeals his name before throwing her arm around his neck.
I note the fingertip bruises on the left side of her neck and the neat two-inch scar beneath her collarbone, wondering how many other scars and marks might be hidden beneath her clothes.
“What are you doing here?” She peers over his shoulder. “And who is your friend?”
“This is my brother, Enzo. He wants to talk to you.”
The change in her is immediate, and she kind of reminds me of Rayne, the way she immediately puts her guard up, accessing her internal armor and suiting up.
He sees it too, because he places a hand on her forearm. “You can trust him the way you trust me, Li. I promise.”
His statement and the nickname tell me this is his friend, not a hookup, which makes me feel better.
Proclivities aside, Luca is generally a good judge of character.
She stares at me, eyes narrowing as she assesses me, no doubt the way I’ve been doing to her from the moment I stepped into the room.
Eliza. No older than twenty-one. Smart. Into pain.
Definitely receiving, maybe inflicting too.
Not a sub though, because of the way she responds to my brother.
Not in deference, but as an equal. She closes her textbook and places it on the bench beside her.
“So what exactly is it you’d like to talk about, Enzo? ”
“You had a conversation with Luca recently about Oscar Bertelli.”
She glances at Luca and then back to me. “If you’re here to tell me things I already know then you’re wasting both of our time.”
Yeah, definitely reminds me of Rayne. Okay, I’ll get to the point. “He said you heard something about Oscar having something on the don. Can you tell me any more than that? What exactly he said? What it might have been?”
She purses her lips, like she’s thinking. “I mean, it wasn’t all that much really. Oscar gets a little braggadocious when he’s coming down from his endorphin high, and sometimes he says things he shouldn’t. But he trusts me, so he’s not as careful around me as some of the other girls.”
She said trusts, not trusted, which means unlike Frenchy, she doesn’t know he’s dead yet. “And what exactly did he say?”