39. Candy
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CANDY
A fter accepting help from Piero’s beauticians with my hair and makeup, I slip on a rich rosewood-colored silk Valentino gown with a plunging neckline and slit running up to my thigh. The color of the dress complements my bubblegum pink hair pinned in a tight crossed bun at the back of my head. My face practically glows from whatever the cosmetologist used on my skin, highlighting my light makeup and enhancing my brown eyes and cupid lips.
A quick check in the floor-length mirror has me smiling in approval. Damn , I look good. I may not have come from money, but you’d never know it the way I look at this moment.
“You’re a vision, Candy,” Piero compliments me as he escorts me to the limousine.
He, like the rest of the men going to the auction, wears a fine Armani black suit—well, almost all of them. Our bikers are a tad too big to fit into the slender, expensive garments, especially when they’re going to be wearing bullet-proof vests under their suits. Instead, they’re wearing black State & Liberty Athletic Fit Stretch suits, molding to their bodies to show off their thick physiques. Makes sense considering the physical job they’ll be doing on this assignment .
“Like an angel,” Piero purrs in his Italian accent as he helps me into the car.
Butch growls low in his chest outside the car’s open door, possessive of what’s his—like I am of him. He crawls in beside me, glaring daggers at Piero seated on the other side of me.
“Easy,” I placate Butch before I turn my attention back to Piero, scoffing at his compliment, “Angel? Please. Nothing about me is innocent. Get it straight. I’m a goddamn sex bomb. Ask my old man if you need further confirmation.”
Butch hums a happy sound.
Good. He should be at ease. Piero is not competition. It’s imperative Butch keeps his attention on the mission, and less on who may or may not be hitting on me. Though it’s obvious to me Piero is simply paying me a compliment with no romantic interest behind it. Rumor amongst the crew is, Piero is too distracted by his female accountant Rowan to notice any other woman. The man is a harmless flirt.
Tucked away in the limousine, we take off to the site of our assignment. The rest of the team is already in position around the property, waiting.
Tank hands us our earpieces for the evening—comms so tiny, I worry they’ll disappear in my ear canal. Possibly seeing my hesitation, Butch takes the ear piece from my hand and gently slips it into my ear. I thank him with a smile, and he winks at me in response, his way of saying, “No problem.”
Piero pulls out a long red velvet box from inside his suit jacket. He eyes me and then Butch before looking back at me with a smirk playing on his lips.
Again, Butch is growling. My earlier warning was not enough to bring him to heel. I firmly, yet not aggressively, smack the side of his knee with the back of my hand. “Cool it.”
Obeying my order, Butch quiets yet continues to glare at Piero.
“When it comes to your women, you bikers are too predictable.” Piero’s laughter cuts the tension in the car. He hands the velvet box to Butch. “Here. Do the honors. Can’t say I want any part of this. ”
I raise an eyebrow. “What part is that?”
“The tracker part,” Butch grumbles beside me, opening the box to show me an exquisite rose gold pendant necklace. He takes it out and slips it around my neck.
Most people would contest having a tracker put on them. Not me. I’ve lived through two scary incidents in the club where the tracker was the difference between life or death. I haven’t fought my way through life to pitch a fit over something I consider trivial in the grand scheme of things. Some inconveniences are necessary in club life.
I sigh as the weight of the pendant on the chain settles against the notch in my neck, cold against my skin. “At least the crew didn’t implant one in my arm like they did with Atlas or Gauge.”
“Or the rest of us,” Ziggy gripes in a sour tone.
“No way?!” I laugh. “Has it happened? Have all you hounds been micro-chipped?”
Butch, Tank, and Ziggy look put out, muttering a collective, “Yes,” under their breath.
“It’s for their protection,” Piero says nonchalantly, as if wearing a tracker was commonplace. “All my men have one, too.”
“Can’t have enough protection,” I admit, touching the pendant at my neck.
The ride to the auction house is quick—or it could be my anxiety making the trip seem faster. My stomach rolls as the massive stone estate comes into view. Never expected to return to this horrendous place. Though being here to aid others helps counteract my nerves.
Somehow, the auction site looks a little less ominous than it did all those times before. When you have a platoon of retired Navy SEALs, now mercenary bikers, at your back, you have a little more confidence.
Still, the danger is as great as it was all those times before—I need to remember not everything is fail-safe and be ready to defend myself if need be .
The car rolls to the front of the grand house in the circular driveway, coming to a stop at the large, heavy oak doors already open for us to enter.
Checking the time on his watch, Piero nods. “We’ve arrived right on schedule.”
“It sucks they separate all the auctioneers into arriving at different designated times,” Tank grumbles.
“They do it to keep the discretion of their clients safe,” Piero explains.
“Doesn’t help us with apprehending all the perpetrators,” Ziggy adds as he checks the ammo in his Glock. “Even with eyes on the ground, our men can’t always see who’s entering the estate.”
“Nothing about this will be easy,” Atlas says through the comms. “Keep your wits about you and note everything and anyone you see.”
“Roger that,” Ziggy says, holstering his gun underneath his blazer.
Butch takes my hand in his. With his free hand, he tenderly pulls my bottom lip down, releasing my upper teeth’s hold on it. I hadn’t realized I was biting my lip. Nerves have a way of manifesting openly if you’re not too careful. It’s the reality check I need to armor myself before heading into the viper’s den.
My biker’s warm hazel eyes hold mine. A small comfort at this uncertain moment.
“If you want out at any time?—”
“I’ll say, ‘Out,’” I finish, gently squeezing his hand. “I got this, biker boy.”
Like any excellent investigator, he analyzes my face to see if I’m telling the truth. He nods when he finds I’m being honest. “Stick close to Piero, and I’ll stick close to you.”
“Got it.”
“Ready?” Piero asks, eyeing all of us.
We give a collective nod, and Piero’s passenger door is opened. He steps out with a flourish, holding his hand out for me to take. I place my hand in his, carefully stepping out of the car. Knowing all eyes are on us, I straighten my back and lift my chin.
It’s showtime.
Slipping my arm through Piero’s, we saunter into the estate like we own the place, paying no mind to the two guards stationed outside the front doors and two standing right within the estate. I wear a mask of indifference, not stopping to marvel at the grandeur of the black marble foyer and dark slate and wrought iron sweeping staircase. The place honestly looks like an expensive prison upon seeing it again. In many ways, it is a prison for those being sold today.
We don’t make it a few feet within the entrance of the manor when an agonizingly familiar stout man with a ruddy complexion rushes toward us. The navy blue suit he wears is tailored too tightly around his round body, making his thighs create friction while walking. He swoosh—swoosh—swooshes right to us with labored breath.
“Signore Bianchi! Welcome.”
My fingers grip Piero’s arm. The mobster covers my shaking hand in the crook of his elbow with his free hand, possibly trying to shield me from my trauma resurfacing. It takes all my remaining self-control to stop the rest of my body from quivering as we come face-to-face with Patrick Duffy.
“It’s a pleasure meeting you in person.” Duffy thrusts out his pudgy, more than likely sweaty, hand at Piero. A shiver runs up my spine at the sight of his hand. Memories of what he did with those awful mitts creeps into my mind. It’s a struggle to brush away those memories.
My biker must sense my unease. Butch subtly slides closer behind me. His warmth snaps me back to reality, chasing away those lingering fears. I mentally head slap myself. There are twenty women relying on me playing my part.
I will not fail them.
Luckily, Duffy is too transfixed on Piero to notice me. I prefer it this way. It’ll make my role easier without the pig’s attention on me.
“You must be Duffy,” Piero drawls, his tone flat with a slight edge of hostility as he takes Duffy’s outstretched hand. “The man who dared to steal from my city.”
“Ah!” Duffy yips, wincing. “Quite the handshake you have there, sir. And what’s this stealing nonsense? We’re partners.”
Piero’s smile is forced, almost calculating—not at all friendly. Alarm bells would go off in my head if he was smiling at me the way he is at Duffy.
Suddenly, Piero yanks Duffy forward, bringing him to his knees at our feet. The mobster pulls a pistol out of the inside of his blazer, holding it against Duffy’s temple. The confrontation forces me to release Piero’s arm, stepping backward into the security of Butch’s embrace. My biker carefully spins me behind him, his body coiled tight and ready to fight. Ziggy moves close behind me, surrounding me in a protective bubble.
Piero’s men don’t flinch at this sudden change in their boss, almost like it’s normal for him to flip at the drop of a hat. All they do is aim their weapons at the armed guards, their faces devoid of emotion or fear. Hell, even Tank reacts the same way, his gun trained at the guard at the top of the stairs. However, he’s used to these snake-like strikes, having served under the mob for many years.
Duffy’s armed guards are slower to react. They train their guns at Piero and our men, but Duffy waves them off with his free hand. His guards reluctantly stand down, watching closely.
The atmosphere is heavy with Duffy’s dread pluming the surrounding air. No one dares move as we watch the scene unfold.
This isn’t the Piero who’s befriended our MC. This is a dangerous man flexing his muscle—the new Don of Denver. Lorenzo had his moments, but I never witnessed him go full lethal like his cousin. He usually let one of his goons do the dirty work.
Not Piero. He apparently is okay with getting blood on his hands. Guess that’s why he fits in with our lot.
Petrified, Duffy stares up at him, probably sensing how badly he overstepped.
“Partners?” Piero chuckles darkly before his face turns stern .
Duffy stammers. “Aren’t we?”
“ No, amico mio. This is your one and only test run to prove to me you can work in my circle. If you fail…” He smirks, patting Duffy on his Rosacea-pink jowl with the barrel of his pistol. “…well, don’t fail me and there won’t be a need to worry.”
It may be all an act, but I don’t doubt for a second this is how Piero operates in his world. The man is terrifying. Thank God he’s on our side.
“S—Sure, Signore Bianchi,” Duffy stutters as Piero releases his death grip on him. He staggers back onto his feet. Duffy attempts to appear unaffected, smiling like his life wasn’t threatened seconds ago. “Let me show you to your box seats and explain the rules of the auction.”
Having a hard time keeping my gleeful smile in check, I give a little harrumph as I slide my arm back through Piero’s with ease.
The don acts bored as Duffy drones on about how the auction works, how to place a bid, and where to pick up the merchandise after purchase. In actuality, Piero is taking in our surroundings like the rest of our team is doing.
Cameras cover every inch of the estate, monitoring all our movements. I do my best not to shy away when I notice another black orb on the wall as we ascend the grand staircase, blinking its little red light as we pass. Standing tall with my shoulders back, I give the appearance that I belong here—that I own it. If we weren’t on a rescue mission, I’d probably flip off a camera to show whoever’s on the other side of the monitor screen watching that they’re my bitch.
As we make our way to our private seating, Butch, Tank, and Ziggy give updates about the interior layout and how many armed guards they spot and their locations through their comms, talking low to avoid Duffy or the security we pass from overhearing. If anyone were to look at them, they’d assume they were talking amongst themselves. I would add to the conversation, although I fear I might alert Duffy of my identity. He may not see it’s me under the pink hair and designer clothes. But hearing a voice, one he made scream for mercy, may jog his memory.
Duffy blabbers on a mile a minute as he shows us to our center luxury box. The room is dimly lit, adding to the privacy. The space is completely black—black walls, black carpet, black furnishings—giving the atmosphere a foreboding vibe. It makes sense. Cowards like to hide in the dark.
Through the tinted panoramic window in the room, we can see the center stage highlighted by lights on the floor around the raised platform. The other box seats surrounding the stage are muted of light like ours, making it difficult to see anything beyond the tinted glass.
“Can you make out any of the attendees?” Chase asks through the comms.
“Negative,” Butch murmurs at a barely audible level.
There’s cursing over the comms before Atlas brings order to the group. “Chase, Gauge, Punk, and I will take out the windows when the time arrives. We’ll uncover these fuckers.”
Piero helps me into my seat, taking the one beside mine as a small group of servers comes bustling in with a mini spread to feed us before taking our drink orders.
“Champagne for the lady. Whiskey neat for me,” the don says, ordering for the two of us. Anything to prevent me from speaking.
Dabbing the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief, Duffy asks, “Is the room to your liking?”
“It’s fine,” Piero says in a tired tone, taking the drinks from our server before handing me mine. Drinking seems like an unwise idea, given the circumstances we’re in. Yet it’s expected. I take a dainty sip, avoiding looking directly at anyone.
Duffy practically preens over Piero’s comment, like it’s the best compliment he’s received in his life. Hell, it may be. “Wonderful. We want all our guests comfortable.”
Aside from those being auctioned .
As Duffy explains the buttons Piero would need to use to place his bid, the door to our suite opens, flooding the space with light.
The air shifts, a cold draft creeps over my skin. The shadow of a man can be seen on the wall, growing bigger the closer he comes.
My stomach rises to my throat as I hear the familiar heavy Irish accent of the man I fear most.
“Leslie. So good to see you again, mo pheata .”