18. Ares
Ares
“Who’s the cheap date?” Daria asks me, pointing to the VIP section from my office at Club Wicked.
I stand up and join her at the smoky glass. “She’s David Sinclair’s last taste of freedom. I need a reason for him to stay long enough for me to get Quinlan here.”
I stare down at David pawing at the woman with big tits. Reaching for my phone, I call down to Atlas. “Table Six. Double the strength of the drinks and keep his glass filled. I’m making the call now.”
The assassin picks up. “What?”
I shake my head at his lack of personality. I really hope he starts banging that neighbor of his.
“My target is here. I’m getting him drunk. Be here in fifteen minutes. It’s happening. Tonight.” I hang up and push a hand through my hair.
Daria smirks. “And if he’s on another assignment?”
“I’ll do it myself.” I hide how I really want to be the one to choke the last breath from David Sinclair.
Rhys Quinlan shows up fifteen minutes on the dot, and my hostess brings him to a table across from Sinclair. He sits at a curved banquette with a complimentary bottle of Jameson.
Wanting to show a position of strength, I wrangle Atlas and Ambrose as well as putting all seven of my guards on alert. We reach Quinlan’s table, and before I can remark on the alcohol choice, Quinlan greets me first.
“Ares.” He says my name with his usual lack of warmth.
“You see my persistent problem.” I point across the dance floor to where Sinclair sits, his date rubbing his dick under the table.
“I see.” Quinlan clocks him looking bored.
“Rarely do these leeches stick to drugs and weapons,” I say to keep up the ruse that Sinclair’s disrespect is transactional and that I’m merely being territorial. “Human trafficking usually follows. No one is using my club for anything illegal. Without permission or payment.”
“It’s easy to launder dirty money with expensive liquor,” Rhys remarks dryly.
“Next, he’ll be making deals with other families. All without our blessing,” I hiss to make this a potential Quinlan Empire problem. “That ends tonight.”
“Why don’t you let me throw him out?” Rhys fires off a curveball. “Make an example out of him, and maybe he’ll move on.”
Not expecting the hesitation, I bristle, “If you make a show of kicking him out, the distributor or mafia boss he’s dealing for might show up next.” I then drop the hint, “You should know powers are consolidating.”
Rhys doesn’t react to my comment.
“This man needs to quietly disappear,” I add, meeting his eyes.
“Making people disappear is my specialty.” Rhys downs his drink.
“I have my seven guards standing by.” I straighten and signal Wrath to gather everyone.
“What happened to guards guard?” Rhys mocks my earlier comment, standing up.
“They are here to guard me,” I clarify and stand as well.
“In case handsy-man over there has an accomplice planted somewhere?” Quinlan asks, snorting.
I grip the assassin’s shoulder. “I talk. You destroy, got it?”
With my seven guards in a formation to act as a visual barrier to the rest of my customers, I approach Sinclair’s booth first. I make eye contact with the woman and signal her to leave. She pulls her hand away and flees the table.
Sinclair looks at me, then takes in Quinlan and my guards. The way he pales shows he understands what he’s up against. What he unleashed. And how he miscalculated everything.
“How many times are you going to come here and embarrass yourself?” I say to get it off my chest.
“Fuck off, Zervas.” The alcohol fuels his bravado, but he won’t have a pulse in a few minutes. “Do you think I don’t know what you really want?”
At the sharp disrespect, Quinlan comes abreast of me. The look of terror in Sinclair’s eyes suggests Griffin’s assassin has earned himself a reputation for being feared on contact.
Quinlan leans across the table and rasps in his Peaky Blinders deadly accent, “Do you want to tell me to fuck off?”
Sinclair opens his mouth, but Quinlan isn’t here to talk. He reaches across the table and with one hand drags Sinclair out of the booth by his leather jacket. Everything on the table ends up on my floor, the shattered glass amplifying the assassin’s force.
My guards and brothers continue to block the scene while creating a path to the back room of my club. That’s where people find out what happens to them when they’ve reached the end of my patience.
Quinlan, who’s done this before, tosses Sinclair down into a metal chair and takes over.
I salivate to watch him experience the worst beating of his life.
Before Quinlan starts, I get in one good punch and love the crunch of his nose. “That is for her.”
Sinclair only looks remotely surprised that I took my obsession over his wife to this extreme. But my comment throws Quinlan off. Not that I care.
“You gonna just stand there?” I push him, wiping blood from my hands.
“Hardly.” The assassin ups the game and takes out a knife. Licking the blade, he says, “Tell me when I can start cutting off fingers.”
“You won’t get away with this,” Sinclair snarls.
“I already have, mate.”
What follows isn’t a fight. It’s an execution delayed for entertainment. Quinlan sinks his knife into Sinclair’s thigh, smashes his nose again, then delivers such a vicious punch to the chest that I swear I heard a few ribs break.
Sinclair is a wheezing mess on the floor. I consider filming this to show Lourdes. But Quinlan’s beating is gruesome.
He crouches and grips Sinclair’s jaw. “You done now, or do you want me to drag this out?”
He spits blood in Rhys’s face. Whoa, that was a mistake. Quinlan smiles, but then shit starts going wrong.
With a burst of desperation that surprises us all, Sinclair rips the knife from his own leg and lunges. On instinct, I jump in and knock the blade away. Growling, David lifts the metal chair and swings it at Rhys, catching him on the back.
My assassin hits the floor, and this controlled beating erupts into fucking chaos. I pull my gun and want to end this myself, but with Quinlan and Sinclair rolling around on the floor, I don’t want to kill Rhys by mistake.
I’m even attacked with guilt that I didn’t tell Quinlan that he was up against a professional hitman like himself. Getting him help, I back up to the door and open it.
“Greed,” I call out to the closest guard in the hallway. “Get in here.”
But glass explodes behind me. One of the windows is shattered, and Sinclair is gone.
Quinlan slowly rises from the floor, wiping blood from his mouth. “He was supposed to be just a drug dealer.”
“Well, he’s not.” I straighten.
“Who the fuck was that?” Quinlan grabs me by the suit jacket.
Greed immediately puts a gun to the assassin’s head, but I hiss my dissent, “Wrong person to shoot.”
My guard holsters his weapon and looks out the window. “He climbed the chain-link fence. He’s gone, boss.”
Quinlan pulls himself together. To him, this was a missed opportunity. For me, this was an epic failure with deadly consequences.
“He’s in bad shape, limped to the street and got into a cab,” Greed reports further.
I leave the night demon to lick his wounds and rush into the hallway.
Grabbing Wrath, I say, “I need all of you right now. Follow me to Hell’s Kitchen. I have to get Lourdes.”