Chapter Seventeen
Stefano
PAIN THROBS BEHIND MY left eye as Oscar slows to a stop beneath the flickering streetlight outside the defunct building.
Muttering a curse, I knock back a double dose of painkillers and close my eyes for a beat, before getting out of the vehicle.
Benito, the lead of the Soldati team on lock here, trudges up to me and nods. “We’ve got them subdued, boss.”
“Great work, Nito.”
I walk through the rusted, thorn-choked gates and descend the crumbling concrete steps to the old underground brewery. The heavy-duty steel door hangs off its hinges. A result of the explosives my men used to blast it open.
My migraine intensifies as I stroll into the dank, cavernous space.
Lined against the weathered wall, bound and on their knees, are several of the mangy bastards from the Skullaz Motorcycle Club. Including their president, Cutter.
Once the Liquid Blue bartender vanished and they realized their secret op to attack Black Gold was busted, they scattered like cockroaches and went into hiding. Cowards.
Of course, I’ve known where they were all along, but I figured I’d let them sweat. Let them get a taste of what it feels like to live in hiding from me. In the meantime, we tracked down who hired them to carry out their dirty work.
See, Skullaz MC are nothing but a group of bottom-feeding, kill-for-hire scum wrapped in leather and ink. A disgrace to real motorcycle clubs. Sloppy, trigger-happy clowns loyal only to money.
They live and breathe in this city by my grace. No chance they would ever risk coming after me unless they were paid.
“Cutter…Cutter…” I shake my head and tsk. “Did you really think you could hide from me in my city?” Letting the silence hang for a moment, I slip my hands into my pockets, disinclined to take another step into this mold-infested pit. “You think I don’t know about all your safe houses?”
“Look, man, I ain’t never wanted no part of this from the jump, alright? Didn’t even know what those fools were up to. I don’t deserve to die for this shit, man. Please.”
Pathetic.
No one in the Skullaz MC jumps without Cutter telling them how high. But he’s always been quick to throw his own under the bus. That’s why he split the club members between safe houses. The ones at the other safe house downtown are the sacrificial lambs. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Come on, Cutter. No need to beg.” I tilt my head. “Who do you think you are that I’d come all this way just to kill you? You’re scum. If I wanted you dead, I’d have one of my lowest-ranking men put you down like the mangy dog you are.”
Throb. Throb. Throb.
Pain spreads across my forehead with splintering viciousness.
“That said…” I go on, “If you keep lying to save your ass, I might just change my mind.”
Cutter clams up, jaw tight, watching me warily. “If you ain’t here to put me in the ground, then what?”
“To give you a chance to make up for your…offense against me.”
“Anything,” he blurts. “I’ll do anything!”
Fuck. My skull feels like it’s splitting in two. Why the hell aren’t the goddamn painkillers doing their goddamn job?
“Your task is to incite a war between the scattered cartel factions still squabbling for control along the border. The ones that have been circling like vultures since the fall of El Depravados.”
Cutter’s brows shoot up. “Whoa, wait. How the hell am I supposed to do that? The war just ended. Jose Hernandez came out on top and the rest already white-flagged and called a truce—”
“Did I ask you for an update on the current state of L.A. cartels?”
Jose Hernandez, the newly crowned kingpin, is who hired them. A blind hire. These idiots had no clue who they were working for.
Hernandez won the border war, then jumped in bed with my adversary. There’s only one reason why he would do that. He was promised something he knows he’ll never get as long as I’m running this city
Turf.
I don’t tolerate large-scale drug operations in my city. Never have. Never will.
To keep the tourists high and happy, I allow a small, tightly run Irish family to move modest product. Keeps things contained. Clean. Controlled.
It took years of crackdowns to get the chaos out. Years of blood and force to build the order we have now. Big drug business means big crime. Gang wars. Blood-soaked turf wars. Dead bodies on the strip. That shit scares tourists. And without tourism, the city dies.
Bad for business. Period.
But the cartels don’t quit. They’re relentless. My shutdowns and hard nos are never enough. They keep coming. Keep trying.
My rejections only make them hungrier.
What Hernandez doesn’t know is that my adversary promised him something they can’t deliver. They think taking me out means they inherit the keys to the kingdom. That they can just move in and start calling the shots.
That’s not strategy. That’s delusion. The kind that gets you killed.
Hell, it’s a delusion I had in the beginning.
Self-made? No such fucking thing. There are levels to this game. Approval that goes beyond me. Powers that pull the strings and call the shots.
Those same shot-callers are the reason I’m not plunging a rusty blade into Cutter’s liver right now. Or giving the sniper parked outside Hernandez’s place in Anaheim the green light to fire a bullet through his bedroom window.
Every king answers to a god. Took me years to swallow that particular humility pill. Leaning too hard into ego this past year, and forgetting that truth, is exactly why I’m here now, standing in front of a bottom-feeder like Cutter.
This is me being humbled. Again.
A reminder that the power I have isn’t just earned. It’s allowed. And if I want to keep it, I play by the rules.
Be smart, live long. Ride ego, die young.
Cutter whines, “But I don’t know h-how—”
With a snap of my fingers, one of my Soldati steps forward and tosses a duffel bag at his feet.
“That’s two hundred large,” I say. “An added incentive.” I step closer, my voice low.
“Drop a few bodies in gory, cartel fashion. I know you’re nothing but a crew of half-brained killers-for-hire, but put some effort into being creative on this one.
Make sure nothing traces back to you. Hire some thousand-dollar thugs off the street if you have to.
Doesn’t matter how you do it, the end result should be mayhem among them. All-out war.”
Cutter stares greedily at the duffel bag. No doubt he’s never had that much money tossed his way for anything.
“And to be clear,” I say, “if you fuck this up, nothing and no one will be able to save you. This is your only shot with me.”
“I—okay.” He nods hard, eyes still glued to the cash. “Okay. I’ll get it done. I won’t disappoint. I’ll get it done.”
“Good.” I turn to leave, then pause to add, “As added incentive, we’ll be holding your men from the other safe house. I’m aware they’re your expendable bunch, but they are not. Their knowledge of that fact depends on you getting the job done right. Efficiently.”
Halfway up the stairs, I stop, rethink…fuck it.
“You know what…” I turn and head back down the stairs. “I change my mind.”
Cutters eyes widen. “What? What do you mean.”
“Eh. I don’t like that you lied to my face when I first walked in. Or that you’re such a sellout to your own men.” I pull my gun. “So, I guess I am here to kill you after all.”
“Wait, no! PLEASE, I—”
“Be honored,” I tell him, then put a silent bullet through his forehead.
As he slumps over at my feet, eyes wide, mouth agape, I turn to the Vice President of the club. Bowie. Point my gun at his head and arch a brow.
Understanding, he nods vigorously, “I can get it done! I can get it done! I’ll get it done!”
“Now that’s the spirit.” I lower my gun. “Congratulations. You’re the new President. I’ll be in touch.”
Between the rancid air down here and the warzone pulsing in my skull, I damn near power-walk out of that pit.
~
BY THE TIME I wrap things up and make it back to Black Gold, the painkillers finally kick in, taking the edge off.
At this rate, putting a bullet in my own brain is starting to feel like a reasonable solution to these migraines.
If I thought my twin could survive without me, I would...
Speak of the devil.
In my office. Lounging and sipping my whiskey.
He’s what keeps me from putting that bullet in my head.
“Something wrong with your own office?” I ask as I stroll in. “Your own whiskey?”
“Nope.” He swirls the ice in his glass. “Just needed to get away from everyone for a bit. And no one comes near your office.”
He leans back, relaxed. “You know, I used to wonder why you tucked your space all the way back here. But these days, I’m starting to get it.”
“Go find your own damn haven.” I take off my jacket and toss it over an armchair. “Stay out of mine.”
“If that’s your attitude, then go find your own damn assistant,” he shoots back. “You’ve had Raya long enough.”
A strange, intense feeling tightens in my chest at the sound of her name.
For the past week and a half, I’ve been using her to fill in for Gio, handling the administrative shit he usually takes care of. A role she slipped into with ease. Had everyone marching to her beat in no time.
Watching her these past few days has been...interesting.
In my quiet observation, I’ve realized people have no problem handing their trust over to her like it’s an offering. Because her knowledge is deep, her confidence clean and commanding. It puts them at ease.
She’s a natural mollifier. The kind that lulls you into a false sense of security, while she slowly coils around you like a python.
And that…that makes her dangerous. Lethal. Every reason not to trust her.
Still...I’m not ready to give her back yet. Watching her has become my new favorite thing.
“When Gio’s better—”
“Gio is better,” Lorenzo cuts in. “The fucker’s just milking it to keep Raya around. Playing the sick card to slack off and soak up her attention.”
That feeling in my chest shifts. Burns. A harsh, unwelcome heat that flares every time I hear of Gio and Raya together.