Chapter 2
BEAST
I’ve been at this for three damn months and I still have nothing to show for my efforts.
Winter thawed a while back. Reaper’s Christmas lights are all packed up and I’ve missed every damn book club meeting for nine weeks in a row.
I break at least five traffic laws as I lean into back road curves and pass the cruisers out for a Friday night ride. I’m not out here joy-riding though I’d like to be.
The sun set about an hour ago and the seedy side of the Big Easy is just waking up as I slip over city limits.
Louisiana spring rides in with a humid wall of air, thick with the scent of old magnolia and city rot, but for me, the air still tastes like cold metal and burnt hope.
I open the throttle on my bike and let the sting of the air bite into my cheeks.
It feels damn good after a long winter to feel the power of my girl between my legs.
Her rumble does something to my soul. I push a little harder, my knuckles tight on the grips as I tear down the highway that splits the bayou from the sprawling cement of New Orleans.
Three months hunting the same ghost, chasing the same trail, and I’m no closer to Layla Wren now than the first time I heard her name.
I can’t help but feel a nagging suspicion this is going to drag on for a while yet. But someone knows something and I’m going to dig that fucker out one way or another.
The engine thrums between my legs, vibrating up my thighs, keeping me sharp.
My cut snaps in the wind, and I let the air bite at my neck, fighting the urge to look at my phone for the hundredth time today.
Her picture waits on the lock screen, black hair wild around her face, delicate shoulders barely visible under a too-big cardigan.
Hazel eyes behind black-rimmed glasses. What kills me most is she’s not smiling.
Or at least not for whoever took the photo.
She doesn’t look afraid, either. More like she’s waiting for life to be good to her.
Charli called the look in her eyes haunting.
I think she’s right, but there’s something else there too. Something that speaks to me.
Loneliness.
I throttle down and slide through the city at a slower pace.
I spent twelve weeks memorizing every freckle dusting the bridge of her nose over whiskey at midnight or coffee at dawn.
By now, she’s all I see when I close my eyes.
Every scar on my body, every line across my knuckles, they’re old stories.
But the ache inside me, the itch to find her, that’s brand new and it burns.
I don’t even know the sound of her voice, but somehow I know I’ll recognize it the second she speaks.
The Savage Reign crew has thrown every contact, favor, and bullet they can at finding Layla.
Storm chased a tip through half the bayou before the trail went cold.
Cipher ran every phone ping and ATM camera from the city to all the surrounding parishes.
Hell, I even called in a favor with Riot from the Bratva Savages, and that man doesn’t do shit for anyone outside his brotherhood.
In January we got so close I could smell the bleach on the abandoned railway car, the scorched metal where someone tried to burn the evidence.
By the time we got there, Layla and the Vultures were gone.
They left nothing behind but a pair of cheap sandals with glittery rhinestones and a broken gold chain.
I still have the chain tucked in my saddlebag like it will lead me to her somehow or some shit. Damn. I don’t know. It’s pathetic, maybe. But every man needs a reason to keep going. She’s mine, even if she doesn’t know it yet.
I flick my blinker, veering off the main drag and into the sticky heat of New Orleans proper.
The city is alive, all neon reflections and steamy gutters, jazz notes drifting through alleyways slick with last night’s sins.
My boots slap down onto wet pavement as I kill the engine outside the Viper Pit, the glittering temple to the Red Letter Syndicate’s vanity.
Rich motherfuckers with their hands in every single pot that rakes in the money. They stick to their business and we stick to ours. It’s a business arrangement that has worked for us since the beginning. There’s plenty of dough to go around and everyone is respectful of the other.
They drop major money in our establishments and we return the favor.
I inhale deeply and let the heavy air settle into the bottom of my lungs.
Even the air outside this place is different.
It is perfumed with money, egos, and arrogance.
Two valet boys in tuxedos stare at my bike.
I catch sight of myself in the mirrored windows, a big man in black jeans, boots scarred from years of riding, a white tee stretched across my chest and my cut sitting heavy on my shoulders.
My dark hair is cropped short, stubble roughing my jaw.
Tattoos coil up my arms and peek out beneath my collar, a patchwork of color and memory against my tan.
A woman dripping in layers of silk and diamonds walks by on the arm of a man in a suit that probably costs more than most make in a month.
I throw her a wink and offer an air kiss that makes her duck her head. But I caught the little smile on her red lips. Her man doesn’t approve and jerks her forward harshly. Asshole.
I shake my head slowly and huff out a chuckle. I might look like bad boy street trash, but women don’t seem to mind. Either way, I don’t belong here, and everyone knows it.
I swing my leg over the bike, ignoring the whispers and stares as I head for the doors. Some other rich bastard’s wife in diamonds gapes at my ink, clutching her pearls. If she knew what the suits inside this place did for a living, she’d throw herself into my arms and beg for protection.
The Viper Pit is all marble floors and gold trim, glass so clean it disappears and red velvet that drinks up the light.
A wall of mirrors lines the entryway, throwing my reflection back at me.
It’s hard, scarred, unsmiling. I stride past the smug crowd, headed for the far end of the club, where the real power in this place sits behind a round table, guarded by men who’ve never had to get their hands dirty. Not like I have, anyway.
The hostess tries to block my path with a saccharine smile. “Sir, do you have an appointment?”
I stop abruptly.
I meet her gaze, let my voice rumble low. “Tell Rafael that Beast from Savage Reign is here. He’s expecting me.”
She blinks, swallowing, and her bravado wavers for half a second. Good. She knows the name and at least some of the reputation behind it. She turns and quickly moves to the back table, her heels clicking a nervous beat on the marble.
I wait, eyes drifting to the screens over the bar, each one running silent news loops and market updates. The rich want to keep score even when they pretend they don’t care about the game.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I check the lock screen out of habit and the knots in my chest tighten.
Layla’s photo stares back at me. Those soft, hazel eyes, delicate lips, and defiant chin do to me now what they always do.
Make me want to crack skulls until I get answers.
There’s a kind of quiet strength in the line of her jaw that sticks with me and I can only hope she has enough of the strength in the rest of her to hold out until I can find her.
The hostess beckons me with a flick of her wrist. “Mr. Milano will see you now.”
Oh, goody.
I follow her down a hallway that smells of cigar smoke and top-shelf whiskey. Rafael waits in a room at the end, sunlight slanting through frosted glass, casting gold across polished wood and piles of cash. He’s in his mid-forties, sharply dressed, every movement precise.
He doesn’t stand when I enter, just tips his head and gestures at the seat across from him. “Beast. I take it you haven’t found your girl yet?”
I shake my head. “It’s why I asked Cipher to set up this little meet and greet.”
“Understood. How can I help?’
Nothing this man or his syndicate does will be free.
I settle in, leaning forward. “We need information. You and the rest of the Red Letter Syndicate have ties we don’t. A chemist. Her name is Layla Wren. She’s not just a club asset. She’s an innocent who’s been kidnapped and we need to find her.”
He steeples his fingers, appraising me. “You know how this works. You want a favor from the Syndicate, you owe one back. And you understand the price is never small.”
His eyes flicker to the tattoos peeking out under my sleeves, then up to my face. “You got a picture?”
It’s my turn to nod. “Understood.”
I thumb through my phone and show him the shot I’ve memorized.
Layla’s black hair loose around her shoulders, glasses a little crooked, freckles dusted across her nose.
Rafael’s gaze lingers, and I feel something sharp twist in my gut—possessive, protective urge to snap back my phone and hide her from his lingering gaze.
He slides the phone back to me.
“She’s pretty,” he says, voice cool. “I’ll ask around.”
I let the compliment pass. “We’ve been close before. Her last trail led to a burned-out railway car, south parish. The Vultures moved her again. I need a name, a location—anything.”
Rafael drums his fingers on the table, weighing the request. Finally, he leans back and gives a tight smile. “I’ve heard whispers about a new lab, an abandoned warehouse on the river. It’s nothing solid, but it’s more than you had.”
I nod. “What’s the price?”
His smile widens just a hair. “The Syndicate will name the favor when it’s time. You don’t get to ask questions about the terms.”
I grit my teeth, biting back the urge to tell him where to shove his favor. But this isn’t about pride. It’s about Layla.
“Done,” I say. “You get me to her, you can have whatever the fuck you want.”
He stands, signaling the meeting’s over. “I’ll text you the address. Good luck, Beast.”
Luck, I think, is for men who can afford to wait. I stand, feeling every eye in the Viper Pit on my back as I walk out, boots loud on the marble. Outside, the city hums with secrets, and I breathe deep, tasting rain, diesel, and the distant promise of blood.
The address comes in before I even reach my bike.
I punch it into my GPS, memorizing the route.
The drive out is rough, city lights fading to industry and the smell of the river growing thicker.
Warehouses loom up from the dark, old brick and corrugated tin, windows painted black or broken out.
My boots crunch on gravel as I step into the hollow belly of the place, flashlight sweeping the shadows.
The warehouse is empty, but not abandoned. I can smell bleach and chemicals, the sour stench of old fear.
Same old.
A folding table sits against one wall, stained with something dark. A cot with a ripped mattress, discarded food wrappers, a pair of panties, of all things lies, discarded near the chair.
Every breath in this place is a reminder of how close I am and how far away she still feels.
I check the corners, careful. There’s a trapdoor in the floor, open just a crack. My boots scuff against cold concrete as I drop into the darkness below.
The air down here is colder, thick with mildew. My flashlight beam dances across the walls, catching on a series of lines drawn in the dust.
In the far corner, someone has scrawled a message in the dirt.
find me. 420 P—
The rest is a smear, wiped away or never finished. My chest tightens as I squat to snap a picture, the grit rough beneath my fingers. It’s her. I know it in my bones.
Cipher will know what to do with this. I pull out my phone, text him the photo and the address. “420 P—means something. Find every possibility.”
His answer is immediate.
Will do. No promises.
I stand, the dust coating my palms. My mind races through every possibility.
Pine, Park, Place.
Every intersection, every dead end I can think of runs through my head. I close my eyes for a second, listening to the warehouse settle, the drip of water through some broken pipe, the echo of the highway far above.
I should feel frustrated. Angry. Most men would throw a punch at the wall or let the rage ride them all the way back to the club.
But standing here in the dark, surrounded by the last evidence of Layla’s existence, I only feel one thing—a certainty deeper than anything I’ve ever known. I’m going to find her. I’m going to tear apart every inch of this city until I do.
She’s out there somewhere, waiting for me. And next time I won’t be too late.
I climb back out, and pause at the top to look back.
She was here. I can feel it. Those fuckers had her shoved down here where fresh air and sunlight couldn’t reach her.
When I get a gun in my hand and a Vulture in front of me, I’ll be happy to return the favor and send them to hell where they will never know the light of another day.
The bike roars to life beneath me, the vibration steady, the sound familiar. The ride back is a blur of red taillights and the distant gleam of the city. I keep one thought in my head the entire ride…
Hang on, Layla. I’m coming.