Chapter 3
Chapter Three
JAX
I’m so fucking pissed right now that I’m more than likely going to murder everyone in this goddamn nightclub. I don’t give a shit that most of the people here are innocent and had no clue Alejandro had my woman somewhere in this building, torturing her for days.
The strobing lights pulse to the beat of the music, illuminating faces as I push through the mass of bodies dancing, drinking, and dry humping without a care in the world. My damn glasses keep fogging up from all the body heat being given off from the patrons drenched in sweat as they carelessly writhe to whatever the DJ is playing. In my peripheral, Keane is talking to the bartender, slipping him a few Benjamins for his troubles and to pump him for information.
Andie was here all along, right under our noses. Just blocks from Falcon Tower. My Angel. So close. And I failed her. I’m supposed to be the smart one. The guy who can find anyone, anywhere with a quick keystroke. I can erase you from existence like you were never born. Yet, I couldn’t find my woman, who was less than ten minutes away from me.
A guy backs into me as he dances, and my hand automatically goes to my knife. The one with the red handle I gave Andie that she asked me to keep safe for her. The knife I used to slit my father from groin to neck. The one Andie used to kill Max. And the same one I’m going to enjoy using on Alejandro. Slowly. Just the thought of it has my eyes about to roll into the back of my head and my cock getting hard. Images of Alejandro strung up—pieces of his flesh carved out and sliced off, my body covered in his blood while I fuck Andie in front of him—send waves of wicked pleasure through me.
A firm hand grips my wrist, stilling me from taking out my weapon. Keane’s voice speaks into my ear over the loud music. “Upstairs.”
I nod to let him know I heard him and follow him off the dance floor. I’ve already messed with the security cameras in the building, putting the feed on a loop to hide that we were ever here.
Adjacent to the bar is a set of stairs that leads up to the VIP section of the club. At the back of the dark hallway is a red door. The grunts and moans of people having sex are heard from behind closed doors to a few of the private rooms we pass. Two guys are openly fucking against the wall of the hallway, not a care in the world that Keane and I are there. There’s an open door to the right where two men are doing lines of coke off a woman’s naked body while she finger-fucks herself.
As soon as we reach the red door, Keane pulls out a gun. In a lowered voice full of repressed violence, he says, “Bartender said the owner arrived a little while ago.”
With a swift heel kick from his shit-kicker boots, the door flies open, and we step inside.
“What the fuck!” a guy shouts, abruptly standing up from the chair he was sitting in behind the desk and knocking over the woman who had been sucking him off. She scrambles to her feet and ducks behind him. Like that’ll save her.
I quietly close the door and lean back against it. Keane approaches the man, gun steady and aimed at his head. This is his show now. I’ll be a quiet spectator until it’s time for me to join the party.
“Get the fuck out of my office!” the man yells, tucking himself back into his trousers and zipping up his fly.
The man has a slick look that you’d expect from a nightclub owner. Blond hair greased back off his forehead. Expensive silk shirt with the top four buttons undone to show off an expanse of chest hair. Gold chains around his neck and a couple of large, gaudy gold rings on his fingers. Stupid wannabe fucker is also wearing a thick gold chain bracelet around his right wrist and a solid gold Rolex on his left. Couldn’t get more clichéd if he tried.
I’ve already snapped a picture of him and sent it to Tessa to run a facial recognition with her software. In a matter of minutes, I’ll know everything about him from his time of birth to what he eats for breakfast.
Keane looks the man over as he stalks toward him. “You get one chance to tell me what I want to know,” he says, and I know he’s telling the truth. Keane won’t hesitate to kill him if the guy tries to spew bullshit to save his own skin.
The dark-haired woman whimpers as she clutches the back of the man’s black dress shirt and peeks around him at us with mascara-streaked brown eyes.
Keane cocks his head at her. “I suggest you sit the fuck down right now and shut the hell up,” he warns her. We have an unspoken rule about not killing women. Doesn’t mean that we haven’t in the past if they deserved it.
Absolutely terrified, she does what he says and immediately sits down in the chair next to her.
“Now,” Keane says, his demeanor black with rage, directing his gaze back at the man. “Alejandro Ortiz was holding a woman here.”
The guy swallows thickly. “I don’t know?—”
He never gets a chance to finish his sentence. Keane smashes the butt of his gun against his head, and the guy falls to the floor, crying out in pain.
“Get up,” Keane states coldly.
Staggering back to his feet, the man shakes as he wipes blood away from his temple. The click of the safety disengaging on the gun Keane is holding has the man wide-eyed with fear. If he didn’t understand before that Keane’s threat was serious, he does now.
“Not going to repeat myself.”
Licking his thick lips, the guy says, “I don’t know their names.”
My phone vibrates and I smile.
“We know yours, Michael Elliot Donahue of 1431 Grand Parkway. Age twenty-seven. Graduated from Highland High School with a two-point-three GPA. College drop-out. Three speeding tickets. Never married. No kids. One brother, age eighteen and a senior in high school. Two sisters. One’s a housewife with one kid. The other, a veterinarian, recently graduated from NC State. Mother’s name, Barbara Michelle Garrett Donahue. Father deceased. Died in a car accident last year. Shall I go on?” I ask him.
Michael’s face blanches of all color. “How did you… Jesus, fuck.”
Jesus, fuck indeed.
“I swear, they never told me their names.” He looks pleadingly at Keane, who is still holding a gun at his head.
“Describe them,” Keane clips out, close to losing whatever patience he has left.
Michael scrapes trembling hands over his face. “Some scary dude. Hispanic. Had tattoos all over his head and face.”
Alejandro. As Michael talks, I type everything he says into my phone so I can send it to Tessa.
“What about the other man? Older. Dark hair and eyes. Hispanic like the first guy. There was security footage of him here with a woman in the back alley.”
Keane and I know about that now. This club, Spanks, is one of the businesses under the “protection” of the Rossi syndicate. Dom managed this part of the city for Max. That’s how Rita knew about it, and why she was here meeting with Julio in the back alley. And I never put two and two together. Andie suffered because of my careless mistake. I’m still berating myself over the fact that I wasn’t the one who discovered that Rita had been meeting with Julio right under our noses in our fucking city. Betraying our family. Keane killed his own father because of a similar situation. We don’t tolerate snitches in la famiglia .
Tears pool in Michael’s eyes when Keane steps closer until the muzzle of his gun touches the middle of Michael’s forehead.
“Older guy was more polished. Wore an expensive suit. Didn’t talk to me. Only the young guy did. That’s all I know. I swear on my life.”
I follow Keane’s gaze when he looks down at the dark, wet patch that quickly spreads out and soaks the man’s trousers at the crotch. He literally pissed himself. What a pussy.
The woman hasn’t made a peep, continuing to obey Keane’s command to remain quiet.
“What did the two men want with you?” Keane asks him.
“Use of the private rooms downstairs. I needed the money. I’m late on a payment.”
Satisfied that he’s gotten all the answers he can from Michael, Keane jerks his chin at me, giving me the signal that it’s my turn to play. A smile creases my cheeks.
“What’s your social security number, sweetheart?” I direct at the woman.
She quickly rambles it off, knowing better than to ask why or what for.
Sliding my phone into my back pocket, I tell her, “You’re now the proud owner of Spanks. The deed of ownership for the building and all licenses have been transferred over to your name, along with one million dollars in a secured offshore account.”
“What are you talking about?” she asks with confusion, her body quaking so badly, the chair she’s sitting in moves jerkily across the floor.
“A man named Garrett will contact you tomorrow. I suggest you pick up when he calls.” She nods yes. “You never saw us. Understood?”
“I understand,” she says, on the verge of hyperventilating. I know she won’t talk about what she saw tonight. And if she does?—
“Good. Now watch closely,” I tell her, grabbing the stapler off Michael’s messy desk. I want her to see every second of what I do next.