Chapter 9 Vapor
I stumble through the door of the sorority house, desperate to find my sister Demi. The air’s heavy with the mingled scents of jasmine and stale beer. My stomach rolls. The place reeks of sex, drugs, and debauchery. No one looks my way as the party roars on. It’s as if I’m invisible, a ghost in their midst.
A cacophony of laughter and jazz music hurts my ears. I raise my hands to cover them, moving through a sea of writhing bodies. The college kids dance in frenzied desperation as if being controlled by an invisible puppet master. Several look right at me with demonic black eyes.
My heart pounds in my chest, a primal drumbeat that quickens with each step.
“Demi!” I call, my voice drowned out by the noise. “Demi, where are you?”
No answer.
I press on, my mind racing with the dread that has gnawed at me all night. Something is wrong. I can feel it in my bones.
Reaching the staircase, I take the steps two at a time. My breath explodes from my chest in ragged gasps. My feet drag across the rotting wooden floor. A board cracks. I fall as one foot pierces through the floor, dangling over the partygoers below.
Across the hall, spectral monsters glide toward me from an otherworldly realm. The hallway stretches out before me like a labyrinth, doors lining each side, all closed. I yank my foot free, trying to think. Which one is hers?
A flash of an old memory hits me. Demi’s laughing as she shows me her room. It’s next to the bathroom just down the hall.
The floor morphs into a slippery, polished marble that seems entirely out of place in the house. Ignoring it, I keep walking. I carefully avoid making eye contact with the malignant spirits haunting the house.
When I get to her room, I push the door open. It creaks loudly in the suddenly deafening silence. “Demi?”
There’s no one inside.
Returning to the hallway, I make my way to the door marked with a flowery sign that reads “Bathroom.”
The door is ajar. I push it open, the hinges groaning in protest. The bathroom is dark, the only light coming from a flickering bulb above the mirror. Shadows dance on the walls, twisting into grotesque shapes that seem to mock me.
“Demi?” My voice is a whisper now, a plea.
Then I see her.
She’s slumped against the bathtub, her head tilted to the side, eyes closed as if in peaceful sleep. But there is nothing peaceful about the scene. Her skin is pale, almost translucent, a stark contrast to the dark bruises that mar her arms. An empty syringe lies on the tile beside her, a damning testament to her final moments.
“No… no, no, no…” I drop to my knees beside her, my hands trembling as I reach out to touch her face. Her skin is cold, devoid of the warmth that once radiated from her.
“Wake up. Please, wake up.” My voice cracks, the words choking me as tears blur my vision. I shake her gently, then harder, desperately trying to rouse her.
But she doesn’t wake up. She will never wake up.
A sob tears from my throat, raw and guttural, as I cradle her lifeless body in my arms. The world outside the bathroom fades away. The noise from the party is nothing but a distant echo lost to time. All that remains is the crushing weight of loss, the unbearable reality that my little sister is gone.
The flickering light above the mirror casts a sickly glow on the scene. Shadows close in around me like a shroud. I hold her tighter as my heart breaks into a thousand pieces, each one a shard of pain that will never heal.
And in this moment, in the silence of the bathroom, I feel the darkness consume me, an inescapable void that swallows me whole.
I wake up in a cold sweat. It takes a moment to realize I’m not back in the sorority house where I found her. I’m in the clubhouse, alone. And she’s gone.
Wiping the perspiration off my face, I stumble out of bed and over to the connected bathroom. Splashing cold water on my skin, I try to shake off the horror of what happened the day I found my sister dead from a drug overdose.
I’ll never be able to hug my sister again. Never walk her down the aisle or help her buy her first home. I’ll never get to vet her husband or see her kids. She’ll never be older than she was the day she died. Eighteen years old.
And for what?
Profit.
The night I found her, I knew something was terribly wrong. I had no idea she was using. She was too smart to do something like that. But I couldn’t deny what was right in front of me. I’m still not sure why I did it, but I slipped the syringe into my pocket.
Fang sent it to a friend at a lab who tested a trace amount of fluid. Heroin and fentanyl. Based on his findings, he told Fang the heroin was laced with so much fentanyl that no one could have survived it.
That began my crusade to find out who killed her. I went a little crazy, interrogating the sorority bitches until one of them cracked and gave me the name of her dealer. I hunted that fucker down and had a party torturing him until he gave up his employer: Los Serpientes de Cristal.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I already knew. But getting confirmation gave me a target. I’m going to avenge my sister’s death no matter what it takes. Getting close to Broussard is just one avenue I’m taking to try to find out how to bring down the cartel. I’ve got other irons in the fire, but so far, nothing’s panned out.
It’s been two years since her death, and I can still smell the scent of death. The nightmares still come, but they’re not as bad as they were the first few months. In a strange way, I welcome them because they remind me of why I’m taking such huge risks with my men. I don’t want anyone else to suffer the way I have. No one else’s sisters should die at the hands of the cartel.
And they’re not just into drugs. Human trafficking is becoming a huge part of their business. It’s one more reason why I must find a way to destroy them.
An image of Blue in that red dress she was wearing the first night I met her pops into my head. She might be the key to getting what I need to bring down the cartel. I don’t even know what I’m looking for, but I’ll know it when I see it.
Thinking about that kiss we shared in the gazebo calms the fury inside me. Getting close to her is stupid, but it’s all I can think about. If I’m not careful, I might get her killed, and then I’ll have two deaths on my conscience.
I blame myself for Demi’s death. If I’d paid closer attention after our parents died, I would have seen the signs of drug use. Demi couldn’t handle their sudden deaths. A drunk driver going the wrong way ran head-on into them on the highway. The coroner told me they died on impact, but it didn’t matter. They were still gone.
After that, I tried to help Demi, but I was caught up in club business more often than not. I should have been there for her. Checked in more.
I failed her.
I won’t fail Blue the same way.
The need to make sure Blue’s okay overcomes me. I pull on my jeans, a Henley, and my cut then grab my boots.
Silently slipping downstairs, I walk past the club sluts and patched guys passed out on the couch. It’s a little after one a.m., and everyone’s asleep.
When I get to the back door near the kitchen, I hear a creak coming from upstairs. I stop and listen. It’s nothing. Maybe just the wind. We’ve got enough money to buy a much better house, but I like this one. It doesn’t draw as much attention, and it makes us seem like we’re broke instead of drowning in cash.
I roll my bike down the alleyway behind the house. As soon as I reach the main road, I pull in the clutch and hit the starter button. My hog roars to life. I take off down the road toward the highway. When I reach my destination, I park far enough away that anyone awake inside the mansion won’t notice me. I close the rest of the distance on foot, stopping underneath a weeping willow.
The moon hangs high in the velvet sky, casting a ghostly glow over the antebellum plantation house that looms before me. Crescent Oaks Mansion was named for the ancient oaks that line the driveway like silent sentinels. Their twisted branches reach out, skeletal and foreboding, creating a canopy that only intensifies the darkness.
The mansion itself is a testament to a bygone era, its white columns gleaming unnaturally in the moonlight, like bones rising from the earth.
A wave of disgust washes over me as I take in the opulence of this place. The grandeur is suffocating, a stark reminder of the wealth built on the backs of enslaved men, women and children.
The front porch stretches wide, adorned with intricate wrought-iron railings that glisten ominously. Each detail, each embellishment, tells a story of suffering and exploitation, a history that taints every inch of this land.
Inside, Blue is essentially being held captive by her own father. The walls that once echoed with the laughter of the elite now imprison her. She’s a hostage in her own home. My heart aches at the thought of her confined within this place, surrounded by the ghosts of the past.
I take a deep breath, sucking in the humid night air. It’s thick with the scent of magnolias and decay. The weight of this place, its history, presses down on me, but I push it aside. I have to free her from this gilded cage, but how? Part of me wants to charge in there and just take her, but I know that would only start a war.
Footsteps sound on the gravel path behind me. I grab my gun from my cut and spin to confront the intruder.
When I spot his platinum hair and silver-blue eyes glistening in the darkness, I relax and shove my gun back in my cut. “Jesus, Ice. I almost fucking shot your dumb ass.”
“My dumb ass?” Ice whispers. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Nothing. Watching.” I really don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I didn’t ride out with a plan, other than wanting to see her.
“What’s going on with you and her?” Ice asks.
“I’m worried.”
“About Blue?”
“Yeah.” I run my fingers through my hair. “Her father’s forcing her to marry Broussard.”
“No shit?”
“Shh! Keep it down.”
“And you’re going to stop the wedding?” Ice tilts his head to the side, studying me.
“Probably.”
“How do you plan to do that?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“You need to stay away from her.”
“Why? She gave us good intel. We never would have known about those girls if Blue hadn’t tipped us off,” I say, impatiently.
“She might have info we can use, but she’s trouble. She’s way too high up the food chain to mess with. It’s not worth the risk.”
“Do you actually think I’m going to let a woman be forced into marriage by her father?” I ask.
“No.”
“Shit, is that her?”
“Where?”
“There!” He points to an upstairs window where a small shadow holds back a curtain. Before I can get a good look, the curtain falls back into place.
“Could be. I don’t know which room is hers.”
“You haven’t snuck in to bang her yet?” Ice asks sarcastically.
“Fuck you. Asshole.”
“It’s a valid question.” He smirks before his smile drops. “She just went down the stairs.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw her through that window up there.”
My gaze darts from the window to the front door. A second later, it cracks open, and she slips out. She runs around the side of the house.
“Go around back. Don’t lose her,” I tell him.
Jogging toward the house, I keep my head on a swivel. Instead of going up the steps, I circle around the side of the house where she disappeared. Up ahead there’s a detached garage with several cars inside.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Ice running toward the garage. He vanishes into the dark interior. I’m a few steps behind him when red brake lights flare to life.
Without hesitation, Ice yanks open the passenger side door of the sedan. He points his gun at the driver. It’s Blue.
“Get in,” Ice yells at me as he slides in beside Blue.
“Put the gun down,” I tell him, pulling the back door closed as quietly as possible. “Start driving, Blue.”
“I—I was going to see you,” she stammers. “I have to tell you something about my father and Broussard.”
“Tell me later. Right now, I need you to get us out of here before someone inside the house comes out to investigate.”
“Okay.” She pulls the car out and drives without her headlights on. “Where should we go?”
“NOLA.”
Her terrified eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. I try to give her a reassuring smile, but it comes out a grimace. This isn’t how I expected tonight to go at all.
“What about our bikes?” Ice asks.
“Fuck! Call Bones and get him to go with a couple of prospects to get our rides.”
“Prospects?” Ice makes a face.
“I want the others at the warehouse when we get there.”
“Not the clubhouse?”
“The warehouse. Text Bones about the bikes. Then text Diablo. Tell him to grab Fang and Tank. They can meet us there.”
“On it, Pres.”
While Ice taps away at his phone, I watch to make sure she’s getting on Interstate 10 toward NOLA and not Baton Rouge.
“Why were you coming to see me?” I ask. “Do you even know where I live?”
“I searched online before I left.”
“We’re not exactly listed on any online map,” I say.
“No, but there was an article about the bust at Lulu’s and it had a photo of the outside of your house. I recognized the area from Katrina. The 9th Ward.”
“Smart girl,” Ice says, still with his head down staring at his phone. “Bones is on his way with a couple of guys. The others left for the warehouse.”
“Good.”
“Why aren’t we going to your house?” Blue asks in a timid voice.
I don’t want to tell her the truth because it’s embarrassing. With all the club sluts half-naked and guys with their dicks still out, our place resembles a whorehouse. It’s not something I want her to see. She’s too good to be subjected to our trashy lifestyle. It never bothered me before, but Blue’s unlike any woman I’ve ever met, so things are different with her.
“The warehouse is more secure,” I finally respond.
After giving her a series of directions, we approach the warehouse. It looms in the shadows at the edge of the industrial district, a grim monument to the illicit activities it harbors. This is where we take people when we need to use certain techniques to get information out of them. When we bring in someone who isn’t a part of the club, it usually doesn’t end well for them.
Blue’s eyes widen as we step into the warehouse. “What is this place?”
“The club uses it for a variety of things,” I say casually, trying to calm her fears.
Inside, the air is thick with the scent of oil, rust, and fear. The vast, open space is dimly lit by a few buzzing fluorescent lights that cast an eerie glow, leaving corners shrouded in darkness.
The walls are lined with old, corroded metal shelves, some holding grimy tools and others stacked with crates marked with cryptic symbols.
In the center of the warehouse, a makeshift torture area has been set up. A heavy, wooden table stands as the centerpiece, its surface scarred and stained from countless sessions of brutality.
Chains dangle from the rafters above, their metal links clinking softly in the still air. Nearby, a collection of weapons and tools are laid out with meticulous care—pliers, knives, and baseball bats, each chosen for its specific purpose.
The floor is a patchwork of oil stains and dark, sticky spots, remnants of past interrogations. In one corner, a rusted barrel burns with a low, orange flame, casting sinister shadows that dance on the walls.
A row of old, mismatched chairs, each one bolted to the floor and equipped with heavy leather straps, line one wall. As soon as she finishes looking around, she freezes.
“Oh, God! Did you bring me here to torture me?” she gasps.