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Again, a problem for another day, hopefully one that wouldn’t arrive for a long time. If word got out that Darien had led them all into a death trap, at least one of Randal’s remaining men would come after him.
Which meant he would need to shed more blood. The answer was always more blood, an endless cycle of violence that was impossible to break away from.
Ivy said, “How do you think he’s going to react?”
“Like a fucking cry baby. Probably throw a temper tantrum and embarrass his minions so badly, they’ll be glad to get rid of him.” He’d pay good money to see that.
Ivy grinned up at him with a smile identical to his own. “You think?”
“Only one way to find out.”
Darien found his favorite bouncer by the bar. The heavyset warlock with the booming laugh didn’t need much convincing to bring him and his sister up to Baylor’s office. While the vampire did his shady dealings on the bottom floor, behind the spell-protected door Loren had managed to slip through the last time they were here, Baylor’s office was higher up, tucked away down a narrow corridor near the colossal statue of Tempus and Ignis going at it like a couple of horny rabbits.
It was the ugliest statue he’d ever seen, bad enough to make him want to stab his eyes out. It would’ve been the first thing to go, had he planned on spending more time here. But those days were behind him now, and he didn’t miss them. This place would be nothing but his newest cash cow, an extra form of income until he’d had enough of milking it.
At the end of the hallway was a single red door partially hidden behind a thick velvet curtain. A sign on its worn surface said EMPLOYEES ONLY.
Darien didn’t knock. He opened the door and walked inside, Ivy and the bouncer—Whalen—on his heels.
The white-haired Baylor and his cronies were seated around a long table in the centre of the room. They were laughing over a joke that quickly became unfunny as they took in the people who’d barged in.
Baylor was the first to speak, the question he voiced as frosty as the air in the room. “What the hell are you doing here?” If looks could kill, Darien would be bleeding out on the ground. Too bad for Baylor, it didn’t work that way, and Darien knew the guy was too much of a coward to take so much as one swing at him.
“I’ve come to check out my latest financial investment,” Darien replied.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Baylor’s voice was a shout.
“You’re in my chair.”
He puffed out a laugh that hung in a cloud before him. The air in here reeked of vampires—a floral stench that burned the throat. Baylor looked to the men at either side of him for approval or intervention, Darien wasn’t sure which. It didn’t look like Baylor knew either. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said you’re in my chair. Get up and quit being rude.”
Baylor stayed put. “What are you playing at, kid? You can’t just march in here and expect the owner of this place to get up and leave at your command.”
“Actually, I’m the owner.”
Chairs creaked as the men at the table shifted, glancing at each other. Baylor’s jaw visibly hardened, eyes turning cold as glass. The look on his face told Darien he hadn’t been far off when he’d joked about the vampire having nightmares about this moment.
Darien said, “I’m sure you’ve heard of my father’s untimely death.”
“I’ve heard rumors—”
“It’s not my fault if you chose to ignore them. My father is dead, and I don’t think I need to tell you who’s first in line to inherit his possessions, including this club you’ve done a lousy job of running.”
“Are you firing me?” he scoffed.
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Can’t I? I am the owner. Says so on the will.”
“I’d like to take a look at that.”
“I bet you would. Get up. Gather your things. Leave. We’re done here. Take Grease-fingers and Ass-wipe with you. They’re fired too.” He gestured to the two morons sitting closest to him.
Grease-fingers threw his hands in the air. “The fuck for?”
