Only her breathtaking brilliance with the law had stopped Bonafacio from hauling her home and marrying her off at the first opportunity. And at the tender age of twenty-six and a second-year associate in a prestigious law firm, my sister had already earned what little freedom she’d carved out by defending Mancinelli runners, soldiers and capos from all kinds of charges on a crushing pro-bono schedule.
My insides tightened into impossible knots as I pulled out my phone and brought up the texts.
It’s off. I’m not coming tonight.
It felt like an eternity, and no time at all, before Cesare responded.
Like hell you’re not. You come to me, bedda. Or I’m coming for you. Your choice.
Cesare
Her text arriving as we entered the Golden Empress Club put me in a shitty mood.
I’d expected her to baulk at some point because, let’s face it, what she was doing was downright hazardous to her wellbeing. Still, when it came, the hollow it left in my belly was deeply unsettling, fouling my mood even further.
Which was good news for the management, and very bad news for Stan Paul.
I waved my Black Card at the sharply dressed man with slicked-back hair who glided towards me like he was one of those Disney villains, on an invisible hoverboard. I half expected his toothy smile to keep going until it spliced his face in two.
‘Five figures of your choice, charged to whatever item you’re selling in here, for twenty uninterrupted minutes with your guest in…’ I glanced at Rafa, brow raised.
‘The Sapphire Room,’ he supplied. ‘Oh, and that figure also covers any unforeseen damageandyour utmost discretion or my friend Fist here will forget himself and accidentally let slip to the police commissioner that you serve underage customers.’
The man didn’t even blink.
He simply cupped one hand in the other and held both out for the card like he was taking holy communion. ‘We’re very pleased to have you join us, sir. The room you seek is upstairs, last double doors on the right. Enjoy your visit.’
I dropped the card in his palm and he glided away with the easiest money he’d make this week.
I took the stairs two at a time, Rafa, Fist and a trio of soldiers hot on my heels.
The doors in question opened just before we reached it, denying me the satisfaction of kicking it in. For a moment I was furious the fucker downstairs had ratted us out. But it was a scantily clad woman with skyscraper heels and fake tits the size of bowling balls who stepped out.
The keycard discreetly tucked between her fingers suggested she’d been signalled to open the door.
Excellent.
We entered and were halfway into the room before Stan lifted his head from between another pair of outrageously largeknockers. His two minders, also busy indulging in the available entertainment, didn’t realise what was happening until too late.
The closest one, a steroid-pumped meathead, jumped up and rushed me.
I met his forward moment with a throat punch. He coughed once. And kept coming.
Fuck. Either he was coked out of his mind or his pain tolerance was sky high.
I aimed two rapid-fire lead hooks at his temple, then another jab at his throat. This time something crunched.
He flailed back and dropped to his knees, clutching his broken Adam’s apple as he gurgled in pain. I shook out my smarting knuckles. That would bruise and be a little tender for a few days. Good thing I wouldn’t be driving for another two weeks.
Fist took care of the other minder even before the two strippers contorting around their respective poles had made it to the floor.
As the downed guards were completely immobilised, Rafa whistled and spun a slow three-sixty. ‘You don’t hold back when you need a pick me up, do you, son?’
The room was decked out in deep blue velvet sectional sofas along one wall and a long bar with dozens of high-end liquor bottles, several buckets of Dom, multi-hued bottles of pills and two trays with half used lines of coke.
On a low table next to the sofa, several sex toys, lube and – Jesus, was that a tub of glitter? Why? – sat waiting.
Rafa took a detour to the bar and plinked a fingernail against the coke tray. ‘Are race drivers allowed the good stuff, or is our boy here special?’
