When I rip open the envelope as if I’m unaware there are confidential files inside, Agent Moses discloses, “Intel suggests Demi has been recruiting for her uncle’s fighting syndicate the past three years. At the start, she merely pointed out fighters he may be interested in, but when her knowledge of the industry grew, her involvement inallaspects of it evolved.”
I have no reason to disbelieve him. Not only is it printed in black and white as clear as day for all to see in the file in my hand, Demi mentioned at the start of lunch yesterday that she wasn’t eye-fucking me. She tried to fawn off her gawk as an appreciation for my technique.
“Two years in, Col changed things up. The crowd grew bored with standard fights. They pay top dollar for ringside seats, so they felt they had the right to demand a level of entertainment that suited them.” Agent Moses flips over a handful of pages in the document in my hand, stopping once he reaches a bunch of glossy photographs. “The first change-up was the right of the fighter’s owner not to throw in the towel. As long as his fighter was standing, he could demand that he stay in the ring.”
If the timeline of the snapshots in front of me is anything to go by, the longer Col’s new rules went on, the more regularly fighters were stretchered out of the ring.
After plucking a single surveillance image out of the pile, Agent Moses says, “The new rules kept the spectators happy for months. Profits were good, Col had owners arriving with new fighters every week, and although illegal, his fight circuit remained off the FBI’s watch list.”
“What changed?” I ask, aware the FBI isn’t merely watching Col’s underground fighting syndicate. They have eyes on his entire family.
“This.” He places down the image he plucked from the stack onto the gas tank of my bike. As per the previous images, the boxing ring’s mat is coated with blood. There’s just one difference, this one has a body bag hanging over the frayed ropes. “There’s no throwing in the towel. No referee interference. In this circuit, they fight to the death.”
“No fucking way,” I mutter under my breath, my shock incapable of being harnessed.
The fight syndicate ran in the basement of STEM Academy is tame compared to the one Agent Moses warned me about when he demanded I put more hours in at the gym, but still, this is beyond belief.
Although it has nothing on the shock that pummels into me when Agent Moses uses the handlebars on my bike to produce a sickening timeline. In the first lot of images, smiling, sweaty gym junkies are seen talking to the woman who occupies my mind even when I’m sleeping. In the second lot of stills, the same men are either lying lifeless on the floor in pools of blood or standing over a deceased man.
Confident I have the gist of what he’s saying, Agent Moses gathers up the surveillance images, stuffs them into his briefcase, then locks his eyes with mine. “She’s sentencing these men to death, then enjoying Latin cuisine as if theirmurdersaren’t her fault.”
“She didn’t kill them.”
Hetsksme as if I’m blinded by Demi’s oceanic eyes and cock-thickening body. I probably am, but he doesn’t need to spell it out for me.
“She may as well have, Ox. She knows of her uncle’s plan when she recruits these men. She knows the torture they’ll endure under his watch, and if she has it her way, you’re her next victim. I have all the proof you need in my office.” His lips once again curl into a pompous, arrogant smirk before he says with a breathy chuckle, “Unless you have somewhere more important to be,AgentWalsh?”
7
Demi
“Not those ones.”
Millie, a second-year apprentice chef, moves away from the oven keeping the last two tortes warm with her hands held in the air like she’s about to be arrested. “Are they not for sale?”
Considering it is almost noon, it’s stupid for me to shake my head, but I can’t hold back. Maddox could still be sleeping. We ended things very late last night. Not everyone is accustomed to lagging sleep schedules.
Millie looks torn between wanting to comfort or strangle me when I say, “They were preordered last night. The customers wanting them will have to order something else.”
Stealing her chance to reply, I continue kneading the dough for today’s lunch special, acting as if a two-hour delay is perfectly acceptable. I’ve never been on an official date, so for all I know, it could be.
“Jesus! Shit. Sorry,” I push out in a hurry when my storm into the kitchen causes the swinging door to crash into one of the waiters exiting from the other side. Creamy ricotta spaghetti and baked ziti sail into the air before they land on the floor with a flop and a crash. “I’ll prepare them again now. Please tell the customer their bill is on the house. I’ll pay for it.”
Ty halts my blubbering by curling his hand over mine. “It’s fine. I’m sure the bills you sneak into the waitstaff’s jar each night will more than cover the bill.” After removing a cracked plate from my hand, he nudges his head to the back entrance. “Go have a breather for a couple of minutes.”
I’m so dead on my feet, I’d donate a lung for a nap, but that isn’t possible. There’s no rest for the wicked. “I can’t. I have three orders waiting, need to prep tonight’s special, and I now need to remake two dishes.”
“And you’ve also been working for over seven hours without a break.” Ty forcefully stands me to my feet before he hip-barges me toward the exit. “Go call him and ask him where he is before I do, then maybe you’ll survive the next five hours of your shift.”
“I don’t have his number.” That was harder to articulate than it should have been. I’m not just embarrassed admitting I didn’t exchange numbers with the man I had a marathon date with. I hate that Maddox’s no-show has me so out of sorts, almost-strangers are noticing a change in my demeanor. Ty is great but other than the occasional chit-chat at work, he doesn’t know me at all.
Nobody knows of my struggles because they know it is the best way to stay out of trouble.
Ty’s eyes dilate with desire when the new head chef my cousin, Dimitri, hired last month, joins our conversation. Jude’s facial structure is as scrumptious as the Walsh brothers. He just prefers for it to be admired by men. “What time did you leave last night, Demi?”
After whispering a silent apology to the waitstaff I’ve left to clean up the mess, I pace closer to Jude. He’s preparing a Florentina steak on the grill. “A little before one. The late rush was crazy for a Thursday, but I had help.” Even with us being run off our feet the past several hours, the kitchen still gleams in several places. Maddox has a way of making filthy, used things feel shiny and new. And no, I’m not solely referencing Petretti’s.
“Then I not only agree with Ty’s suggestion for you to take a breather.” Ty almost melts to the floor at the knowledge Jude knows his name. “I’m telling you to take one for the rest of the day. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”
