Page 46 of Power & Punishment

“I won’t do anything unless she gives me a reason to,” I say, laying all my cards on the table. I almost want her to defy me. It would make it so much more tantalizing when I turn her life inside out.

Dante grunts in response, sitting back down in his worn-out leather chair. “Fine. Tell me the plan.”

14

MIA

The minute I was exiled to the bar, I wasn’t interested in sticking around.

Hell, the second that snake pulled me into his lap, I was ready to make a run for it.

But I had to wait for the perfect moment, and he handed it to me on a silver platter.

Part of me debated listening in on their conversation, but I had a murder to solve and the perfect opening.

It takes the taxi around twenty minutes to reach my destination. I have him drop me a block up the street so I can scope out the place. As soon as I get close, my eyes are assaulted with a tacky neon red sign that displays the words Velvet Room loud and proud.

Thankfully, most of the clientele are already inside, drinking themselves blind and grabbing onto whatever poor soul found herself working there tonight.

I spot a few men standing outside who are presumably security, but they’re easy to evade as I clutch my jacket and pull up my collar.

Music vibrates the walls of the club as I skirt my way around the building to the back alley. If Leo was telling the truth, this is where Vince was killed.

Unease takes over as I peek around the corner. Just as I suspected, there are no security cameras. If this alley is being used for extracurricular activities, they wouldn’t want any video evidence of it. Plus, who’s dumb enough to go sneaking around a known mafia headquarters?

Apparently me.

I swallow hard. A few more minutes pass by before I’m brave enough to step out into the open, but I keep close to the edge of the shadows just in case someone comes busting out that back door.

A small floodlight is the only source of visibility in the pitch back. Originally, I wrestled with the idea of coming here in the daylight, but that was even more reckless. At least during peak hours, I knew Caruso’s men were busy inside. A shiver runs down my back thinking of the depraved bullshit those men get up to in the middle of the night.

It will be impossible to know exactly where Vince was shot, and even if I do find blood, it might not be his. This seems like a fruitless task, but I do know one thing—I can’t leave without trying.

Every minute that passes by makes my heart pump faster and faster inside my chest. Every time I hear the music inside fade or a car door shut in the distance, I slink back to the shadows.

I’m close to giving up when the toe of my boot kicks something across the gravel. The object blends in perfectly amongst the charcoal-colored gravel, but a reflective glint under the moonlight gives it away.

I crouch down, making sure to carefully check my surroundings before picking it up. The weight alone is enough to know exactly what’s in my hand, but when I rub away the dirt, I can see it more clearly.

Brass.

For a second, I let it sit in the crevice of my palm. My pulse dips with excitement, but I quickly tamp it down and reach for my phone to double-check something.

I pull up the medical examiner’s report, confirming my suspicion. Sure enough, the tiny cylinder fits the caliber she estimated.

Quickly, I drop the object in my pocket and turn on my phone’s flashlight to look underneath the dumpster a few feet away. Again—another long shot, but maybe my luck is turning around.

A putrid smell hits my nose as I examine the tight area. If the killer wasn’t smart enough to pick up the bullet, then I’m not dealing with a professional. And maybe just maybe they were dumb enough to leave behind another clue.

My light catches on something metallic this time, gleaming from the other side of the trash can. I take another deep breath and thrust myself into the wide open, hoping this is another clue.

I bend down again, and this time I dig up a thin, damp cardboard rectangle. The object is tattered and stained, but it’s still intact enough for me to see the vintage art and thin metallic line framing the front. When I open it up, there are still some matches, but most of them are soggy and wouldn’t light a thing.

I’m about to toss it back on the ground when I hear footsteps. “Shit,” I whisper, sliding the matchbook right next to the bullet nestled in my pocket.

“Who’s there?” the gruff voice asks.

My heart pounds against my chest as I weigh my options. I have no clue who’s on the other side of this dumpster, so making a run for it would be stupid. Plus, I’d automatically cause suspicion.