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Smoke billows out of the next room. Inside are some of our henchmen. They sit on leather chairs, smoking cigars and blunts, while another man snorts a line of cocaine off a glass table.
We pass several more steel doors before the hallway opens to a metal walkway that surrounds the happenings below. This is the main part of our warehouse. Below is a vast, open space filled with workers and machines. The staff is racing back and forth, tending to the machines and moving product from one to another to ensure production runs smoothly.
They have a quota to hit, and I’ll be damned if they don’t. Actually, they’ll be damned. If there’s one thing you don’t want to suffer, it’s the wrath of the Dixen brothers. We can be more brutal than anyone could possibly imagine. All we need is a motive.
The area is the size of a football field. High windows line the top perimeter, letting in light as if it were day. But there are no windows on the lower half because protecting our operation comes before anything.
Thick cinder block walls surround the room, each five feet thick. Any firearm you can buy off the streets couldn’t shoot through these walls, protecting our equipment, our workers, and our stock.
I begin descending another set of metal stairs. The odors of ink and heated machinery grow more prominent as we make our way down. With my hands clasped behind my back, I mosey down the rows of dark machinery, watching everything. Massive arms slice through paper before the feeders take sheets through the maze of conveyor belts, moving product from one step to another.
The noises emanating from the machines are loud, the engines vibrating the floor as we walk. Workers are supplied with eye and hearing protection, but most of them forgo wearing it.
Maddox and Alistair head in the opposite direction, where two businessmen are perched on the far wall observing our operation. We anticipated their arrival and are anxious to come to a deal with them.
Through my peripheral vision, I see Rory’s indecision. None of us have given her any direction, and she’s unsure of what to do. The workers have taken notice of my hellcat, sending heated stares in her direction.
But she doesn’t even seem to notice as she tucks her hair behind her ear, her eyes wide as she takes this all in.
“Focus, Dean!” I growl at the nearest worker, who is letting his stack pile up as he checks out my girl.
He jumps at the sound of my voice, looking at me with terrified eyes. “S-Sorry, Mr. Dixen,” he stutters out before putting his head down and getting to work.
Once I’m satisfied he’s back on task, I walk farther down the perimeter. Some workers use my presence to show off, working harder since one of their bosses is watching them. Others gawk at Rory, whose cheeks and chest turn a beautiful shade of crimson under their gazes.
I see her eyes begin to flick to me, but I turn away before they can connect with mine. Today is about disconnecting, about taking her out of her comfort zone.
Heading around the back wall, I come to a stack of papers covered in smears. “What the fuck happened here?” I growl at the closest worker, Denny, though I don’t need to read his name tag to know who he is.
His chubby face pales, his beady eyes widening. “I, uhh—I touched it too soon, sir.” His voice betrays his terror.
Unfolding my hands from behind my back, I reach out and seize the man. He screams as I slam him into the cinder block wall. “You know how the operation works, Denny! Don’t fucking touch it when it’s wet! Not that fucking hard!” He swallows and raises hands in the air in the ultimate gesture of surrender. “Or were you trying to steal from me, Denny?”
“N-N-No, s-sir,” he stutters, unable to hold my gaze. But I see his lies in the twitch of his eye, how his lip quivers, and how he quickly glanced down to his pocket.
Bingo.
I tear off his fucking shirt as he yelps, ripping it down the middle and revealing a stained white undershirt below. I sift through his pockets, finding a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
A fucking lighter.
“What’s this?” I growl, pulling it out. “You know the rules, Denny. No lighters around my money.”
“I-I forgot, sir.”
Anger brewing, I backhand the man and watch as blood drips down his face from where his lip smashed into his teeth.
“Empty the rest of your pockets, Denny.” I neither yell nor whisper, keeping my voice low and calm, which I find scarier than a sudden outburst of emotion.
“Sir?” he questions. “C-Can I show you how close we are to quota?” he requests, deflecting.
Enough of this shit.
Reaching inside my jacket, I unholster my Ruger 9mm, slide my finger onto the trigger, and aim it at his fucking head. “You think I’m playing, Denny? Empty the fucking pockets in your pants!”
Denny is quaking in fear, his entire body trembling as a tear leaks from his eye. He lowers a shaky hand into his pants pocket. “S-See? Nothing but lint.”
I press the muzzle of my gun against his temple, digging it into his skin. “The other pocket, Denny, or I’ll shoot your puny cock right off your body.”
