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We’ve been best friends since I was eight and my father moved us to California after my mother’s murder. He likes to refer to it as her passing, but she was murdered, and I don’t think he ever did anything about it. I have a niggling suspicion he was behind it.
But I’ve never been able to prove it.
As a mob boss in the New Order of American Mafia, my father knows how to cover his tracks.
He, along with four other men, left—or ran from—Chicago to get away from the Leonis, the largest organized crime family of Italian descent there, and they set up the New Order in Heywood. The five men had been business partners who worked closely together, not Mafia men. Bertrand and one of the other men, Antonio, were the only ones of Italian descent, so maybe they’d felt like they were missing out by not being included in the Mafia world.
My father didn’t leave Chicago on great terms with the Leoni family—something to do with Sylvia, my stepmom, and trying to step on their turf—but I was young at the time, so I didn’t get all the details.
I’m not sure why they settled here, but they have quickly risen to the top in the seedy underbelly world, and no one messes with any of us, or they pay the price.
The music pounding through the room is starting to grate on my nerves, and I check my watch for the time. One fifteen.
Fuck me.Time is crawling by.
Then, I feel it. Eyes on me. There’s no way anyone from below can see me unless I lean forward. I’m shrouded in the shadows up here, an area meant for all manners of debauchery that the rich can afford. Not that I partake. Not here. Business is business.
Geo notices the shift in my body language, and instantly, he’s beside me again, on alert. His hand is at his gun, fastened to a holster underneath his coat. I throw up a hand, stopping him for a moment.
My eyes scan in front of me, looking for a threat. But no one from below seems to be paying any attention to this section. I check the exits and even those working as bartenders. Nothing.
I furrow my brow as my fingers tap on the chair beside me. Something is off. A woman approaches me—a waitress holding another drink. Geo steps forward, taking it from her hands before she can set it down. He sprinkles a powder in it that will turn a color if it’s been tampered with. When he hands it to me, I set it on the table beside me.
The waitress doesn’t leave, and I glance up at her. The blood stills in my veins. It’s not the same one from before. Her eyes are fastened on me, and while I’m used to the attention wherever I go, the depths of hers aren’t warm. They aren’t promising me a night of fun or telling me she’s ready for a good time. No. She’s the reason for my hair standing on end. I tap the armrest of my chair again—this time, twice—and Geo steps forward again.
“Ma’am, you need to leave,” he says, indicating it’s time for the waitress to move on.
She doesn’t budge but continues to hold my stare. I can see her pulse fluttering at the base of her neck, wild and out of control, keeping time with the beat of the music pounding around us. She wants to appear calm, but she’s not. She wants to say something, or maybe she wants to reach out and wrap her hands around my neck. She has murder in her eyes.
“Ma’am?” Geo’s tone is gruffer, more commanding.
She steps forward, and before she has a chance to say anything, Geo has her arms wrenched behind her back, her body bent at ninety degrees, and her face almost in my lap. I swipe a thumb across my lower lip, deciding what to do with her. She’s obviously not a fan, so it begs the question of why she works here. Or maybe she didn’t know who owned the newest nightclub in town, but it’s no secret. So, I can’t imagine that being the case.
She grunts against Geo’s hold but still hasn’t said anything. Maybe she can’t talk? I tap my cheek, and Geo reaches around, squeezing hers together and forcing her mouth open. She still has a tongue.
“Do you have a name?” I ask, crossing my ankle over my knee and picking up my glass to swirl it in my hand.
She raises her head, a few strands of dark hair escaping from the low bun she’s pulled it back in.
She doesn’t say anything, but if looks could kill, I would erupt in flames right where I sit.
“Playing hard to get?” I ask. Then, I lick my lips, a smirk emerging.
It enrages her, and she jerks against Geo’s hold. He pulls her arms up further, straight, causing her to bend more. I lean forward, my mouth right by her ear as she fights to raise her head up to see me again.
“It seems to me that it’s in your best interest to answer me, seeing as how with one more thrust, my man here could snap your pretty little arms off. I’ve seen it happen before—to men much larger than you.”
I’ve done it myself. I’ll never forget the first time I felt human bones break beneath my own hands. I was eleven, and Bertrand—my father, if you can call him one—called me into the room. I had been hiding outside, unable to get the man’s screams out of my brain as he was tortured. I didn’t know what he had done, but I didn’t think it was right, the way they were treating him. But pretty soon, it became the norm in my life.
“Connor,”Bertrand barked.
I knew I had to go in there. I didn’t have any other choice. The door opened, and Dad’s friend with the cold eyes, William, grinned down at me.
“It’s your turn,” William said, his raspy voice grating on my young ears.
I eased into the room tentatively, staring at the man in the chair. He was bleeding from multiple wounds and missing a few fingertips—one fresh. I watched the blood gush from the last one that must have been cut. Black and red angry skin capped off the other ones, where they must have burned him to stop the bleeding.
I thought I was going to be sick. My stomach lurched aggressively, and I covered my mouth while I pivoted on the ball of my foot. My father’s hand stopped me, and then William poured a bucket of cold water over my head.
