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How are the two of them linked to my boss and the Black Market Syndicate?
From first impressions, I gather that Layla has no idea who killed her father and left the lighter; more than likely he died before my stint under Broderick. No doubt, if he’d died as a mark, no one offered him the kind of deal I usually make.
Would her father have taken it, even if it was offered, and left his daughter behind?
Whenever I’m given a mark, usually that person does not necessarily deserve to die. They’re only those who have crossed the line somehow. I offer them their life, to leave and hide away and never come back, or they’re done. If they take my offer, then I consult my target list of rapists, lowlifes, and molesters who deserve to die and I butcher them in place of the mark.
Where would Layla’s father have fallen on the spectrum? Did he deserve it…or not?
There always has to be a body.
And if I take someone else in place of the mark, then I slice their face until they’re unrecognizable.
I’m never asked for proof.
I’ve proved myself in the sheer number of kills I’ve made and the problems I’ve helped alleviate for my boss. I’ve established a position where I’m high enough to get rich and situate myself above reproach. It’s worked out well for me so far.
Except now a damn detective has caught my eye.
The smart thing to do would be to kill her before she becomes an even bigger thorn in my side than she is now.
Fuck her. I’d like to, no matter how she infuriates me.
She’s a little spitfire who thinks she’s stronger than she actually is, especially when she’s delicate enough to be breakable. They’re all breakable no matter how big or brawny. But Detective Sinclair…if I’d had less control, I’d have carved her into pieces easily. I wonder if she knows that her emotions bleed through when she talks about her past.
She had a lighter, though, which brings her much too close to Broderick for comfort.
I grab a bottle of shampoo and squeeze a dollop onto my palm, working it through my hair. I’ll go back to the club tomorrow night and ask around, see what I can find out about her.
Besides noticing the chip on her shoulder and knowing the way her skin smells, I’m working blind.
I don’t like waiting.
For anything, least of all information
I’ve got no internet in this place, no landline, nothing beyond my burner cell. It leaves me unable to research on my own, and if I can’t, then I’ll have to go directly to a source who can give me what I need.
My steps drag on the way to bed.
Tomorrow night, I tell myself as blessed sleep claims me.
* * *
Once night falls and the doors to the Velvet Underground are unlocked to the public, I head for the discreet stairs painted black to match the walls. The stairs leading up to the owner’s office.
Jade is smart enough to know when she’s got a fucking detective in her midst, which begs the question—why has she allowed Layla to run wild in the place? It’s clear to me that the night she watched me onstage wasn’t her first time here.
Too comfortable.
Not with the surrender but with the sex, and the blonde at her side…a friend.
She’s a regular even if she never comes on stage to play, and if she’s a regular then Jade has to know what Layla does for a living. The woman owns one of the most notorious sex clubs in the city. She sees things no one else sees. She’llespeciallyknow if one of her patrons is friendly with an employee.
I open the office door and walk right in.
“Christ, Gabriel. Don’t you fucking knock?” Jade glances up from her desk. Her shaved head shines in the dull glow of the overhead chandelier.
I shut the door behind me and flip the lock to make sure no one interrupts us.
