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The Italian Mafia had arrived.
“Gentlemen,” I greeted, as Maxim and Salvatore stared each other down. “My V.P. sent out the distress call because all of us have a problem.”
“Yeah, you do, Montana,” Salvatore Valentinetti sneered at Maxim. “And I’m looking at him right now.” I knew there was no love lost between Fedorov and the Valentinetti Family. People widely knew that Illyria Valentinetti and Maxim had dated for a while. While most of us thought the Russian Bloodletter finally met his match, that he would be the one to tame the hot-headed Italian Mafia Princess, only their relationship ended spectacularly, with Illyria slowly buying up and dismantling everything Maxim built. Nobody knew what caused the two to separate, but they sure were fun to watch when in public together.
“I’ve just recently learned that Benson Graves survived.”
That shut Salvatore up.
“Excuse me?” Renaldo said.
“He’s dead,” Salvatore added.
“He better be dead,” Maxim growled.
“And it gets worse. Barney used this club to syphon intel and launder Petrovitch’s money.”
“Where is Benson?” Maxim asked.
“Gone. But before he left, he gave Petrovitch a parting gift. Information on all of us. Everything, gentlemen, from businesses to family information. He now knows everything about us.”
And just like that, three of the biggest names in the New York crime syndicate reached for their phones and started making calls. Looking at Mercy, I didn’t have to say anything.
My V.P. was already on the phone issuing orders.
The clubhouse was quiet when I walked in.
It was like a damned ghost town, except for Silver, who was manning the bar. Heading straight for the bar, I asked, “Everything ready?”
“Yep. Got your back, Prez. No worries.”
“Good girl,” I said, leaning across the bar, quickly kissing her cheek before heading to the mailroom, where I knew Malice was not patiently waiting for me. Also known as a wet room for most clubs, it was where clubs, families, whatever got down to business. The heart of the matter.
Literally.
Some clubs called it the cellar, the tomb, the bunker, anything to set the place apart from the clubhouse. It was where a club got answers. Where men and women bled for their crimes and got a first-class ticket to hell. If anybody found themselves in a club’s ‘wet room’, they knew they weren’t coming out alive.
They never did.
To this day, I still knocked on the heavy iron door before entering Malice’s domain. Malice would throw a hissy fit if anyone didn’t show common courtesy and respect before entering the mailroom. Failure to ask before entering caused drama. Malice would sulk, refusing to let anyone in his space until we all apologized. Apparently, we were heathens and because we didn’t practice the catholic religion, our souls were damned to burn in hell for eternity.
We ignored him but knocked before entering the mailroom.
Knocking twice, I opened the door, knowing the moody fucker wouldn’t respond. He never did when he had a guest.
Looking around the medieval room with wrought-iron sconces and brick walls, the place was a replica of theOratorio dei Discillini, in the town of Clustone, in Lombardy, Italy. Once home to a brotherhood of religious individuals known as the Disciplinati or the ‘Disciplined’. They believed through torture and self-punishment, they could absolve themselves of sin by experiencing the pain of Christ firsthand, thereby bringing them closer to God.
Of course, the St. Andrew’s Cross displayed in the middle of the room was all Malice.
Fucker dabbled in some serious kink.
I found Malice sitting in a wooden chair that he had reclined against the cold, damp wall while he ate another apple. That chair had to be the most uncomfortable piece of furniture I ever saw, but Malice sat in it like it was a Lazy Boy recliner. Malice was an enigma. Never could read the fucker. He rarely, if ever, smiled. He hated talking and was handy with a knife. Most of the club feared him, yet he was a devout Catholic. Never missed mass. Then there was his love of apples. I didn’t know what his obsessions was with apples, but the fucker was always eating one.
Walking over to him, I leaned against the wall, noticing his handy work. On the Saint Andrew Cross, hung Barney. Naked as the day he was born, the man couldn’t say shit, thanks to the ball-gag in his mouth.
“Thought I said to wait for me?”
“He talks too much.” Malice muttered.
