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I push to my feet as the newscaster gives her nightly spiel. But my eyes are on the man over her shoulder.
“Much to the surprise of local police and the federal agents assigned to the case are left scratching their heads. The Sons of Bratva Savages, an organization the police have under observation as a criminal gang has received recognition tonight from the governor of New York City for their direct involvement in bringing down a pair of brothers, the Volkovs, who were tied to a ring of sex traffickers among other criminal activities. The authorities are unclear on how deep their ties go and with whom.”
Volkovs. Hmm. I mull that name over. I know it. It’s been on Father’s lips for the past few months. I tune out the governor when he comes on screen but take notice of the images flashing over the screen instead. Locations I know of but would never dare step foot in.
I grab the door and sling it open. All I see is red as I peel out of the crusty hotel parking lot with its cracked cement and point my car westbound.
John Hark is alive. And I’m going to kill him.
* * *
Dragon
Ipeer over the railing of Asylum’s second floor. Throngs of partiers sway and grind on the dance floor to the pulsing thrum of an electric guitar and its backup base. Strobe lights carve out paths through the darkness.
Pushed up along the back wall is a massive bar that rims the entire first floor. And there’s not an inch of polished wood visible through the thick crowd. The public places to sit are also taken.
But up here, are the private boxes. This is where society’s elite come to be seen and not bothered. The men of my world. Or at least the ones I don’t personally want to see in an unmarked grave.
We might have a no-fighting policy, but I still approve of every last motherfucker who walks through Asylum’s doors. And if I’m not here, it’s another club brother. Riot mostly. Sometimes Rage.
I take a healthy swallow of my whiskey, loving the way the burn hits after the sweetness fades.
Despite the dim lights, this high up I have no problem spotting a sweet blonde with a nice rack in the center of the floor. She has some sweet moves; I’ll give her that. A black piece of something she’s using as the world’s shortest skirt is hiked up so far I can see the color of her thong and the fact she’s getting a solid seven inches from her boy toy.
“Jesus H. Christ,” I curse.
I signal to a couple of bouncers. Two men in Asylum uniforms elbow their way through the crowd, escorting the love birds out before the boyfriend can empty his load. Someone slipping in that mess and breaking a bone is the last thing I need, not to mention the dangers of some undercover asshat looking for another reason to shut Asylum down to put a hurting on the Sons of Bratva Savages.
Behind me, a group of young mafia wannabes are hammering back bottle after bottle of Smirnoff living high off their daddy’s name and money. Bullshit knee-deep piles up from all the lies they are spilling. Almost damn comical.
Their first hits. Lies.
Their first scores. More lies.
It doesn’t take much to hear the lies as they keep rolling off their tongues. I grin around the rim of my glass. No way the scrawny one with the pimply chin scored with his father’s mistress—who I’ve seen walking these floors plenty unless he paid her. She likes ’em big in every sense of the word and loaded. And this little shit can’t be a dollar and a half soaking wet when his daddy is two-fifty easy and one of the toughest enforcers I’ve taken a punch from in my past life.
Genes are an oddity on a good day.
It seems these fuckers don’t have a filter between the few brain cells they have and their mouthpieces. I wonder if their daddies know where they are tonight?
“Listen to me, man. Check this shit out. Found it in Dad’s glove box. Think he’ll miss it?”
“Probably not. He’s got too many. What’s one more, ya know?”
I angle my head to the side to catch a pretty boy I mark as the leader pulls out a solid silver piece and flicks the safety off.
I shake my head. Is it stupid night or what?
I’m not sure if it was the grunt from his friends when the douche pointed the loaded gun at them or if it was the scent of perfume from a passing woman.
Doesn’t matter. My mind trips back to twenty years ago. And just like all the times before, the memory of the whore house my father favored replaces the elite surroundings of Asylum.
It’s a cold night. The place didn’t have heating and the stench of body odor and sex is all I smell as my father pushes me through darkened halls.
We come to a stop outside a ratty-looking door. It’s only a couple of seconds before it swings open and a man in a white stained tank top with a cigarette in his mouth grunts in my father’s face.
“What do you want? This whore is mine for the night. I paid for her.”
