Page 17

COLTER
Settimo doesn’t want to meet in his office.
He never does, actually. My last name tethers me to the familia with very little room for dispute, but to publicly meet in the office of the known mafia king would be too blunt even for Settimo. It’s also the reason we don’t communicate by phone or computer. Nothing traceable. Nothing substantial. When Settimo wants to see me, he appears. The gold insignia on the front of whatever car he’s in seems to gleam at me, and I know to follow.
This is how I know something is wrong.
I pull up my hood and stalk across the parking lot of the Pink Panther, keeping my steps even and ignoring the pounding in my chest.
My cousin didn’t appear this time. When I got back to my office after seeing Abi this afternoon there was a note on my desk telling me to come here at midnight. That was about the same time it was revealed to me that the press got ahold of intel suggesting Colter Gruco hires prostitutes. I don’t have to guess what this is about, only how badly he’s taking it. Asking me to meet him at a strip club the day of the leak isn’t a good sign.
The first hint of raindrops sprinkle on my hands, and I shove them into my hoodie pockets as I reach the door. I nod to the bouncer, and he steps to the side like he’s been expecting me.
As I walk through the door, I’m instantly hit with the smell of smoke. There’s a group of men sitting in a booth halfway to the stage where a brunette flings a leg around a pole and lowers herself. Cigars stick out of their mouths as they halfheartedly watch the show, and I scan their faces expecting to see Settimo, but he isn’t there.
My eyes roam the room until I spot a large man in a black suit standing by a door. I’ve been around security enough to know he’s a guard.
Our eyes meet and his hand reaches for the knob but doesn’t turn. With a steady breath, I stride across the club to meet him. He doesn’t say a word as he opens the door and waves me through.
At first it looks like a regular hallway, thick black carpet that mirrors the rest of the club’s design, but as I turn the corner I come to a set of concrete steps. There’s a set of metal double doors at the end that looks like it must lead to a storage room, but I know better. I’ve never been to this particular club of Settimo’s, but I know what goes on here.
A memory drifts through my head of my father. I’m maybe eleven and I’m sitting in the front seat of his Cadillac, staring at the door of a club similar to this one when my Uncle Syrus led the familia. The sight of blood on my father’s cuff catches my eye when he slides into the front seat.
We never spoke of it. I’m not sure he even realized it was there.
I shake away the memory and take the steps down to the basement, moving briskly like I’m trying to convince myself I’m not a coward.
No, not a coward. Just not an idiot.
I get to the bottom and push through the double doors. The cigar smoke has cleared from my senses, and this time it’s the smell of coppery blood that hits me. So does a nightmarish scream.
My eyes widen at the sight before me, but I quickly blink away the shock and school my expression. In the middle of the room is a man tied to a chair. Blood soaks him from his hair to his shoes and leaves a red puddle on the floor that grows by the second. He’s screaming but it’s obvious by the blood loss he doesn’t have much time left. I want to look away, but my eyes involuntarily scan the man for the source of the blood, and when I spot the severed hand sitting on his lap I think I might puke.
“Colter,” Settimo says, pulling my attention to the left of the room. “Your timing is impeccable. We were just finishing up.”
Settimo is leaned against the wall casually. His hand lifts to motion to someone across the room. My gaze darts to Lorenzo, Settimo’s brother and the member of my so-called family who gives me the creeps the most. It isn’t that Settimo isn’t as ruthless as he is, but at least he’s predictable. I couldn’t tell what goes through Lorenzo’s mind if I had a fucking magic ball.
Lorenzo’s lips tilt up ever so slightly as he nods to the last person in the room, some man I don’t recognize and probably one of Lorenzo’s men. He pulls a Glock from inside his coat pocket and points it at the man. My ears ring from the blast, but most of the sound is absorbed into the padding that covers the walls of the room. Without the man’s screaming, the ringing feels too loud and the room too silent. I turn to Settimo again and suck in a deep breath of copper-filled air.
“You wanted to see me?”
Settimo smiles and begins to cross the room to me. “I always want to see you, cousin.” When he reaches me, he clasps a hand on my shoulder and slowly lets his smile fall. It reminds me too much of Lorenzo. Less enraged and more manic, but I can sense the rage underneath. “It’s too bad discretion is sovitalto our efforts.”
“Maybe having me meet you at one of your clubs isn’t the best idea then.” I speak the words with brazen authority. It’s the right move. A weaker man would start explaining himself. Apologize. A weak man doesn’t have a place in this world.
Settimo squeezes my shoulder and crooks his lip, threat still oozing in his eyes. He drops his hand and slides both into his pocket.
“I had other business to tend to. Call it multitasking.”
I gaze around the room, lingering on the dead man and trying to mask a look of boredom. “I can see that.”
“So,” Lorenzo pipes in, taking a few steps toward us. “Should we cut the bullshit? Why was there an article in the papers suggesting you hire prostitutes?”
For probably the first time in my life, I want to thank Lorenzo. The sooner this conversation is over, the sooner I can leave. I inhale more of the man’s scent and struggle not to recoil.
“That was a misunderstanding. My PR guy is on it.”
Lorenzo bursts out a laugh. “Misunderstanding?”