Page 94 of Jordan

Something in the air changed in there when I asked about their parents, and it’s not a conversation I’m ready to have yet.

But it makes me wonder if Enzo understands what it’s like to have a shitty father, and maybe it’s why he’s so understanding about mine being an ass.

Chapter Forty

Vincenzo

Elio, the thought-out man he is, has been taking precautions ever since this hatred and lack of confidence toward the Bramantes has come to light. One of those things is forming alliances. And by alliances, he meant taking on more clubs and clientele. We give them protection; we use their space when and if we need it, and we get a cut of profits. Simple shit.

The biggest problem we have right now is trust. So my brothers and I are doing the scouting ourselves, which takes more time than I’d like, but better to be safe rather than sorry.

Me, Rocco, and Antonio—his first run back—walk toward the front doors of the noisy club where two beefy security guys who probably can’t fit through the damn door are standing. There isn’t a single person in line because this place is upscale and to get in, you pay a hefty entry fee. So, typically people don’t wait outside.

I did my homework not only on this place, but the owner, Bernardo Sereno, too. His name is clean, and he’s been around for a while. Just kept to himself. That’s good. No one has bad shit to say about him. His business is squeaky, so are his bank accounts.

Which only makes me wonder why he wants to get involved with us now. Doesn’t seem right. But what do I know? I haven’t been scouting in a while.

This part of Arizona isn’t one we have any businesses in, but neither do any other families. Moving this way is a smart business idea, though it’s further from the border than we’d like, meaning it won’t help us much for storage. It isn’t the only reason we work with club owners, but it is the main reason. In order for us to accept this deal, the payout will have to be good.

The beefbag on the left raises a brow when we step up to him and don’t go through the ropes.

“We’re here to meet with Bernardo,” I say.

“Name?” he grunts.

I grit my teeth but answer the guy. “Vincenzo Bramante.”

He nods, pushing open the door for me.

“Brock will take you to him.”

Brock is the other beefbag. He heads in first, pushing through the second set of doors, which lets loud, bassy music float out. Once we’re inside, I recognize the song as a classic rock hit. The bar is full of men in expensive suits. The large room is dark with flashing lights coming from around the corner. As we walk deeper, the stage comes into view. It’s big, flashy, and with two poles and two dancers. Both girls are healthy. Not too skinny, no bruises, and their clothing is expensive.

So far, so good.

We don’t like to meddle in people’s personal shit, but we also don’t like doing business with women beaters or those who drug their girls to make them compliant.

Brock takes us around the bar and down a narrow hallway and into a small conference room that has large canvas photos of pin-up girls hanging on the walls.

“He’ll be right in,” Brock says, closing us in.

Me and the guys share a look, spreading out to take different positions in the room. I’m not stupid enough to sit and get comfortable. We don’t know this guy and he could be setting us up. He comes into the room a moment later, alone, and smiling at us.

“Have any trouble getting in?” he asks as he steps into the room. He’s a smaller guy. Maybe 5’10” with the body of a swimmer. His hair is dark and short, and his eyes a light shade of grey that looks almost unreal.

“No trouble,” I say.

“Can I get you anything?” he asks as a woman walks in with a tray. There’s a bottle of Van Winkle and four glasses on it. He looks over his shoulder. “Just in time, Wendy.”

The woman is tall, blond, and with huge tits. She smiles at him and places the tray on the table. “Let me know if you need anything else,” she says, leaving the room and closing the door behind her.

Bernardo opens the bottle and pours some into a glass. “Anyone?” he asks, looking up at us.

“Sure,” I say.

“None for me, thanks. I’m driving,” Antonio says with a chuckle.

Rocco shakes his head.