Page 5 of Confession (Constantine Brothers #2)

FIVE

Quinn

Pink, green, and yellow lights shine selectively, highlighting the dancers and parts of the bar, leaving the rest dim so the men can lurk, greasy-haired and poorly dressed.

God, I hate places like this.

Most of the time, I don’t think about the past, certainly not as far back as all this shit, but the fucking smell of this place. It’s amusty, sweaty haze with pockets of cheap cologne. You walk into one and just fucking choke . It smells like my father.

Vitali’s eyes flick to me as we walk through the dimness to Mickey’s table. I’m having a really hard time with how much attention he’s paying to me. We spent the past two years in neutral. What the fuck is going on all of a sudden? It kind of pisses me off.

Ironic, I know—or hypocritical?—because I’ve sometimes fantasized about this. Vitali’s attention. His interest. But now that I have it, I just feel like, Stop fucking looking at me! I want to shove him.

The problem is I don’t know what to do with his attention. It’s not like I can enjoy it. I’m too afraid of what he might see. I’ve spent so long and I’ve worked so hard to make sure he sees nothing.

Basically, I’m confused, stressed the hell out, and illogically angry with him about it.

“Good?” Vitali asks.

How the hell can he tell that I’m not?

See, this is why I’m stressed. I’m very sure that I’m not showing anything, and yet he can see it. Why, when he never has before? Or has he always seen but is only just now, for whatever reason, choosing to speak?

Does he know that I’m in love with him? Is that why he’s been staring at me? I’m not imagining it. Working out today, he was definitely looking at me. With any other man, I would say he was checking me out. I mean, I for sure caught his eyes on my dick.

But why ? What the hell is going on? God, I hope I don’t do something stupid.

I know exactly what my control is like. It’s there, it’s there, it’s there, and then it’s fucking not .

Like when I started losing it sparring with Roman.

I was completely fine, then I felt it, and I had seconds before I was gonna lose my shit.

I clear my throat. “Yeah. I’m good.”

Mickey, thin-faced and hunched, jumps a little when he sees us coming. You’d think someone frequently engaged in illegal activity would have a stronger nerve, but I guess he’s only ballsy behind the keyboard. He’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt and his long hair is pulled back in a low ponytail.

This is why we have to meet at a joint like this with low light, minimal scrutiny, and locational neutrality. The second Vitali takes a seat at Mickey’s table, it’s obvious that their business is illegal and that Mickey is the weak link for anyone who wants to pry.

Though Vitali is dressed down in black jeans and a leather jacket over his partially unbuttoned black shirt, he still looks rich and powerful. There’s no hiding that confidence.

“Mickey,” Vitali greets the hacker.

“Mr. Constantine.” Mickey fiddles with the stem of his glass, which holds a tropical-looking cocktail and a pink umbrella. “What can I do for you?”

Vitali’s fingers drum the faux wood table. “Someone seems to know too much about me.” Mickey’s Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “But I don’t know what they know, and I need to.”

I head to the bar so I can better scan the room, leaving them to discuss business.

Months ago, Mickey got into the FBI system to poke around, but there weren’t any sensitive details related to Constantine business.

Something could be in their system now, but it’s also possible that Special Agent Cohen is working off the books but using FBI resources. We need to know which is the case.

The bartender, hair bleached to within an inch of its life, pushes her tits forward as she asks for my order.

At first I take it as ordinary tip-seeking behavior, but then she makes a very obvious show of checking me out.

I really don’t get why women are interested in me.

Do they see me as “safe” because I don’t leer at them?

I got three phone numbers last night. It makes no fucking sense.

I check out the whiskeys. Maker’s Mark is top shelf here, so I order two doubles with an uncomfortable awareness that the change in my standards reflects my past as much as my present. It’s hard to ignore that in a place like this.

I used to sit in a dark corner of The Pony with nothing to do but peel apart a coaster layer by layer while I waited for my father to get drunk enough that we could go home.

I didn’t really mind. The drunker he got, the more likely it was that he’d pass out on the couch rather than come after me or my mother.

I grit my teeth and force the memory away. The man is dead and so is she, and this place has nothing to do with me. I have a goddamn job to do.

I reach into my black tactical jacket for my wallet, careful not to flash my gun in its shoulder holster. I pay, tipping high because I know the kind of shithole she’ll probably be returning to after work.

While I wait for the drinks, I pretend to watch the dancers. I’m actually scanning the room for red flags. One of the disadvantages of a place like Neon Paradise is that it’s full of red flags. Half the patrons look shady because half of them are.

But my life has spanned the spectrum of shady from the lowest to the highest, so I study a few particular men. When Vitali and I entered the strip club, I clocked four as potential problems. Better dressed, less drunk. Only one of them is watching Vitali. It might mean something or it might not.

I check on Vitali. Across from him, Mickey is nodding vigorously.

I don’t like that. Mickey is always awkward, always nervous, but he’s not usually enthusiastic.

It’s always a head shake, always, I don’t know, Mr. Constantine, I can try , even when he’s perfectly capable.

I used to think it was a way of angling for more money, but he never bargains. He’s just insecure.

When I get the drinks, I leave the bar and wander toward the farther stage as though for a better view of the pole dance—and that’s when I spot him.

No wonder he’s over here in the shadows because I recognize him instantly. Leo Pedano, one of Alesso DiMaggios’ men, Alesso being the son of family head Gavino DiMaggio.

Fuck. On so many levels.

I keep my body language casual like I haven’t noticed him, but he for sure has noticed me. He probably marked me and Vitali the second we walked in.

This is a setup.

Adrenaline is flooding my body, but I linger for a second, running my gaze over the men clustered by the stage. There’s no point now in hiding that I’m looking. Leo already knows that’s what I’m doing. I just have to get back to Vitali without Leo realizing I’ve clocked him.

I sip my whiskey and start working my way back to Vitali, hyperalert for movement since I can’t hear much over the music.

The rule is no going after family heads, but there’s no other reason for this setup. But Alesso DiMaggio has plenty of motivation to break this particular rule.

I set Vitali’s whiskey in front of him and take a seat like nothing’s wrong. Under the table, I nudge Vitali’s foot with mine. His eyes flick to me.

We might not have another chance to talk to Mickey, so before shit hits the fan, I ask, “You wearing a wire, Mickey, or are you just here as bait?”

It takes Mickey a second to process my question. If the situation weren’t so damn serious, it would be comical, the way he freezes, glitching like a computer program, before he jolts in delayed reaction.

“I-I swear I didn’t—”

“Stay calm.” Mickey stills at my order, but I wouldn’t call him calm.

“Are you wearing a wire?” I ask. When he shakes his head no, I believe him.

Mickey isn’t a good liar. And if he’s not here to gather evidence, that means he’s here simply as bait.

“So how did the DiMaggios know you’re connected to us? ”

“I swear I didn’t want—”

“Just answer the question.”

Mickey swallows hard. “Somehow, they had evidence that I’d hacked the FBI system, looking for information on the Constantines. They were gonna turn me in—”

“The DiMaggios got that evidence from the FBI,” Vitali cuts in. “The feds already have you if they want you.”

Mickey practically melts. His hands cover his pale face. “Oh my god.”

We’re out of time. Mickey’s reactions have alerted Pedano, who’s emerged from the shadows and is moving our way.

“Back door,” I snap. Moments like these are the rare ones where I give the orders.

As Vitali springs from his seat, I flip the table. The strip club instantly erupts with shouts and people scrambling from their chairs. Vitali bolts for the back door, trusting me to be behind him.

But I’m not behind him—because I’m more effective if I take Pedano by surprise and hold his crew to buy Vitali time.

I hurl my glass at one of the closest men.

Whiskey flies out of the glass before it hits the guy in the head, taking him down as I reach Pedano.

He comes at me with a knife, but I duck inside his guard and slug him in the gut.

His body curls around my fist and he lets out an “oof!” Before he can recover, I hook my arm around his neck and get him in a headlock, spinning us so I can see the back door to check that Vitali is out and that no one is yet chasing him.

I enjoy half a second of relief when I see that the door is shut, but then it fucking flies open and Vitali comes charging back in. Goddamn it!

Vitali has his gun in hand but doesn’t fire. No one does. It’s better for everyone if the dozens of witnesses can dismiss this as a bar fight. In the chaos of shouts and people rushing to get out of the way, Vitali body slams one of Pedano’s guys.

Pain flashes across my abdomen. I have to release the headlock I have on Pedano to disarm him. We trade a few blows and swipes before I manage it. By then, Vitali is at my side. Pedano is dropping, so I knee him in the jaw on his way down.