Page 59 of The Vigilante's Lover

I hate leaving Mia out there alone, but I can’t bring her inside.

Jovana and Klaus are both trained Vigilantes who want us dead.

I won’t have that on my conscience.

They probably won’t notice her in the car even if they go out to the lot.

If they are even here. This could all be for nothing.

But the prickle down my spine tells me it isn’t.

I head to the back door of the arena. I’m stopped by a security guard, and when a friendly chat doesn’t get me through, I drop him with a pinch to the vasal nerve. He won’t be out long, but by the time he comes around, I’ll be where I need to go.

The corridors are a maze between small dressing rooms and larger spaces for gatherings.

A message beeps through from Colt. I scan it quickly, passing a young woman carrying a tray. She notices me, but her look is more flirtatious than authoritative, so I move on.

Green room, the message reads.

That will be closer to the front. The halls get progressively thicker with people as I head nearer the arena doors. I blend in with groups as we pass the guards who prevent guests and low-level employees from entering the arena floor.

“There he is!” Colt spots me from up ahead. He pulls his own backstage pass off and sticks it over my head. With his face and public recognition, he doesn’t need one himself.

“Let’s head back,” he says. “This way.”

Colt and Parker make a point to gab about the fights as we walk the back halls to the green room. I follow their conversation only in the background, instead scanning the environment.

I pay the thoughtful and classy amenities little mind and focus on doors and layout. Whoever designed this place had crowd flow at the top of the list of concerns.

Easy to move around. Hard to defend.

The noise of the party crowd grows as we approach the entrance to the room. Through a set of double doors lies a decent-sized space filled with people in all manners of dress. Most hold drinks. A few carry small plates with appetizers.

A crowd at the bar keeps the two bartenders busy. A shorter line trickles past the buffet table. Opposite the doors are huge floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the city. Nashville’s lights dance beyond the glass.

I take all of this in over the course of the few seconds that pass before two men head over to us. They both wear off-the-rack suits that I’m sure they think are suave. One of them scowls beneath a felt fedora. The other has a glossy black mop with a suspiciously even hairline.

Colt groans. “Here comes the sleaze brigade,” he mutters.

They bear down on us.

“Gunner!” the black-haired one cries and grabs Colt’s hand, pumping it vigorously. “And Power Play!” He shakes Parker’s hand as well and claps them both on the shoulders. “Strong as ever, I see! Thinking about going back in for that title again?”

“Ha, no thanks, Benny,” says Colt. “I’m just a pretty face these days. Parker’s the one on a hot streak.”

Parker shrugs. “Finally found the right weight class.”

The man laughs. It’s a practiced, hollow sound. The kind you do on demand. He’s not built like a fighter. A promoter or agent, then. His companion’s only contribution to this exchange is a quick nod beneath the hat.

“And who is this?” The loud one turns to me, his hand out. “Benny Rand,” he says.

I give Benny a polite smile and a firm but stilted handshake.

“Benny, this is Jax, an old friend of my family,” says Colt.

Benny’s eyes widen. “Whoa, quite the grip you have there, Jax.” He gives a nervous laugh as I release him. “You a fighter, too?” His eyes study me, sizing me up like a rancher appraising a horse.

“Only for fitness,” I reply.

“If you ever change your mind, look me up!” The hollow laugh returns. “I’m an agent as well as a promoter. I fight for your fights!”

The man is insufferable.

“Look, Benny,” says Colt, “we know you’re busy and don’t want to take up too much of your time. You know where Lukov is?”

Benny’s stone-faced companion finally speaks up. “Fly is running late, but he’ll be here soon.” The man’s English is near perfect, but I detect the hint of an Eastern European accent.

“Ah, my manners!” says Benny. “Gentlemen, this is Anatol Bronowski, Lukov’s handler.” Benny claps him on the shoulder. “Fly’s a real up-and-comer, eh, Bronowski?”

“He does well, yes.” He talks out of the corner of his mouth, and between the suit and the hat and his scowl, it’s like we’re living inside a black-and-white film noir.

We exchange simple handshakes with Anatol. I spare him the full force of my grip. I need to keep him friendly.

“I look forward to meeting your fighter,” I tell Anatol. He looks me in the eye then, and I see I have his attention. Good. “Make sure to introduce us.”

Colt excuses us and we extract ourselves from the two of them. When we are away and Benny has safely engaged with someone else, Colt lets out a sigh.

“God, I hate that man,” he mutters. “I had hoped Lukov’s handler wasn’t stuck with him, but there you go.” He shrugs.

“Colt,” I say, “I need you to separate them. I need to talk to Anatol alone.”

Colt looks like I just asked him to hand in his man card.

“I’ll do it,” says Parker before Colt says anything. “I still owe you for Vegas.”

“You don’t owe me anything, Parker, but thank you,” I say.

Parker nods.

“Now I owe you,” mutters Colt.

Parker grins and claps his shoulder. “Yes, yes, you do. Go get me a beer as part of your penance.” And then he’s gone, pushing his way back toward Benny and Anatol.

“But that means I’ll have to bring it to him,” says Colt. He shakes his head. “That sneaky bastard.”

We head to the bar and fight our way to the front.

A cute girl behind the bar eyes Colt. She leans forward so her cleavage spills over the top of her artfully torn UFC T-shirt. “What can I getcha, fighter boy?”

“Whatever you’ve got that isn’t pisswater,” he says.

“You really are off the mat, if you’re drinking beer,” I say.

Colt shrugs. “We mostly hold them for show. Part of the gig.”

“How about you, darling?” the girl asks me.

I glance at their liquor selection. I’m tempted to skip the whole thing based on the labels, but like Colt says, it’s part of the show. “Mix me an Old Fashioned,” I say.

She winks at me. “Classy.”

We look over the crowd as she works. The room is getting packed. I’ll definitely want a quieter space for what I’m here for.

“What’s the plan, boss?” Colt asks.

“To keep you guys out of it.”

The girl sets the drinks on the bar. “Hope you two will stick close by,” she says. “I could use the company.”

“We’ll try to come back around,” Colt says kindly and picks up his beers.

I take a sip of mine and grimace at the taste of cheap alcohol mixed in poor ratios. The downside of an open bar and a bartender who may not have been hired for her skills.

We mingle for a few minutes, chatting up other guests while keeping an eye on Parker, Benny, and Anatol. At one point Parker catches our eye and shoots Colt a pointed look at the extra beer.

“I guess I can’t put this off any longer,” Colt sighs. “Be quick, I don’t know how long we can keep Benny occupied before either of us punches him.”

Colt heads off like a dead man walking. I circle through the crowd, placing myself near Anatol without catching Benny’s eye.

A woman with bottle-blond hair and poured into a sparkling black dress tries to engage me in conversation.

From her speech and mannerisms, she’s obviously a small-town girl. Like Mia.

Mia. God, they better not get to her. I’ll kill them.

The girl pushes on my arm. “So what do you say?”

Hell, I haven’t been listening. Mia on the brain.

And elsewhere, I think, feeling that familiar tug in my groin.

The girl finally gives up, rolling her eyes and walking off. I turn just in time to see Colt and Parker leading Benny away from Anatol.

“Mr. Bronowski!” I call before someone else distracts him. “Anatol!”

Anatol turns to me and his face relaxes with recognition. “Ah, the newcomer. Get separated from your friends?”

“I didn’t want to intrude on their conversation with Benny,” I reply. “Besides, I was hoping to talk with you.”

“Yes, I recall, Mr.… I didn’t catch your last name.”

“De Luca,” I say. “Jax De Luca. How is Lukov doing?”

“His win-loss record speaks for itself,” he says.

I guide him to a quieter corner of the room. I pepper him with quick questions, playing up the fan angle while moving the conversation away from Lukov and toward his entourage.

“He has a sister, doesn’t he?” I finally ask.

“Jovana? Yes, sweet girl. Very devoted to Fly,” he replies.

I hide my bristling at the description of Jovana as “sweet.” Mia is sweet. Jovana is anything but. “So she’s here?”

“Oh, yes! But it’s hard for her now. That boyfriend of hers is very controlling.” He scowls.

Klaus and Jovana. My lack of jealousy pleases me, but I don’t for a second believe that Jovana has any feelings for Klaus. It would explain his turncoat actions, however.

Maybe Klaus is using her, too. Could he be working the double-agent angle? The bombs at the safe house were clearly designed to maim and kill, but Klaus would have known I could figure out that knot. And thus survive.

I need to talk to him, alone. I have to be sure.

“Will they be with Fly when he arrives?” I ask.

“Yes, probably. Why?”

“Colt and Parker would love to meet with Fly,” I say. “Probably really help his publicity along.”

Anatol’s interest in having his boy meet fighters at the level of Gunner and Power Play is clear on his face.

So I dash his hopes with an additional contingency. “But I’m worried about that boyfriend being along when they meet him.”

“Oh?” he asks. “Why is that?”

“If he’s disrespectful to Fly’s sister… Jovana, was it? I worry that Colt and Parker might do something, well, rash.” I nod as understanding dawns in Anatol’s eyes. “They don’t take kindly to such men.”

“Ah, I see. Maybe I could get Benny to speak with the man.”