Page 8 of Unleash Hades (Ungoverned Spaces #5)
Calissandra
One Week Later
New York City, New York
G avin was fast indeed. Richard was meticulous in his record keeping. Every email stored, everything in plain sight on his computer.
“Looks like he deals in the oldest trade in the book,” Gavin said, as we met under the cover of darkness in an alleyway behind his favorite Irish bar, Four Green Fields.
“Prostitution?” I asked, pulling my collar up against the chill of an unseasonably cool evening.
“The other oldest trade in the book,” Gavin said with a chuckle. “Blackmail.”
I had never had any inkling of this. I had never seen, or thought, that was a possibility. He had influence as the CEO of Laurent Media. He was a shrewd businessman. But blackmail?
“He’s been profiting in the triangle trade, controlling them with blackmail,” Gavin explained. “I see many familiar names in there. Mafiosos, Dante and Giovanni Morelli. He had a lot on that Alex Baas, too. He railed against what a waste it was that he committed suicide.”
The last part I had no trouble believing. He’d find it rude for someone to die without his permission.
“He’s got quite a bit on all the mafia families, including the old Vasilievs.
He’s got something on the DA too.” Gavin let out a breath of air, his nostrils flaring with some repressed emotion.
“It's like he’s greasing the wheels and conducting the train at the same time. But not actually doing any of the real work himself.”
He went on to explain that Richard forced the police to turn a blind eye, and collected protection money from the swine who traded in guns, drugs and souls.
“He makes a great living at it,” Gavin said. “That’s the money you’ve been seeing. The sudden flush of cash you’re always receiving.”
“How are they giving him cash? How much?”
“Hundreds of thousands.” At my bewildered look, he tilted his head. “$100,000 stack comes to the height of about a standard pen. A briefcase will do. You won’t need a huge Santa Clause sack, with a dollar sign on the side to carry that much around.”
I mentally tried to calculate how large that stack would be but wasn’t able to conjure the image.
“He gives them a carrot and stick,” Gavin continued, “He blackmails, takes their bribes, and also offers them protection. He won’t let stories about them come out in the Media. He blocks them outright. I’ve seen the trail.”
“He’s very clever,” I said, studying the red bricks of the wall of the alley. “Can we turn this in to the police?”
That seemed too simple, but it was worth asking.
“No,” Gavin almost laughed. “This USB drive will look like it was fabricated by a scorned wife. There’s no evidence unless we can find more. Witnesses. Other traces of moving money, which will be difficult.”
“Witnesses?”
“The Underground Circuit,” Gavin said with a nod. “You know it? That’s where they hand over the money.”
“I’ve heard rumors of it, but I thought it was an urban legend,” I said, lifting my shoulders to my ears as a particularly terrible breeze blew into the alley, swirling trash at our feet.
“Nah, it’s real,” Gavin said, his hands digging into his pockets even further. “I shouldn’t be giving this to you, but…”
He handed me a piece of paper.
“My son, Kieran, goes to the fights.” He bit down on his lower lip, pulling it through his teeth.
“It’s exclusive, and people get times and addresses to the fights a week before.
The moment they see it, all traces of the address disappear, and there’s never a number attached.
It’s all quite hush-hush, but… I let my son know what was happening, and he gave it to me.
He said if you go, that he’ll look out for ye. ”
I held the paper in my hand, seeing the address was in a warehouse district.
He put his hands in his pocket, and gave me a nod.
“Be careful,” he said, tilting his head towards me, before squaring his shoulders. “I’m going back inside to have a pint with my son. Will you come in and meet him?”
“Isn’t this a mafia bar?” I asked, looking at the building, and the shamrock above the back entrance.
“No! That’s a filthy lie! What they call the Irish Mafia is just a legitimate enterprise,” Gavin said, though he was protesting a little too much. “The Greens are good folk, just trying to do their jobs.”
I smirked. “Is that right?”
“Hand to God!” He put up his palm up, as if he was taking an oath. “Though, I understand how a respectable woman like you might not be in with the riff-raff like me.”
He went to the back door, ready to re-enter the establishment. He stopped and looked over his shoulder, looking at me with worried eyes. He opened his mouth, probably to tell me to be careful, but then shut it again. It was bad luck to say things like that.
So he just pushed the door open and went inside.
That was how I ended up in a glass manufacturer’s warehouse, staring at a temporarily erected octagon. A canvas mat elevated the fighters above the seated crowd. A chain link cage surrounded the stage, like the fighters were animals in a zoo.
The audience was well-dressed. Cocktail dresses, and neckties. The expensive clothes of the audience contrasted sharply with the near-nakedness of the fighters within.
A bell sounded as two men in the ring touched their fingerless fighting gloves. Then they separated, fists up, ready to pummel each other into oblivion.
The crowd hummed with quiet conversation, punctuated by the sound of ice clinking in crystal glassware.
The air smelled of sweat, and alcohol. It was an odd mixture - real champagne, artisanal beer, expensive perfumes mixed and the scent of human exertion. The rich with the poor; the gladiators with the patricians.
It was a microcosm of humanity that made my stomach twist.
I hated this. I hated the feel of privilege and entitlement sneering at the fighters like they were livestock. It was wrong. And I was a part of it.
At least, for now. Just until I got my story. Just until I got justice for Adelia.
“Drink?” A waitress in a black dress held out a tray of wine, champagne, and beer.
“No, thank you,” I shook my head, trying not to be obvious as I scanned the room.
Someone had to be in charge here. There was no way that this finely tuned machine could run without a conductor.
Someone had to organize the bar, the wait staff, the referee, the fighters…
the Underground Circuit moved from place to place.
No two fights could happen in the same location back-to-back.
It was all intricately coordinated and layered with more secrets than the CIA and tougher to crack than Fort Knox.
Someone said that the Mafia heads – The Italian Durantes, the Russian Vasilievs, and the Irish Greens - all came together to put on the fights.
The bets, all done digitally on an untraceable app, made millions.
Inside the room itself, people exchanged betting slips amongst themselves, and cash was traded.
Conspiracists believed that the criminal families came together for the cash grab. But that painted a rather fantastically kind image of the cutthroat criminals.
Others believed it was a conglomerate of fighters themselves … but then no one could agree on who would do that. The final theory was of a shadowy billionaire, who ran the fights like a puppet master, staying behind the scenes and working through loyal intermediaries.
“Would you like something to eat?” the waitress persisted. “Caviar? An amuse bouche?”
I didn’t answer, looking at her tray of drinks, then looking at the other waiters walking around with plates of finger food.
“We are catered by Le Bisous Restaurant,” she smiled, blinking her long lashes as her cleavage threatened to jump out at me.
“Really?” Le Bisous was a famous restaurant with two Michelin stars. It was expensive, and highly exclusive. That’s where Richard had taken me and his clients, recently.
Was Richard the head of the snake? It could be, after all. He profited the most, right? But I didn’t know enough about this circuit to be sure.
“Is the organizer friends with Constance Leclerq?”
I name dropped the restaurateur, hoping that it made me seem worldly, and all knowing. Someone who would be worth confiding in.
But the waitress simply smiled, “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
Ah, ignorance. The greatest way to deny anything.
Unlike “no comment”, which always hinted at the possibility of a huge comment, or “I can neither confirm nor deny,” which was always a confirmation, pleading ignorance couldn’t be challenged.
She moved to her next patron, offering the drinks, then food, then more.
The chairs looked a lot like the covered seats of a wedding. White, with crimson ties on the back.
I looked around at the faces and recognized them all.
Gavin’s son was here, Kieran. He had seen me, and given me a nod, but made no moves to approach. I was grateful for that, because we wouldn’t run in the same circles. People would suspect something if he came to see me.
In another corner was the Governor of Massachusetts, Corbin McClellan. Arthur Ramirez, the District Attorney, was casually wrapped around a woman who was definitely not his fiancée.
The guest list was filled with VIPs, and by any standard, my skirt suit made me underdressed for the occasion.
But I had to be here tonight because Richard would not be here. There was a problem with our Algerian branch, and so he was far, far away. This was my only chance to go to this event without his suspicions. I could talk to people and mingle without the Eye of Sauron on my back.
“I did not think that this would be your scene.” I heard the ruffle of fabric as a man plopped into the empty seat beside me. I didn’t need to look. The apricot ascot with a massive blue diamond pin in my peripheral vision gave him away.
Lucien Bellamy.
“Especially not without your darling Richard in attendance.” The mockery in his tone was thick with amusement, even though it didn’t reach his eyes. His face was full of curiosity, “What’s the scoop?”