I glance at Tony, currently zip-tied to his own dining room chair with piss staining his khakis, and decide I've explained enough.
Tank can handle the rest.
One look at my brother standing there with the tattoos that cover damn near everything up to his jawline and arms that could be classed as lethal weapons folded over his chest, and most people find clarity with more effectiveness than a decade of therapy.
"I got shit to do," I tell Tank, already moving toward the door. "Make sure our friend understands the parking situation is resolved."
Tank grunts his acknowledgment and I don't bother sticking around to see how he drives the point home.
My mind's already miles away, picturing Ellie in that pink room, plotting her next escape attempt with that stubborn set to her jaw I know so well.
The rage continues simmering just under my skin. She really thought she could just walk out? Test me onday fucking onelike I'm some soft touch who'll let her do whatever she wants because she's got pretty eyes and a smart mouth?
Nah.
She wants to play games? I'll teach herexactlywhat kind of games we play now.
My Lambo eats up the distance between Tony's place and the warehouse district. The club's already starting to fill up even though it's barely past noon on a Saturday. Degenerates don't keep normal hours, and neither do we. I bypass the main entrance, heading straight for the back offices where we conduct actual business.
The bass shakes through the walls, making my teeth vibrate. Inside, bodies writhe on the dance floor, most of those fuckers half-naked and strung out, lost in whatever chemical paradise they've bought tonight. Cages hang from the ceiling, dancers moving inside them like exotic birds in gilded prisons.
I barely even notice that shit anymore.
But one cage in particular catches my eye.
It's smaller than the others, decorative more than functional. Black metal with intricate scrollwork, hanging in the corner like art. It would barely fit a person. They'd have to curl up, stay on their knees.
Perfect.
"Dante!" I flag down one of my guys, the one who handles logistics when we need shit moved. He's built like a linebacker with a brain that actually functions, which makes him useful. "See that cage?"
He follows my gaze, eyebrows rising. "The small one?"
"Yeah. I want it delivered to my place.Today. Within the hour."
"But I was already?—"
I pull out a roll of hundreds, peel off five without counting. "You got a problem?"
The bills disappear into his pocket faster than lightning. "No sir. Where do you want it set up?"
"I'll figure that out when I get there. Just get it done."
He nods and disappears into the crowd, already pulling out his phone. I turn to leave, but first, I look back at that cage, imagining Ellie inside it. Curled up, leashed, those green eyes defiant even in submission.
My cock throbs and I adjust myself. Can't walk into the house with a raging hard-on.
The drive home feels longer than it should, traffic crawling like the universe is conspiring to test my patience. My fingers drum against the steering wheel.
One, two, three, four, five.
Fuck.
Even I'm doing it now, her nervous habit bleeding into my own patterns like she's still under my skin after all these years.
The house looks peaceful when I pull up. Like we're a normal household instead of four criminals and their captive princess.
Inside, Jinx sprawls on the couch with a book. Some philosophy bullshit he pretends to understand to look deep. I wouldn't be surprised if he has his phone hidden in the pages.
