I shake my head slowly and huff out a chuckle. I might look like bad boy street trash, but women don’t seem to mind. Either way, I don’t belong here, and everyone knows it.
I swing my leg over the bike, ignoring the whispers and stares as I head for the doors. Some other rich bastard’s wife in diamonds gapes at my ink, clutching her pearls. If she knew what the suits inside this place did for a living, she’d throw herself into my arms and beg for protection.
The Viper Pit is all marble floors and gold trim, glass so clean it disappears and red velvet that drinks up the light. A wall of mirrors lines the entryway, throwing my reflection back at me. It’s hard, scarred, unsmiling. I stride past the smug crowd, headed for the far end of the club, where the real power in this place sits behind a round table, guarded by men who’ve never had to get their hands dirty. Not like I have, anyway.
The hostess tries to block my path with a saccharine smile. “Sir, do you have an appointment?”
I stop abruptly.
I meet her gaze, let my voice rumble low. “Tell Rafael that Beast from Savage Reign is here. He’s expecting me.”
She blinks, swallowing, and her bravado wavers for half a second. Good. She knows the name and at least some of the reputation behind it. She turns and quickly moves to the back table, her heels clicking a nervous beat on the marble.
I wait, eyes drifting to the screens over the bar, each one running silent news loops and market updates. The rich want to keep score even when they pretend they don’t care about the game.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I check the lock screen out of habit and the knots in my chest tighten. Layla’s photo stares back at me. Those soft, hazel eyes, delicate lips, and defiant chin do to me now what they always do. Make me want to crack skulls until I get answers. There’s a kind of quiet strength in the line of her jaw that sticks with me and I can only hope she has enough of the strength in the rest of her to hold out until I can find her.
The hostess beckons me with a flick of her wrist. “Mr. Milano will see you now.”
Oh, goody.
I follow her down a hallway that smells of cigar smoke and top-shelf whiskey. Rafael waits in a room at the end, sunlight slanting through frosted glass, casting gold across polished wood and piles of cash. He’s in his mid-forties, sharply dressed, every movement precise.
He doesn’t stand when I enter, just tips his head and gestures at the seat across from him. “Beast. I take it you haven’t found your girl yet?”
I shake my head. “It’s why I asked Cipher to set up this little meet and greet.”
“Understood. How can I help?’
Nothing this man or his syndicate does will be free.
I settle in, leaning forward. “We need information. You and the rest of the Red Letter Syndicate have ties we don’t. A chemist. Her name is Layla Wren. She’s not just a club asset. She’s an innocent who’s been kidnapped and we need to find her.”
He steeples his fingers, appraising me. “You know how this works. You want a favor from the Syndicate, you owe one back. And you understand the price is never small.”
His eyes flicker to the tattoos peeking out under my sleeves, then up to my face. “You got a picture?”
It’s my turn to nod. “Understood.”
I thumb through my phone and show him the shot I’ve memorized. Layla’s black hair loose around her shoulders, glasses a little crooked, freckles dusted across her nose. Rafael’s gaze lingers, and I feel something sharp twist in my gut—possessive, protective urge to snap back my phone and hide her from his lingering gaze.
He slides the phone back to me.
“She’s pretty,” he says, voice cool. “I’ll ask around.”
I let the compliment pass. “We’ve been close before. Her last trail led to a burned-out railway car, south parish. The Vultures moved her again. I need a name, a location—anything.”
Rafael drums his fingers on the table, weighing the request. Finally, he leans back and gives a tight smile. “I’ve heard whispers about a new lab, an abandoned warehouse on the river. It’s nothing solid, but it’s more than you had.”
I nod. “What’s the price?”
His smile widens just a hair. “The Syndicate will name the favor when it’s time. You don’t get to ask questions about the terms.”
I grit my teeth, biting back the urge to tell him where to shove his favor. But this isn’t about pride. It’s about Layla.
“Done,” I say. “You get me to her, you can have whatever the fuck you want.”
He stands, signaling the meeting’s over. “I’ll text you the address. Good luck, Beast.”
