“You take of your little problem?” Shaw questions as he moves in to stand at my right.
“I’ve got it under control.”
“I don’t like it.”
“I didn’t ask your opinion. Any movement on the Westside?”
“Word on the street is that Boomer thinks it came from someone in his camp. Mitch had been fucking around with the wife of one of his soldiers. I have no doubt he’s torturing the poor bastard and the wife or burning their bodies.”
A normal person might feel guilty, but it’s the name of the game. It’s a risk we all take. Death comes for us all, eventually. One way or another, we’re all going to die.
I know Boomer is behind my father’s death, I just can’t prove it. When the time is right, I’ll take him out. I’ll turn his family inside out.
“Good.”
“You sure you’re cool?”
“Are you my friend or my therapist?”
He snorts.
“Don’t answer that.” I down my drink and debate calling it a night. There’s no sign of Cassie and there’s no one here I want to fuck.
“Look. There’s that chick that Puck’s been fucking.”
I glance to where he’s pointing, but it isn’t the blonde I’m interested in.
“How does that fuck stick land her?”
“It’s because he’s an asshole.” I grin. “Where is that sorry bastard, anyway?” I might actually be making some money off the drinks without him giving too many freebies out. But I encourage him to do so. On paper, we need the volume of liquor on paper to match what we claim.
“He should have been here at seven.”
“Find him. There’s something I need to do.” I watch my sweetheart as she takes a shot.
She looks different tonight, but I know it’s her. She’s curled her hair and is wearing a pair of jeans that hug her thick hips and a low-cut top exposing her cleavage.
I keep my eyes on her as I go down to the main floor, leaving Shaw in the VIP section.
What is she doing here?
Is it a coincidence?
I follow her to the bathroom and accost her.
“Who’s stalking whom?” I ask her as I take her to my private office.
She glances back over her shoulder. Uncertainty lines her face. “I didn’t know you’d be here. How would I know that?”
“Maybe your little cop boyfriend sent you here.”
She shakes her head as I reach around her to open the door. “My ex-boyfriend.”
I close the door behind me, and she stands in the center of the small room and takes in the room. There’s not much kept here. A black leather couch that folds out into a bed. A desk with my laptop, with all the club’s accounting on it. The club is a front to wash money through. It turns a decent profit, but a true audit would reveal we do about 10 grand less on a booming night than what is reported.
This club is one of many properties I inherited from my old man. We own apartments. Commercial storefronts. We’ve got our hands in many pies. My mother’s beauty shop. Her clothing store. I even own a tattoo parlor.
We employ, house, and feed many mouths.
