“Do you really want to torture yourself with that question?” she counters, resting her hand on her hip with a knowing smile.
“I can handle it.”
“I made chicken parm with fettuccini alfredo and?—”
“Okay, I really don’t want to know.” My stomach growls at the thought, and she sends me a knowing smile.
Chicken parm is my favorite.
“I’ll make it again soon. Don’t miss this coming Sunday, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I haven’t quite finished my drink when Rome is suddenly at my side.
“With me,” he mutters quietly, and I know that whatever he has to tell or show me isn’t good. Before we walk away, he turns to his wife. “You good, Firefly?”
“I’m great.”
He nods and then leads me to the elevator.
“What’s up?” I ask when we’re in the car.
“I need to show you,” he replies, shaking his head, and when the doors open, he leads me to the control room, where monitors are set up with live feeds from all over the club. “You know that we have cameras in every room, even the private rooms, for security purposes.”
“Sure.”
He taps some keys, and suddenly the screen changes to one of the privacy rooms. I can clearly see that my son is fucking some woman—Miranda, if I remember correctly—and he smacks her breast hard, making her flinch.
“Sound?” I ask, and Rome hits another key.
“You see this, you stupid bitch? Look at how much she loves my cock. I’m going to fuck her ass next, and make her bleed good. This is what I expect out of you. This is what I’m going to do to you, every day for the rest of your fucking life,” Elliott spits out. “This is how you satisfy your husband.”
“Who’s he talking to?” Rome asks.
“Is there another camera? She’s off—fuck, he’s got Natasha in there. Which room?”
“Six,” he says, and then I’m running with Rome on my heels.
“Call the men,” I tell him. “I want six of them.”
He nods, already tapping his screen. Not bothering to wait for the elevator, I take the stairs two at a time, then race down the hallway to the private rooms and try the knob for room six, but it’s locked.
“I have a key,” Rome says, pulling a master key card out of his wallet, and when the light turns green, I rush inside and see nothing but red at the scene before me.
Natasha is in a chair, her dress torn and body bared, shaking, her eyes glassy and staring off in the distance like she’s in shock.
Elliott is fucking the shit out of Miranda, who has a black eye and is weeping, murmuring her safe word over and over again.
“You piece of shit.” I’m on him in a flash, yanking him off the woman, and punch him in the face, making him cry out. “What the fuck have you done?”
His eyes are manic and full of glee at the destruction he’s caused as our men file in.
“Get him in the cell,” I instruct them, and Elliott’s eyes turn to me.
“What the fuck, Dad?”
“In the cell,” I repeat.
