Going to the club with her feels foreign. I haven’t done this in a while, at least, not to do anything other than conduct business.
Still, the controlled chaos inside is familiar while music pulses through the place, and the lights stay low and intimate. It’s one of my quieter investments—one that doesn’t attract headlines or unnecessary attention. It’s easy money, and it does what I need it to.
I guide Elena through the place, making a beeline for the reserved lounge to avoid the crowd. Scanning her figure in the black dress she chose for the night, a wave of satisfaction passes through me. It doesn’t matter what she wears…she always manages to make every outfit an elegant statement.
As we sit in the plush sectional, she leans in closer to speak over the music, close enough for me to feel the warmth radiating off her. “You own this place?”
“Most of it,” I say, keeping it vague enough.
“I didn’t take you for a club-goer.”
“I’m usually not, but I have a reason to be now.”
At that, Elena smiles faintly, and it’s enough to encourage me further. The more I often I get to see that pleasant expression of hers, the better.
I order her drinks without asking, and surprisingly, she doesn’t chastise me for making the decision on my own. Instead, she lets me, and it’s oddly cooperative for her. When the bottlegirl brings our booze over, Elena sits there with a content expression as she sips from her glass and people-watches.
Prepared to focus on her tonight, my attention is immediately splintered at the vibration in my pocket.
I have half the mind to ignore it, but with my truce with the Lukovs, I have to be ready to correspond with them at a moment’s notice. My phone vibrates again, so I sigh and pull it out, scanning the screen.
A link to a video pops up from an unknown number, and my brows furrow. That isn’t from Roman or his brothers.
Hesitant at first, my thumb hovers over it in a last-ditch effort to ignore it. But my need to know wins out.
Opening the video, everything in me goes cold as it loads instantly, and I see him there in frame.
Vito on his knees.
With his hands tied behind his back, his eyes are wide and frantic, just like they had been the night I was prepared to kill him. From the sight alone, I already know what’s coming.
Two men frame either side of the shot, one grinning into the lens while the other pokes at Vito with a sick kind of gleam in his gaze. They’re Orlando’s sons—the Grimaldi kingpin. The very man who has been testing my patience.
The one says something that’s too muffled thanks to the pounding bass around us, but a moment later, I catch one word that sets an uneasy feeling through me.
Wyatt.
Not Vic, and not the Vegas Ghost. But my name.
The gunshot comes quick and unannounced, landing right between Vito’s eyes. The moment shock glazes his features,and the crack of it punctuates the space around us, I close mine and quickly lock the screen.
“Fuck.”
Jaw clenching, I try to force back my immediate reaction for Elena’s sake. The whole point of taking her out was supposed to give us both a break from all of this, not to have it play out right beside her.
But even so, that video was a warning. I know one when I see one.
Elena doesn’t miss a beat as her brows furrow, already looking at me. “What was that?”
“Nothing.”
It’s a weak response, but all I can manage on the fly while my mind is trying to catch up with what I just witnessed.
Of course, she doesn’t buy it.
“The blood just drained from your face,” she murmurs, not afraid to be blunt about it. “I heard a gunshot.”
I should lie and deflect to keep her out of this, but for whatever reason, I don’t.
