This was where Jer brought Haley and me the night of her disappearance, though we never went inside the massive building. It was an old, red brick building, probably built in the early 1900s, and had been a factory, a brewery, and a storage unit for the railroad at one point.
Now, it was owned by Jer, Leon Torrance, and Dontell Michealson.
Cars in various colors, styles, age, and power lined the far wall. On the opposite wall, there was a bar, and music played throughout the space, the beats thumping low as people mingled. A few food trucks were out in the parking lot today due to the car show.
It was a private show, by invitation only.
An elite list of racers, movie stars, musicians, and collectors were in attendance, and because of this, we would be able to meet without interruption. The people would be focused on the cars and races. The most prized cars were parked on the main floor, allowing spectators a glance at their power while the owners placed bets, to the far left of the building, about a football field length away from where we sat, was an auto garage.
It contained seven bays, all full of cars that were currently being worked on.
Jer told me that when he entered this chapter in his life, he wanted to make a name for himself, one that didn’t come from his uncle. He did just that.
He was the future of the underground in St. Louis, and after Sullie stepped down, Jer would be responsible for keeping the peace in the city. Between the two men, they possessed more power than Romano ever could have in this city. Since the attack three weeks ago, Jer had been sending his people—and Sullie’s—into the city to flush out the disease. Of course, James looked the other way, keeping the FBI focused on the case.
The only problem was that Romano had the politicians, diplomats, and police on his payroll—but we had one thing the mafia didn’t: the power of the people.
Strength was in numbers, and we had an army.
When we did strike, it would be an uprising in the bottom of the ninth.
We would be the Grand Slam to take it all.
A hand touched my arm, and I looked down to see Gwen staring up at me. She was sitting in a chair in front of me, at a table filled with Jer and Sullie’s ranked members.
On the right, you had Dontell and Leon, Jer's co-owners. Beside then you had Dom, who was Sullie’s right hand. Sullie told us he didn’t want to resort to the old ways anymore, that the Crew stood for something more than just violence, and I could respect that. Dom and Sullie spent their lives fighting for what they had.
Jer sat across from Gwen, Dom and Sullie on either side of him. Jer was in his element, whether he wanted to admit it or not.
Jeremy Jones was humble enough to not crave all that power, but if he didn’t fill Sullie’s shoes…that meant Kay was next in line.
“Are you okay?” Gwen’s sweet voice filled my ears, freeing me from my thoughts. I put my hand on the back of her neck, my fingers squeezing gently. I nodded, my features softening as I scanned her face.
“You think these men could be in Boston?” Sullie boomed, breaking the stare between Gwen and me.
“It’s unlikely,” James said, shaking his head from his spot on the wall. He lingered in the shadows, observing, studying, plotting. “Romano doesn’t like to have all his key players in one place.”
“I agree,” Dom said, his voice carrying throughout the space.
“It would be too easy for his kingdom to fall,” Sullie noted, stroking his black beard.
“If that was the case, then who the hell was at the dinner?” Gwen asked. The dinner. The night I killed Tony Romano.
“The bodies were identified as low-level men and a few smaller regional leaders,” James answered simply. “Romano wanted to make it seem like a big dinner to keep up appearances.”
“Some of those regional leaders were key players, though. Still, I don’t think the sports gambling leaders are his most valued players,” I returned, meeting the agent’s dark eyes.
“No, they’re not, and that’s what we missed,” James growled.
“The key players are in the rings,” Gwen stated, sitting back in her chair, crossing her arms.
Leon let out a growl, curling his lip in disgust. “I can’t wait to kill this fucker.” A small smirk formed on my lips.
That…that I would like to see.
Leon Torrance was a very dangerous man and aided the Feds in a sex trafficking bust in Houston a few years back. His niece had been one of the victims, and now, his life’s mission was protecting innocent women and children. He owned women shelters all over Missouri, and he told me a few weeks ago that he planned on expanding them down to Arkansas—Little Rock, to be precise.
“The FBI has brought in the trafficking division, something that my director wanted to keep under the radar, but after the attack three weeks ago, we need to make it known,” James explained.
