After glancing in the peephole, a leftover from the recent hotel renovations, I unlocked and opened the door.
“You want the official report from New Orleans’ finest?” Alexander asked.
“Why the fuck not?” I glared at the big boss, a man who ruled the regime with an iron fist and a suave smile.
“A gas leak,” Jaxon answered. In his arms were a couple of suitcases, a suit bag from his favorite clothing store, and what appeared to be some toiletries in another bag.
“Aww. You went shopping for me.” I shook my head. Not that I would have expected anything otherwise. Yeah, we were buddies, sworn to have each other’s backs, but I was used to being the one keeping his ass alive.
Jaxon grinned. “We have the same tastes, buddy. Besides, I thought you might enjoy a change of clothes.”
For whatever reason, the EMTs had shredded my shirt, likely to check for massive injuries. While the blunt force trauma from the horrific explosion had been significant, I’d been through much worse in my career. I’d hurt for a few days but nothing whiskey, Tylenol, and a good massage couldn’t handle.
“Yeah, well, I don’t know about that and a gas leak, my fucking ass.” I backed away, allowing both men to enter. “Those fucking Spaniards were none too happy I threw them out of the club. Maybe it was the threat to wipe them off the face of the earth that really got them churning.”
While I’d thought briefly about the photographer, my instinct told me he’d had nothing to do with the bomb placed in my home. However, that didn’t mean our confrontation hadn’t been noticed. Whatever the case, the bomb had been secured inside my house for longer than the time spent outside Emmeline’s house.
I’d been knocked unconscious, required to spend valuable hours in the hospital’s emergency room. Even worse, I’d been forced to deal with chatting with the police. Whoever the captain had sent certainly didn’t value the Prince family name like nearly everyone else in town.
They’d acted like I was the criminal, although I was used to shitty treatment from law enforcement. I wasn’t necessarily the most accommodating man with anyone involved in holding moral values close to their bulletproof vest.
One of the two closed the door behind them, walking further into the suite.
“Maybe not,” Alexander said.
Snorting, I scratched my head. “No offense, Mr. Prince, but I know the type.”
“The bouncers at the club were sent to find the men in question and did. Trust me, they weren’t responsible.” Jaxon seemed certain. He placed the items he’d brought for me on the floor, arching an eyebrow. We’d been friends for far too long. I could see the look of concern in his eyes.
He’d been the first one on the scene after the explosion.
“What fucking lies did they tell you?” I barked, still furious I’d walked into an ambush. That wasn’t like me. Not in the least. I was growing soft since there’d been little activity requiring reconnaissance lately.
“They didn’t say shit because they were already dead. Their throats slit.”
Well, that wasn’t what I’d expected to hear. Blinking, I was finally able to focus given the stream of sunlight. “Che mucchio di stronzate!”
What a bunch of shit.
“Yeah, now you see what we’re dealing with. The scene is still being monitored by the police,” Alexander added. “However, I have no doubt it was a professional hit.”
There was something odd about his choice of words.
“Alright. Then it’s someone else. The list is long. You ever hear ofSouthern Comfort Magazine?”
Jaxon snorted. “Were you knocked upside the head with more force than the doctors believed?”
I reached into my pocket, pulling out the business card acquired.
“What’s this?” Alexander asked, leery to take it from me.
“I found some asshole photographer taking pictures of Emmeline and her friends last night.”
“What the fuck?” Jaxon growled.
“The guy on the card supposedly hired him.” I noticed Alexander glaring at the information, not necessarily as if he knew the person listed, but there was something familiar about one of the two names.
“Did you happen to keep the camera?” Jaxon had to be making a joke.
