Page 81 of I Would Beg For You
Marco draws close and hands me a semi-automatic pistol. I check the magazine and make sure there’s a bullet loaded inside the barrel, the safety is on, then I tuck it into the side of my waistband under my suit jacket. My best friend wraps both his hands around his gun and starts ahead. I follow a couple leisurely steps behind. As much as I want to rush inside, I need to make an entrance right now.
We stroll into the warehouse, both of us on high alert, though my muscles are not tensed and primed like Marco’s as he opens the way for me.
Four men are waiting inside, standing near their Jeep. Decked in tactical gear and with rifles either hanging down their backs or clutched in front of them, shoulder locked and tense, they look exactly like the special ops team they are. In contrast, a hundred feet across from them, my crew are lounging against or even sitting on top of the hood of the cars that brought themhere. Their guns are tucked or held in their hands, casually resting against a thigh or knee.
The leader of the tac team gives me a chin nod, which I reply in kind. He opens the satellite laptop sitting on the hood of the Jeep, and seconds later, a video feed pops up.
Declan Reeves’ face is staring at me as he turns the screen my way.
“Valentino,” he says. “As promised, there he is.”
“I haven’t seen him yet.”
At this point, one of Reeves’ men kicks a rolling chair from behind the Jeep, sending it careening across the floor toward my crew. One of my capos, Pesci, halts its roll with the sole of his boot. It lands on the naked thigh of the man tied in the chair who yelps against the binding in his mouth. None of us pay him any heed.
Reeves’ eyes narrow. “You handle this. Please.”
“Don’t worry,” I reply.
“Good. That’s it for us, boys.”
The screen goes blank, and the team leader closes the laptop. Marco’s still got his gun cocked, and some of my men have their hands on their pistols, too. I don’t expect Reeves’ men to do me any harm, but again, image and all that to project. The team leader goes to Pesci, who is obviously in charge, and they shake hands. I then get another chin nod from the man before they all pile into their Jeep and leave.
A measure of tension leaves my posture when they’ve departed and it’s just me and my crew in the warehouse.
And Thad Billings trussed up in that chair.
I stare at the man who’s been so elusive to find and catch, raking my gaze over him from head to toe. This lowlife dared put his hands on Naomi. Any man who thinks he can rape any woman, or any person for that matter, deserves to die a slow, painful, and torturous death in my opinion. My father was alsoof the same mind, hence the reason why our Borgata never got involved in prostitution rings and human trafficking.
He deserves to die, but first, I need information.
I catch Pesci’s eyes and nod toward the outside. He whistles at the men to file out, and they comply. Marco and I are left all alone with Billings. Marco tucks the gun into the front of his jeans then steps to the bound man, lowering the rag muffling his mouth.
Billings spits at us, though he doesn’t have much saliva left as he’s been kept here for hours without access to food or water.
I smile at him, amused by his little display of defiance.
“You’ve been a hard man to find,” I tell him. “We didn’t think to look with the rats, though.”
Reeves’ men found him hidden away in a basement in Hell’s Kitchen a couple of days ago. The place used to be a safe house for undercover cops working Vice. Some of the pigs are still using it, it seems.
“Fuck you!”
A laugh escapes me. “How the mighty have fallen.”
“You…you’ll pay for this,” he throws out.
“Daddy can’t help you.”
“That spineless idiot never could do anything right.”
“Yes. Look at you, his son.”
His face turns thunderous, then it’s like a switch is flipped, and suddenly, he’s grinning and laughing aloud. “He’s coming for you.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Who? The Bogeyman?”
He tries to spit again. “Joel.”
