“Drugs?” He tilts his head without seeming to realize it—I’ve got his interest.
“When we hit up the enclaves for the women, we launch a simultaneous attack on his distribution channels. We get the girls, you get the drugs.” From a monetary standpoint, it’s the short end of the stick: a stash of hot dope could net only a single net profit if sold to the right buyer. A stash of women, however, could promise a steady flow of cash for a very long time.
Logistically,though, the drugs were less risky and much easierto stash than a hoard of scared, traumatized women with mouths to feed and screams to smother. While a greedy son of a bitch, Mack wasn’t completely stupid.
“Let’s say I bite,” he says, still stroking the base of the camera in his hand. “What’s to stop me from watching your little video and discovering the locations of the enclaves all on my own?”
I don’t bother to smother my laugh. While he watches, I reach into my pocket and trap a small square of plastic between two of my fingers. I hold it up and a slash of orange light cast by a nearby streetlamp lights it up just long enough for Mack’s cocky smirk to disappear.
“You didn’t really think I left the memory card in, did you?”
He chuckles darkly, shrugs, and then tosses the camera to one of his thugs, who barely manages to catch it. “Fair enough, Dante. Let’s get home and discuss this around the table like big boys. My woman’s making dinner.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Daniela
Dante wearstension the way most men wear clothing. He draws it tight around his chest, and it cloaks him all the way down to his toes. When the van comes to a stop in a section of woods that I assume is near Mack’s fenced-in compound, it ratchets up until I can taste it, barreling off him in waves.
Vinny rarely got nervous, but he didn’t handle it well. It made him antsy and more liable to lash out at anyone who so much as looked at him wrong. Lucifer, on the other hand, shoulders his nerves with pride. Calm, the man is untouchable, uneasy; he is a creature one might find only in the pits of hell itself. Some beast who would thrive in the relentless heat of the fire.
I don’t know what to make of it as Mack climbs out of the van first, quickly followed by his two men. I expect Lucifer to exit as well, but he lingers and pins me here right beside him, his hand gripping my wrist. His free hand pries my fist open and prods the crumbled piece of paper hidden inside it.
“Read it,” he tells me, his voice a harsh rasp. “Memorize it. Swallow it.”
I know in an instant what he means—the weapon he’s just given me—and a part of me wants to ask why. Why makemesuch a central piece in his plan? He told Mack that only I knew the locations: a lie. He made sure to maintain control of the only other object that might ruin his hand, and he positioned the pieces on this twisted game of chess to get me exactly what I wanted.
So,why? His broad face, guarded by the shadows of the van, offers no answers. I’m not stupid enough to risk tempting him, so I nod once and crush the paper against my palm. The next second, Lucifer has the van door open, and he pulls me along by the wrist, coincidentally keeping me close. Mack’s men can’t muscle in to separate us, and Lucifer makes sure of that by wrenching me even closer when they try.
Like hound dogs, Mack and his men sniff at the air instead, so eager for a little taste of the treats Lucifer’s holding over their heads. But he’s a good master, and he wields the figurative whip well. Without waiting for the others, he hauls me forward and starts up what I realize is a driveway paved in loose gravel. I have to cling to him more than I like—more than he likes. My nails clutch at his coat, and I sense the bulk of the man underneath. His heat is a flare in the darkness, guiding my way until the vague outline of a structure comes into view, illuminated by the light spilling out of sparse windows. It’s the building that houses the pit, I realize as we pass it and my ears pick up the howl of barking dogs. Up ahead lies the garage and then the bar.
“Food’s in the Chain,” Mack says, referring to the bar, I suppose. His voice tickles the lobe of my good ear, a fact that doesn’t go unnoticed by Dante.
Suddenly, I’m wrenched to stand on his other side. I turn my head just in time to catch Mack’s trickle of laughter. His eyes gleam in the faint light as he jerks his head toward the bar.
“See you inside, Kitty. Though, if you do decide that you aren’t hungry, I’ll have Darcy send you a little doggy bag.”
He breaks away, and his men fall into step behind him. Dante slows, waiting until the moment they nearly reach the one-story structure. Then he turns and marshals me toward the garage. When he reaches the door, he opens it first and peeks inside, every bit the cautious cat Mack teases him to be. Whoever he finds there makes him stiffen, but he steps inside anyway, allowing me to follow him in on my own.
“Dante...”
I glance over Dante’s shoulder to make out Arno leaning against the base of the steps, his arms crossed. When he sees me, his eyes narrow.
“You might want to get her out of here—”
“That him?”
The door to the apartment opens, and someone else appears at the top of the stairs. A man, tall and slender. The moment those blue eyes meet mine—so similar to Lucifer’s—I sense everything in the entire room stiffen. Unease rides the atmosphere. Lucifer doesn’t know whether to take Arno’s advice and shove me from the door, and the artist—Espi—can’t seem to decide what to make of my outfit or the new bruise shaping up over my chin, courtesy of Donahugh.
There are only seconds to react. Seconds to break the tension on my own before it spills over. In Vinny’s world, I would go with the first option and obediently hide out of sight. This time, I step free of Dante’s shadow.
Looking past the red-haired man, I face the artist directly. “H-hey...”
He sighs, and some of the tension that crept into his posture eases up. “You’re okay.”
I force a nod, though Dante’s gaze is like a knife that cuts through me. He hides his shock well, however. His fingers twitch to reach for me, but he doesn’t. He eyes the artist—his brother—instead, and I can almost taste the amount of control it takes him to keep his voice steady.
“Espi. Where the hell have you been—”
