Page 114 of The Trouble With Bad Boys

Back at my desk, I pulled up the footage from the day I put my foot down and told them there would be no more second chances. I’d caught Nevaeh looking ruffled, as Carina would call it, though to me she looked well-fucked. Her dress had been a mess, her hair looked like it’d been pulled by some overzealous hands, and her makeup was smeared across her face. I should have fired her then, but Carina was right: Firing her wouldn’t keep her safe.

“There you are,” I muttered as I found Nevaeh on screen, sneaking into the back room. I zoomed in on the hallway camera, watching as a man stepped out of the restroom and looked toward the casino floor. He waited a beat, then turned the opposite direction, heading straight to the little room Nevaeh had just disappeared into.

I’d had cameras installed there, too, though I didn’t tell anyone about it. While our paper goods and cleaning supplies weren’t the most sought-after commodities in the building, I’d wanted the ability to have proof if anyone decided that was where they could get away with stealing from the club. It wasn’t like Mr. Leonetti hadn’t gotten a good deal on the system from his son’s business partner. One more camera wouldn’t hurt anyone’s pocketbook, and the man who installed it hadn’t said boo.

With a flick of a switch, the image on my screen changed. Rather than watching the hallway, I could now see what they were doing in the storage room. And I quickly realized I didn’t want to see what was going on.

The man wasted no time with her, stripping her down and fucking her like he hadn’t gotten laid in years. My stomach twisted and I had to turn away before I decided just to fast forward to the end. He left her to clean herself up and walked right back out onto the casino floor, like she was nothing at all. The desire to murder someone hadn’t hit me this hard since I found my father standing over Brigid’s dead body.

It wasn’t long before I’d found other videos of the two of them together, on the casino floor, in the back room, once or twice going into the men’s restroom. Bile churned in my stomach as I scoured our records and found a name to go with the face.

Anthony Sparacello. He was a thirty-two-year-old heir to Sparacello Investments, a company whose real estate holdings rivaled Marco Leonetti’s. Anthony was charismatic, ambitious, and someone who was used to getting exactly what he wanted.

His primary residence was here in Chicago, a house not unlike what I’d grown up in. Wrought iron fencing surrounded the property, but I knew from experience, the best way in was through the front door. I locked down my computer, then grabbed my handgun from my bottom desk drawer. After loading it and checking the safety, I tucked it into a holster before pulling my jacket on. The gun burned a hole in my side as I rushed across the casino floor. When I found Cole, I pulled him aside.

“I’ve got an errand to run. Hold down the fort, I’ll be back when I can.”

With that, I walked straight out the door and into the back alley that served as our entrance. After a short walk to my car, I raced across the city, my mind going a mile a minute while I tried to keep my heart from pounding its way right out of my chest.

Nevaeh was going to have the chance Brigid never got. I was going to make sure of it, and I was going to make Sparacello suffer for ever touching her in the first place.

The front gate to the mansion was open, and as I drove up, there were no other cars in sight. I stopped next to the fountain, got out, and jogged to the front door. The chime of the doorbell brought back a host of memories from childhood. My pulse pounded in my ears, drowning out any sounds of footsteps on the other side of the solid wood.

When the door swung open, Anthony Sparacello stood in front of me, recognition lighting up his face. But as he opened his mouth to speak, I lifted my handgun and pointed it right between his eyes.

“Where is she?”

Sparacello lifted his hands in front of him and took a step back, but I stepped over the threshold, following him into the house. “Where is who?” he asked, eyes wide as he looked like he was about to bolt.

“Don’t fucking play games with me, Sparacello. Tell me where the fuck?—”

I couldn’t finish the words. Pain ricocheted through my head as my body jolted forward. I dropped my gun. Dropped to my knees.

And the world around me went dark.

* * *

My head was pounding. I tried to lift my hand, but it wouldn’t move. I tried to shift my body, but I couldn’t. Everything felt wrong. Thick and heavy and backward. Wasn’t it nighttime? Why was it so bright? Where the hell was the light switch? And why couldn’t I move my head?

Ugh. Nope. Didn’t want to move my head. That hurt too much.

I blinked open my eyes, then promptly slammed them shut. The light was like the sun, impossibly bright in the darkness of the room. I tried again, got them open a bit more, and I found I could tilt my neck just a little without feeling like someone was holding a drum over my head, bashing it with a mallet.

Fucking hell, had I been drinking? I hadn’t felt this bad since college.

Since before Brigid.

That thought sobered me. I forced my eyes open, looked around the room, and I didn’t like what I saw. The walls were painted cinder blocks, though there were darker splotches on them in places, and the sight made me ill. My father had a room like this in his house. It was cold, like this one. Dark and dreary and empty. I’d never bothered entering ours because it gave me the creeps. I never bothered asking what he used it for, until after I found Brigid dead.

A cold sweat broke out on my forehead, and I tried to lift my hand, only for a wave of dizziness to wash over me. I tried again and realized my hands were tied behind my back. Then realized my feet were tied down too, likely to the legs of the metal chair I was sitting in. My head was heavy as I lifted it, trying to look around for something—anything—that could save me. But there was nothing.

Another wave of dizziness hit me, making my stomach churn violently until I thought I’d be sick. I could smell blood—a scent I’d become familiar with over my years running the club.

The club.

Carina.

My heart raced as I tugged at my restraints, my worries for Carina taking over my thoughts. Where was she? What if she was hurt? What if something I did had put her in danger? I couldn’t take it. I was just about to yell for help—for something—when the heavy metal door swung open, and in walked Anthony Sparacello.

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