Page 61 of The Club

I finish cutting off his slimy balls and cock and toss them on the blood-soaked bed. He deserved so much worse. I had to work too fast. I had to be too quiet.

This isn’t what I wanted.

I stand there staring at the mess, shaking so hard that waves of it are rocking my body. I hear myself gasping. My eyes are prickling. I feel all of that, but somehow I’m disconnected from it, partially outside myself.

I’m supposed to call Noah when this happens, but I don’t want to be around him right now. Noah understands my anger. That, he shares. But he doesn’t understand all the other shit tangled up with it. He doesn’t understand what I really need—because he’ll never hear the voice in my head right now.

What a good boy.

Just hold still. Relax. It only hurts for a little while.

Oh, what a good, good boy.

Tell me how good it feels, sweetheart. Tell me that you love me.

NINETEEN

Dominic

“Is it done?”

I eye the flames in my rearview mirror. “It’s done.”

Sirens wail in the distance. I’ll be long gone from the wharf before they arrive, and Frank Richards’ warehouse will be unsavable. His insurance will cover the loss of imported goods—unless he gets nailed for the arson—but not the drugs hidden in the cracks.

Of course, he should probably hope he gets nailed for arson. He’ll live longer in prison than in the city. Unless he wants to liquidate his fortune to reimburse the Scalzi family that owns those drugs.

That family is Moretti’s rival—and he wants their territory. But he needs to weaken them before he goes in for the kill, and he can’t show his hand too early. That’s why he needed me to do this. So he and his highest men could be visible at a nightclub while the warehouse blew.

The thing is, I’ll do my own dirty work, but I’m not a fucking henchman. This is a favor, and I need Moretti to remember that.

“I’ll put it on your tab,” I tell him.

He goes silent. I know he’s testing me, sweating me, waiting for me scramble out an apology. I don’t. You can’t deal with fuckers like Moretti that way.

He chuckles. “You’ve got balls, Capelli.” The call ends.

I dial Raphael. He told me via text that he had “something to do” tonight. When I asked what the fuck that meant, he didn’t reply. I didn’t force the issue because I had “something to do” too, but I’m sure as hell going to force the issue now.

He doesn’t answer. I end the call when his voicemail picks up. Annoyed, I dial again. Still nothing.

Then he calls me back. Fucking finally. I hit accept. “Where the hell are you?”

“Um …”

All I hear is the sound of him breathing. It’s quick and shallow and too loud.

“Rafael? What’s going on? Where are you?”

“Um …” He trails off again, making my hands tighten until the steering wheel creaks. “I’m not sure.”

“What the hell do you mean you’re not sure? Are you alone? Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“No to which fucking question?” When he doesn’t reply, like he’s maybe already forgotten the questions, I grab onto my patience and start over. Firm and blunt, I ask, “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

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