Page 68 of The Club

The instant I open the double doors and step onto the dark mezzanine, I know something’s wrong. I can feel it in the air, in the prickling along my scalp, even before I hear a muffled shout. Light filters in from behind me, but it’s faint and my eyes aren’t adjusted. I can’t pick out all the figures, but I have no trouble hearing the gun that cocks near my head.

I freeze.

“Hands where I can see them.”

I put my hands up. I wait for the asshole holding a gun on me to approach for a search. When he does, I grab his wrist and punch him in the throat.

I’m wearing my bloodstained leather pants and jacket from last night, but I don’t have time to grab any of my knives, so I break his wrist and take the gun. He lands a punch, but I’m already wheeling, ignoring the shouts around me as I hurl him over the railing.

I lose him in the dark, but I hear him hit the piano, which pisses me off so much that I almost shoot in his general direction. Then light floods the room.

Half a dozen guns are pointed at me. Even if I were willing to risk a hail of bullets from those guns, there’s one that stops me dead—because it’s pointed at Noah’s head.

The asshole holding that gun is dressed in sleek mafia style, his suit shiny and expensive with a yellow pocket square. His salt and pepper hair is slicked back, his eyes are empty, and his steady hand shows just how often he’s done this.

Noah is bound to a chair, arms behind his back, a gag in his mouth. Blood runs down the side of his face from his hairline. He’s furious. Noah hates being tied up. Even more, he hates being used as leverage.

The mafia boss aiming his gun at Noah asks, “Do you know who I am?”

On the stage below the mezzanine, the shithead who damaged my piano slides off it with a groan.

“Gianni Moretti,” I reply. He looks just like his picture from Anton Silva’s file.

“Do you know why I’m here?”

“I assume because Silva had a camera that I missed.”

“A personal camera, not part of his security system. Lucky for him, unlucky for you, he’d forgotten to turn it off. You were easy to find, after he mentioned you by name.”

A hidden camera. Probably a porn camera. My stomach churns at the thought of what kind of shit he was recording.

“Do you know what that sick fuck was doing?” I ask.

“I’m more concerned about what you did. You made a real fucking mess, Costa. Now drop the gun, or Mr. Carter’s brains will be all over this cream leather.”

I drop the gun and hold up my hands again.

“Get down here. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Two men are waiting for me at the bottom of the steps. I know what’s coming, so I tighten my gut—and not a moment too soon. The blows land hard and fast. I fall to my knees, gasping for air, curling around the pain.

They haul me to my feet. One asshole holds my arms behind my back while the other searches me, finding my knives. Most people wouldn’t have found them all, but these assholes know what they’re doing.

Those knives weren’t going to do me any good anyway. Moretti’s going to kill me. My only hope is to get Noah out of this.

Moretti’s thugs hit me a few times to get my head spinning. Then, while the other men hold their guns on me and Moretti keeps his on Noah, I get dragged to a banquette. They toss me onto it.

One of the others takes over with Noah so Moretti can approach me. He’s not emotional. He doesn’t care about this. It’s principle only. Silva was one of his men.

Moretti reaches into his shiny gray suitcoat and pulls out his phone. He snaps a picture of me. His thumb moves around on his screen like he’s sending it to someone. Within seconds, his phone rings.

When he answers it, he doesn’t get a chance to say anything. Whoever called is shouting.

Moretti waits it out then says, “Get your ass to Lush, and we’ll sort this shit out.”

TWENTY-ONE

Dominic

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