"Grigori," he greets me. “I assume you’re here to discuss the situation at Bellagio last night.”
“Detective Barnes,” I greet back, “and you are correct.”
"Let's go to my office," Barnes says, gesturing for me to follow. I can already tell he’s nervous. He should be. This isn’t just about business. This is personal now.
We step into Barnes' office, the door creaking as he closes it behind us. The space is small and cluttered, smelling faintly of coffee and old paper. Barnes sinks into his chair with a heavy sigh, running a hand over his balding head.
"Last night was a fucking mess," he starts, his voice heavy with fatigue.
"Casualties?”
"A few of the assailants, thankfully, no civilians," Barnes replies, glancing at me warily. "A few people got trampled in the stampede, a couple of broken fingers and sprained ankles, but nothing too serious.”
Good. That’s one less problem to clean up. A couple of my own men took bullets last night, and they’re in bad shape in one of our off-the-books clinics, but Barnes doesn’t need to know that. He deals in surface-level chaos; I handle the deeper shit.
"I was there.”
Barnes nods like he’s not surprised. "Figured as much. I'd ask you what went down, but I’m guessing if you knew, you wouldn’t be talking to me."
I give him a wry smirk. “You’re a detective for a reason, aren’t you?”
Barnes laughs, though it’s more nervous than genuine.
"Right.” He taps the side of his desk. “Let’s start with the CCTV footage from Bellagio. Maybe that’ll give us something solid.”
"Lead the way."
We walk into a small, dimly lit room where a couple of officers are hunched over a monitor, eyes glued to the footage from last night. The moment I step inside, they tense up, shifting nervously in their seats. Nobody says a word as I move behind them, my eyes locking on the screen.
The footage shows the front entrance of Bellagio, the grainy feed from one of the exterior cameras. The assailants arrive together in a dark SUV, four of them, masked and moving with purpose. I watch as they bribe the bouncers—money slipping into pockets, heads nodding—and then slip inside, blending into the crowd. Professionals, no question.
Inside, the cameras catch them fanning out, each one taking a strategic position around the club. Their movements are coordinated and on a silent signal, they strike. The first pops off a couple of rounds in the air, causing a distraction, while the others move in with precision, guns drawn.
Then, I spot Elena in the crowd. My gut tenses. I know that she’s fine but the sight of her in danger forms a rage in me that I can barely comprehend.
“They knew exactly what they were doing,” I say. “Pro outfit.”
Barnes nods beside me. “That’s what we were thinking. Cartel, maybe.”
I keep my gaze on the screen, watching as one of the masked men pushes through the crowd, moving directly toward where she’s dancing. Towardher. My jaw tightens. “Went for the girl first,” I say.
“Yeah,” Barnes replies quietly. “Looks like she was the target.”
I don’t say anything, my fists clenching. I know they were really after me, but I can’t reveal that just yet. Not until I have more answers.
“I want to see the bodies,” I state.
Barnes and the other officers in the room stiffen, exchanging uneasy glances. “Uh, the coroner and the forensic team haven’t finished with them yet,” Barnes says, shifting on his feet. He’s stalling, trying to put up a wall I have no patience for.
“I don’t care,” I reply coldly, my eyes drilling into him. “You think I’m here to wait for paperwork? Show me.”
Barnes swallows hard, his discomfort written all over his face. He knows he doesn’t have a choice. “Alright,” he says, resigned. “This way.”
We head to the morgue in silence, our footsteps echoing through the sterile hallways. Barnes glances at me out of the corner of his eye.
“Did you know the club was going to be hit?” he asks, his voice low, careful.
I let the question hang for a moment, considering my words. “I had a suspicion. I was outside, hoping to draw them out. Thought I could handle it before it got messy.”