Page 136 of Dance of Ruin

Kratos’ jaw grinds.

“You all know I always vet my crew,” Angelo says. “I’ve worked with most of these guys for years—their fathers, too, some of them, back in the day. You’ve been in my shop?—”

“No one’s questioning you, Angelo,” Carmine says quietly.

The mechanic nods, jaw tight. “But I’ve got this new guy, only been with me a year or so. Eddie. Quiet, keeps his head down, always just scraping by, you know? He looks down. “But lately, Eddie’s started getting flashy.”

I frown. “Flashy?”

“New clothes, new phone. Buying the whole garage lunch.” Angelo sighs. “The other day, I saw his mother driving a brand-new Range Rover. She claims it’s from a cousin, but…” He shrugs. “My gut says something stinks.”

Kratos growls low in his throat. “And you think he was involved in the bomb.”

Angelo was understandably pretty shaken after the bombing. He and Dad go far back enough that he’s known Bianca since she was a kid. Also, whoever rigged up that explosive did so while the car was under Eddie’s own roof.

He frowns. “I don’t know. I hope I’m wrong—truly. But I’m old enough to know that when you smell smoke, there’s usually fire, you know?”

Carmine’s eyes go cold. “You okay with what this might mean for him if he’s involved?”

Angelo’s face hardens. “I got nothing but respect for your family. Your father. Loyalty means a lot to him, and to me.” His eyes darken. “So doesdisloyalty.”

“Where is Eddie now?” I ask.

Angelo exhales. “Maybe a strip club called Fantasy over in Queens. He goes there a lot on his days off.”

Kratos is already moving for the door. I start to follow, and Carmine stands. When he does, I turn and shake my head.

“The king doesn’t do this kind of work,” I growl quietly.

His mouth twists sourly. I can see the darkness in him that lusts for violence and darkness surging up. But then he wrestles it back down.

He knows I’m right.

“Tell me what you find out,” he growls.

* * *

Fantasy is exactlywhat you’d imagine: grimy neon lights, loud, shitty music through shittier speakers, overpriced drinks, and desperation dressed in glitter.

The place smells like shame and cum.

Kratos and I step through the front door, eyeing the place. There are two dancers on stage, a few lonely-looking regulars at the bar, andlotsof purple neon.

And for fuck’s sake, that jizz smell iseverywhere.

One of the girls working the floor spots us and immediately strides over like a shark smelling blood in the water: tall, leggy, all fake lashes and tits. She smacks her chewing gum as she stops in front of us, trying to look coy and seductive.

“We’re not here for a dance,” I say before she can even open her mouth.

Kratos steps forward. “We’re looking for a guy named Eddie. Heard he might be here.”

Her eyes dart between us. The “seductive” look drops and is immediately replaced by a far more genuine one of nervousness.

“We’re not here to cause trouble for you or any of the girls,” I say. “Just Eddie. Do you know him?”

I slide her three hundred from my wallet. She folds the cash up and slips it into her skimpy top, still cracking her gum.

“Yeah, I know him.”

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