Page 5 of The Reaper's Vow
“I'm not interested.”
“When's the last time you were interested in anything besides work?” He studies me with that calculating look again. “You're wound tighter than a fucking spring, Dom. One of these days you're going to snap.”
Maybe. But not tonight. Tonight, I have a job to do, and dwelling on things I can't change won't help anyone—least of all me.
I pull into the designated parking area behind Crimson Howl. The club's rear entrance looms before us, darkened by the shadows. Music pulses through the walls, a steady heartbeat promising sin and secrecy. I kill the engine and sit for a moment, gathering myself.
“Let's be clear,” I say, turning to Elias. “You stay in the VIP section. You don't interfere. You don't draw attention. This isn't a fucking field trip.”
Elias rolls his eyes but nods. “Yes, sir, Reaper, sir.” He adjusts his mask, a sleek black affair that sharpens his already aristocratic features. “Though I’d think you’d appreciate the backup.”
“I don’t need backup to put down a rat.”
Tonight’s target is simple. A low-ranking were who thought skimming from the books was a smart career move. I’ll find him among the writhing bodies inside, drag him to one of the back rooms, and make an example of him. Clean. Efficient. The way Anselm likes it.
We exit the car and approach the door. The bouncer—a hulking were named Diesel—inclines his head at the sight of me, his posture stiffening when he notices Elias.
“Sir,” he says, inclining his head respectfully. “We weren't expecting?—”
“Just observing,” Elias cuts in smoothly. “Pretend I'm not here.”
Diesel’s gaze flicks to me, and I give him a slight nod. “Tell Viktor to make sure the black room is open for me.”
He gives a curt nod, stepping aside to let us enter, “Of course. I’ll radio him now. It will be ready whenever you need it.”
The heavy door swings open, and the scent hits me immediately—sweat, sex, alcohol, and beneath it all, the unmistakable musk of wolves. The Crimson Howl lives up to its name tonight, packed wall to wall with bodies moving to the pulsing beat. Masks always hide faces, but they can't disguise scents. My nose picks out at least three rival packs mingling, everyone playing nice under the club's sacred neutrality.
I scan the crowd, searching for my target. Marco Ruiz. A wolf with expensive tastes that his income can't support. I smelled his scent on the safe myself. He’s dipping his hands into the Bellandi money pot and not even trying to hide it. The idiot didn’t think the first person we’d check was the accountant.
“I'll be upstairs,” Elias murmurs, already drifting toward the VIP staircase. “Don't have too much fun without me.”
“Stay put,” I growl, but he's already gone, swallowed by the crowd. One of these days, he’ll learn how to fucking listen.
I push through the mass of bodies, ignoring the inviting looks from various females. My focus narrows, senses heightening as I track the familiar scent. The wolf in me stirs, eager for the hunt. For the kill. I tamp it down. Not yet.
I spot him near the main stage, a glass of top-shelf whiskey in his hand as he watches two she-wolves put on a show for the crowd. His scent is stronger now—nervous sweat mixed with expensive cologne and the bitter tang of guilt.
Marco notices me across the room, and I see the exact moment recognition hits. His face goes pale beneath his mask, and he starts pushing through the crowd toward the back exit.He knows why I'm here. They always do. Amateur. Does he really think he can outrun me in a building I know better than even Elias?
I follow at a leisurely pace, letting him think he has a chance. The crowd parts around me without conscious thought. Something about my presence makes even the most dominant wolves step aside. It's a useful trait in this line of work.
Marco reaches the hallway leading to the private rooms, glancing back to see how close I am. The panic in his movements sends a thrill through my wolf.
“Going somewhere, Marco?” I call out over the pounding music.
He spins around, backing against the wall. “Look, Reaper, I can explain?—”
“Save it.” I close the distance between us in three long strides. “You've been skimming from the Bellandi accounts. We have proof.”
“It was just a few thousand here and there. Nothing that would hurt?—”
My hand shoots out, gripping his throat and lifting him off his feet. His expensive shoes scrabble against the wall as I pin him there.
“Nothing that would hurt?” I repeat. “You stole from the Bellandi family. That hurts their reputation. Their trust. And when you hurt them, you hurt me.”
Marco's hands claw at my wrist, but he might as well be trying to bend steel. “Please, I have a family?—”
“Should have thought of that before you decided to bite the hand that feeds you.” I lean closer, letting him smell the predator on my breath. “Alpha Anselm doesn't tolerate thieves. Neither do I.”
