Page 22 of Corrupted Heir (Mafia Kings: Corrupted 1)

“All right, Dominic, I will give you another chance. I do understand what it’s like to have a parent pressuring you. But no more clamming up every time I ask you a question. If we’re going to do this, then I’d like the chance to get to know you. Deal?”

“Deal,” I said, smiling at the way she’d turned the tables. “I won’t let you down, limone.”

“Limone?” she repeated, her blonde waves glittering off the sun. She tilted her head and scrunched her nose as if she’d just eaten a Sour Patch.

“Oh, would you look at that?” I said, glancing at my watch. “Our time’s up. I’ll see you around. I’ll text you a date and time.”

I shoved my hands in my pockets and walked off before she could respond.

The hot air that drifted up from the vents from the underground subway turned to steam as it rose up around me and combined with the cold morning air. Without looking back, I got in my car and sped off. The encounter left me feeling humiliated, but maybe not as much as I’d thought it would. I’d accomplished what I’d come here to do, and now I had business that needed tending.

***

The nightclub was on neutral ground, but I was still treated like royalty the second I set foot inside it. I sat down at a table near the bar and watched as the prettiest waitress—a blonde with a killer rack and an ass to match—headed straight for me.

“What can I get for you, handsome?” she asked, batting her pretty eyelashes at me.

“A whiskey, straight up, please,” I said then turned to watch the door, waiting for my men to arrive.

The blonde returned with my drink and a knowing smile, but if she was hoping for anything more than money for the drink and a hefty tip, she was out of luck tonight. It had been a long day, and I had one last job to do. My body felt sluggish, like I was trudging through mud with each step I took.

My men joined me at the table a few minutes later and didn’t bother ordering anything for themselves. Last call was soon, and we needed the place empty.

Girls too young to be drinking and men too old for the girls finished off the last of their poison. The lights turned on and burned my eyes, like the start of a migraine. Seeing a nightclub under bright light, even an upper class one, didn’t feel right. It was filthy and seemed wrong without its dark and dingy atmosphere. Waitresses did the last bits of cleaning, turned the chairs over, and set them atop tables. They counted their tips for the day, some left looking defeated, and others like they were on top of the world. The ones brave enough to dress the most scantily were the happiest, and the blonde seemed the happiest of them all. She gave me one last hopeful glance, then turned away, tucking her night’s earnings into the bra beneath her low-cut shirt.

“Excuse me, uhm, sir,” a manager said. “We’re closing.”

“I know. We won’t be leaving,” I said, not bothering to make eye contact. I downed the rest of my drink.

“It’s past two in the morning,” he said, stuttering.

“Then go home, chum,” I said. “We’ll lock up.”

When I finally looked up, recognition dawned in his face. His eyes darted between me and the four men sitting around the table. Sweat beading down his forehead, he scurried off without another glance.

“Right. Looks like everyone’s out. It’s time,” I said, standing up, as my lapdogs followed suit.

I started toward the bar, which spanned the length of the back of the club. Behind the shelves was a mirror, and I caught a glimpse of my reflection. Damn. I looked exhausted. The dark circles under my eyes made me look like I’d died a week ago. Oh well, dead men walking could still get a job done.

The door to the left of the bar led to a staircase, which went up to an office. The prick who owned the place overlooked the dance floor from his desk through double-sided glass. Voyeuristic creep.

He was still in his office, his back to us as he hunched over a sleek glass desk. The rest of the room matched with the modern centerpiece. Stainless steel artwork on the walls, graphite suede wingback chairs. It all seemed a bit pretentious to me.

The globe-shaped lights overhead glinted off the bald circle at the top of the man’s head while thin tufts of hair stood on end all around it. His sport coat was about two sizes too big for him, making him look like a balding child in adult clothing.

Bradley Miller had been causing problems in the community for as long as I could remember, beating up hookers, selling drugs to kids. I was a teenager when I first heard about some of the shit he pulled, and his name left a sour taste in my mouth.

I nodded at my men, and Marco, my favorite, who had the temper of a Rottweiler, took his baseball bat to a glass shelf against the wall. It shattered into a million pieces, and the sculptures, books, and trinkets crashed to the ground.

“What the fuck?” Miller screamed, nearly falling out of his chair. He spun around to face us and slammed his laptop closed.

My big Rottweiler smashed a vase off of a table, shattering the coffee table.

“Bradley Miller,” I said.

“What the hell are you doing? Who are you?” he asked.

Any other day I would have been pissed that he didn’t know who I was, but I was in a giving mood so I wasn’t going to punish him for the disrespect.

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