Page 6 of Unassuming Queen (Valentino Empire 2)

Turning into the center of Hell’s Kitchen, I cruise by the strip club the three bosses told me about. This is where they hold the auctions, selling off the fucking women and kids they’ve abducted. I have a contact. Paulie. He’s a guard on the premises. He got me a job working the door. It’s not the best vantage point. But a lot gets said on the sidewalk, and I’ll also be able to see every fucker walking in.

I park the car, slide on a worn-in leather jacket, light a cigarette, and stroll across the street like I belong. No one would expect Theo Valentino to be in a place like this; no one would expecthimto work a shitty bouncer job at a dingy-ass strip joint either. That’s what I’m fucking hoping anyway.

“You’re late,” Paulie says as I approach the red rope.

I shrug my shoulders. “Got held up.”

“Don’t make it a fucking habit.” He smirks. Usually, I’d throw an uppercut his way for speaking to me like that. I clench and unclench my fist. I need to let it go. I’m notmeright now. I have a job to do. And the quicker I do it, the quicker I can get back to my wife. I do, however, raise an eyebrow at the cocky bastard. He’s the only one here who knows the truth about me. I know he’s loyal to my family—loyal to a fucking fault. My father picked him up off the streets and gave the kid a job when no one else would.

“Just tell me what to do,” I grunt.

“Stand here. Check IDs. Don’t let too many minors in. That’s it.”

“Okay.”

Paulie walks away, shaking his head. “Good luck,” he throws over his shoulder. What the fuck do I need luck for? I’m standing at a door, checking fucking IDs. It’s not rocket science.

Three hours into my so-called shift, I finally got something. A face I can put a name to. They don’t know who I am, but I sure as fuck know whotheyare. Noah Kelly, AKA one nasty Irish motherfucker. It doesn’t surprise me to find the son of a bitch involved in this shitshow. He’s as dirty and fucking sick as they come.

He’s also fucking stupid. He and his pathetic posse walked straight past me, not an ounce of recognition. If they looked up long enough to engage in a proper greeting, I’m sure the dumbasses would have spotted me.

I pull out my burner phone and fire off a message to the other three.

Me: Problem one: blown-away by our proposition. Next problem: four-leaf clover.

Within seconds, the phone beeps with their replies.

B1: I heard. Not impressed by your choice. Keep tabs on the Clover.

B2: Good-fucking-riddance, I say. Well done, son. Be careful. The Clover may look stupid, but don’t underestimate him.

B3: For fuck’s sake, T, don’t rush into anything. We want to know the entire spread. Get the Clover. Do whatever you have to, to get the info out of him.

I shake my head. They’ve turned into the fuckingMob Wivesof New York or some shit. Seriously, who the fuck put these names into my burner?

Me: B1, B2, B3, fuck you all. Whoever thought that shit up needs a bullet between the eyes and a shallow grave.

B2: Focus on the job, T.

Me: Aye, Aye, captain.

I turn the phone off and try to decipher who’s who. It’s not hard, judging by the tone of each message. It also doesn’t fucking matter. What does matter? Figuring out a way inside and getting as close as I can to the Clover.

* * *

For two hours, I sat at the bar and nursed the same fucking glass of whisky. From my vantage point, I could fucking hear everything too. I know when the next auction is, I know who’s running it, and I know where the cargo is being held.

Ever heard the phrase:loose lips sink ships? Well, those loose lips of Noah Kelly’s just sent him sinking like the goddamn Titanic. I’m also hoping this new information will help put an end to this double-life bullshit. And I’ll be able to get back to Holly sooner.

I get up, throw a twenty down on the bar, and walk out. I won’t be back. I can’t risk being seen here twice—on the off-chance someone did spot me.

Lying on the shitty fucking bed, in the shitty fucking apartment Neo found for me, I fire off a text to him.

Me: How is she?

Neo: I fucking hate you right now. I’ve never seen someone more broken than she is. And I’ve broken a lot of fucking people.

Fuck! I punch the wall and embrace the sting to my knuckles. I need the pain. I need something. I don’t bother texting him back. What the fuck would I say anyway? Right now, my best friend, my cousin, is comforting my grieving wife.My fucking wife. My blood boils at the irrational thought of him getting too close to her. And I’m fucking pissed that I’ve pushed them together. He’s the only one I trust to keep her safe. But can I really trust him to keep his fucking hands off her at the same time?

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