Picking up the stick, I place it in my jacket pocket and swap the folder for a photo taken from the security camera of the man whose face I broke today.
“I need everything you can get on this man. I have to know if he’s a problem that needs to permanently go away.” I lean back in my chair, my intense stare telling him everything he needs to know.
“I understand, sir.” Nodding, he slips the photo into an envelope and leaves just as Marcello enters.
“What the hell happened?” Marcello asks, jerking a thumb over his shoulder, referring to the empty bar.
Narrowing my gaze, I grate out, “Alyssa happened.” I get to my feet and take the few steps to where he’s standing, meeting him toe to toe. “She has to go.”
“We have to go,” he counters. “I got us the meeting with the Blaydon brothers. They know it was Antonio who set the fires.” He slaps his hand down on my shoulder. “Are you sure we don’t go the fuck you route?”
Releasing an exasperated breath, I shake my head. “No. Let’s try to calm the waters without getting our hands dirty. We have enough light shining on us right now.”
Sitting opposite these men in one of their clubs is slumming it.
How they got their hands on real estate within blocks of my club is questionable.
The red leather and poor lighting makes the place look like a cheap diner with stripper poles.
It’s a shame Antonio didn’t burn this one down.
The brothers are similar is stature and appearance. Short and stocky. Hair that’s been bought and badly plugged. Over-tanned skin with bright veneers.
They both busy themselves with a tray of cigars. I shouldn’t be here giving them my time, but I don’t want more unresolved issues catching me off guard—especially with my own club opening back up Saturday for the first time since Serena’s death.
“I’ll cut straight to the point,” I tell them with a tight smile, attempting to keep my voice calm to disguise my annoyance for even being here.
I should have let Marcello deal with this without me.
“The fires were a misunderstanding. I’m here to extend an olive branch.”
The men look between themselves before both sets of brown eyes land on me, the eldest of the two speaking first.
“You will cover the damage, time lost, salaries, etcetera. As for your brother…” he smirks, puffing on a cigar, the smoke billowing between us, “He will come and apologize face to face.”
There’s a dangerous edge to his tone. I fight the urge not to crack the bottle of bottom shelf liquor they put out and slit both their throats with it.
I don’t think they realize he’s gambling with their lives.
I was willing to admit fault and pay for the damages, but on my terms. I won’t be disrespected and talked down to by these nobodies.
Marcello is tense beside me, his hands fisted on his knees.
“I think you misunderstand our positions,” I tell them in a mocking tone. “I’m not here as your bitch. I was willing to pay for damages, but don’t mistake my gesture of goodwill for weakness.” I stand, straightening the lapels of my jacket. My feet sticking to their disgusting floor. “And don’t ever give me orders.”
I lift my chin to Marcello. “We’re done here.”
“We’ll be seeing you, Mr. Leto,” the youngest chuckles to my retreating form.
“You better hope not,” I call over my shoulder.
Once back in my town car, Thomas hands me an antibacterial wipe before closing my door. That place could give you an STD just by entering.
Marcello punches the leather seat beside him. “Who do those motherfuckers think they are? This is all Antonio’s doing,” he fumes. “What do you want to do?”
Looking back to the club my rage tells me to go in there and gut them both but I’m not Antonio, I need to act using my head.
“Nothing.”
My phone vibrates against my thigh, and I dig it out of my pocket. “We tell them to fuck off after all,” I add before answering the call.
“Detective?”
“Someone called in a complaint to the precinct against you today,” his gruff voice drones.
There are snakes everywhere as of late. “Is that so?”
“A Mr. Angelo? He’s in the hospital with a broken nose and jaw, said you attacked him at Vino’s.” A grin tilts my lips as I watch Marcello furiously type out a message, no doubt to Antonio.
Maybe this temper thing runs in the family.
“If his jaw is broken, how did he make the call?” I inquire, running my hand through my hair.
I’d hoped the asshole would come after me via the money route. Men like him usually sue, but if it’s the police he wants to involve, that’s bad news for him.
“It was his wife, a Bridget Angelo. The precinct will be sending someone over to their house tomorrow morning. He should be released tonight. I’ll forward the address,” He informs me.