“I don’t know. She only danced for you. I don’t fucking know.”
I pinch the cut on the bridge of his nose, enjoying the crunch of bone. His body writhes, eyes squinting closed, “It’s your job to know—to keep these women safe.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please, Mr. Leto. Let me talk to the other girls. I’ll find out, I promise.” He squirms.
Releasing him with a shove, I crack my neck and run a hand over my jaw.
“Call the precinct. Ask for Detective Morels. He’ll deal with this. In the meantime, get the list of every member who came in last night and all surveillance tapes that weren’t destroyed.”
This business wasn’t some walk-in-off-the-street strip joint. It had the Leto name emblazoned on it. Membership was only for rich perverts to come get their cocks hard and if they paid enough, polished.
We had more celebrities frequent here than Madison Square Garden.
Whoever did this wasn’t a stranger to the club or Serena.
When I find him, I’ll be adding his carcass to the pile of fools who wronged me and if he is somehow involved in my mother’s slaying, I’ll be wiping his bloodline from existence.
“Did she have family?” Marcello calls out to a couple of the women.
One shrugs her shoulders, wrapping her arms around herself. “This place, us girls. She has a sister over at that ballet school, Swan something.” A frown pulls on her features “She worked here to help pay her sister’s fees.” She says, her voice breaking.
I didn’t know that, hell I didn’t know anything about her and yet she died because of me.
“Get me her name,” I grab Ricardo by the back of the neck shoving his head through the door to Serena’s room.
“Take a good fucking look at her, because if you allow something like this to happen again on your watch what happened to her will be a walk in the park compared to what I’ll do to you.” I warn.
Summoning Marcello with a jerk of my head, I exit the way I came needing to get the fuck out of here.
Once back in the car I yank my tie loose and pour a stiff drink from the decanter kept in here, my driver rising the privacy screen when Marcello joins me. “How’s business, any disgruntled suppliers, buyers I should be aware of?” I ask, tipping the glass to my lips needing the burn of alcohol.
Snorting, Marcello stretches his legs out in the seat opposite me, “There’s always rumblings in our type of business Luca, but no one would dare act on them.”
Tell that to Serena. My mother.
“You did the right thing, letting the police take this one, there was too many employees there when she was found, it could get messy otherwise.” He assures me.
Serena didn’t deserve to be disposed of like a problem needing buried. She was a good girl, young, too fucking young. I had enough officers on my payroll anyway, just means my men will be looking for her killer and so will they, either way he’s mine once he is found.
“You, okay?” Marcello asks when I remain quiet.
He’s been by my side since we were toddlers fighting over the same toys. I trust him over all others, he’s more a brother than my own, but my heart is hollow, it must be to be who I am, emotions can be construed as weakness. I don’t let anyone see I have those flaws—not even my closet allies. He will not be getting any emotional confession from me.
“I know what it’s like.” He adds, tone deeper, head bowed.
“This isn’t the same.” I remind him.
His pain was because of a woman he loved, and she took her own life. Annemarie. Her name is etched into the skin over his chest, and she wasn’t even his wife to mourn.
My father thought she’d be better suited for my younger brother, her prominent family line making them a good match.
Marcello was my cousin from our mother’s being sisters, he had to work twice as hard to get half the respect my father showed toward me. Relation or not he wasn’t the Leto bloodline and my father made sure he knew it.
“I can’t believe how much fucking loss we’ve had to deal with this year.” Marcello grunts, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He sighs, snatching the decanter and drinking straight from the neck. “Do you think there is a heaven?” he muses.
If there is we won’t ever see it. What I did know is this right here is Hell—and we’re the demons running it.
Chapter Four
Alyssa
Cliché. Is that what I am? Eighteen, broke, on a train, leaving my small life in my small town, heading to the city with a dream I’m not sure is mine. From such a young age, being a ballerina was ingrained into me. It’s part of my genetic makeup at this point.