“Either of you. I will string you both up by your balls and gut you myself. Am I understood?”
“Understood,” they say in unison.
“Get the fuck out of my office.”
I wave a hand toward the door, motioning them to leave. When the door closes and silence falls into the room, I stride over to my desk and pour myself a glass of whiskey.
Sometimes my children’s behavior bothers me. I become concerned that I did not do enough, and neither is prepared to act like my legacies. But it is who I molded them to be, unforgiving and unashamed.
Though their words appear careless and both can be reckless, they are loyal to the core. Malia is guided by anger and rage, whereas Donovan hides behind jokes and carelessness. Aside from Donovan leaving his sister behind, both my children come through when it matters.
My phone pings as I throw back the contents of my glass. Slamming the cup down, I savor the welcomed burn in the back of my throat before looking at the message.
After taking a few moments to myself, I read the screen. When I open the message from Banagher Byrne, I assume it is an update on the child, but it is a time and location to meet tonight.
I REACH THE LOCATION Banagher sent me an hour earlier than the time he allotted. He might be older than me by a good fifteen years, but he parties like my kids. With his son taking over, he has had more than enough time to fall into bachelor-like behaviors.
His wife died ten years ago, and the old man drowns himself in as much pussy as possible. So, his choice to meet at one of my strip clubs is not surprising. It has been a while since I have stepped inside Insatiable, letting Donovan take over the business aspect when he was learning the ins and outs of all my properties.
I park my car in my personal spot at the rear of the building and cut the engine. Banagher did not elaborate on this meeting and what he was doing here. One does not normally fly across the country to request a meeting for nothing.
There could only be two things this is about. It is not working with the little girl, Brooke, and he is dumping her back into my lap, or he wants to talk about the ball. The Byrnes are dirty and ruthless proprietors in their own right but honest with those they are loyal to.
I tuck my pistol into the waistline of my pants. If this is some ploy for Banagher winning Malia’s hand for Caine, I am likely to send a bullet through his eye. If his dumbass son had not slept around on Malia, they would have married on their own, and I will be damned if I force her into a marriage with the man that broke her.
I slip into the club through the backdoor, a petite blonde standing on the other side scowling at me.
“Hey!” she says, stomping her heeled foot.
The brashness catches me off guard as I stare down at the dancer I have never seen before. White, blonde hair is pinned back into what seems a perfected mess, tendrils falling from random areas. Her makeup is minimal compared to most strippers, yet she still fits into her role with the platform heels, lingerie, and glitter.
“Get the fuck out,” she yells, eyes searching for the bouncer that won’t come.
“Calm down, little bird,” I soothe, raising my hands in surrender, though I can feel the smirk on my lips that is showing the mockery. “I am not here to hurt you. I’m here for business.”
She shifts on her feet, observing me while mulling over my words.
“No one conducts business back here. This area is for the dancers. You need to leave.”
“Of course, darling,” I taunt.
Rarely do people mouth back at me, making this interaction the highlight of my day.
“If I describe a man to you, can you tell me if you have seen him? Your help will get me out of your space much faster.”
Her lips purse, a smart comment I’m sure is threatening its way out. We are interrupted before she can continue.
“Boss!” a voice rings from the room next to us.
I would recognize that shrill voice anywhere.
Trina stares back at me through a mirror in one of the dressing rooms. Long black hair cascades over her ebony shoulders, and a smile lights up her stunning face. She finishes applying her lipstick before running over to me and placing a kiss on my cheek.
“I see you’ve met Chantelle,” she says, now looking confused.
“Not officially,” I say to Trina, chuckling when I see Chantelle’s brows furrow as the math adds up. The color drains from her face, her mouth opening and closing a few times before snapping shut.
“Chan, this is Nathaniel Olin. He owns the club,” Trina offers.