Three doors open and as many men step from the flawless white car. One turns the sides of his coat’s collar up and the other two look like they live for the brute force of the freezing wind coming down through the gaping hole in the middle of the roof. All have easy gaits and the casual confidence of being the most powerful men in the room is apparent.
Some would take this time to measure dicks and remind everyone of their positions on the ladder of power, but I like my allies to handle themselves like they know what the hell they are doing.
“Lovely day for a get-together.” The one with the deep tan and easy smile takes in the dreary warehouse with cracked cement and gang tags. “I thought Chicago was blistering cold.” He tries to break the ice and only gets a blank stare in return but he doesn’t shirk. If anything, he stands a little taller and curls a lip in an arrogant grin. He’s got a deep baritone that makes him sound years older than the mid-thirties he appears.
“Ignore Santi; his ass is always cold. Frankly, I don’t know how the Latin blood in him hasn’t frozen solid yet.”
“Fuck you, Harlon. We can’t all be made of ice.” Harlon. I roll the name through my mental database.
“You the son of Constantine?”
“Yes. Is that a problem?” His gaze is hard and challenging like he’s faced shit recently for being the son of a notorious mafia man who went away for life about five years back. His girlfriend at the time got a little nosy and wondered where all the millions came from. Turns out she was an undercover cop looking to take down the organization from the inside. All she managed to do was shift the power from one Constantine to another.
“Good to know.” Is all I say and he seems content at leaving it there, too.
Their fraternal camaraderie reminds me of my crew and I feel the energy coming off them as something sincere and familiar.
I drop my hands to my side, my fingers lax, and let the three men close the few feet between us. We’re all about the same size but their long wool overcoats make them look bulkier. I’m sure they’re also packing under those coats. Going toe to toe with them, I’m not sure who would come out on top. By the looks of their polished exterior I want to say me. I have no issues playing dirty in a street fight. But the scars over their knuckles and Harlon’s jaw tell me they’d be hard to eliminate.
They take in our bikes and cuts and I don’t mistake the appreciation for our machines.
My phone vibrates in my pocket but I ignore it knowing it’s probably Riot or Devil messaging with business.
“We have a mutual friend.” Harlon has broad shoulders, silvering hair around the edges and enough creases along the corners of his eyes that tell me he’s hitting forty. The other two appear younger, but not by many years.
“So I hear.”
“Reaper sends his regards. Says he wishes he could be here but has his hands full with family matters at the moment.”
I nod and take the hand he offers in a tight grip and he returns it in kind. Solid, strong and unafraid of another strong male. I like that.
“Name’s Cassian.” The man in the middle offers his hand next. Rinse repeat down the line. All have strong grips and have no trouble holding my gaze. Small details like these let me know they might be dressed to the nines and like they walked out of a fucking photoshoot but they don’t step away from a fight. The calluses on their hands also tell me they put some sweat into climbing the ladder of Chicago’s underworld and dear old daddy didn’t hand it to Harlon. Respectable in my book. How the other two fit into the equation I’ve yet to unravel.
“We’ve been known as the ruthless kings, the men of Genesis and undertakers by the few who have crossed us.”
Harlon’s dark eyes hold mine.
I read the undertones for what they are meant to be, a warning to most and a show of strength to others. To me, it’s white noise.
“Thanks for taking a minute with us,” Harlon continues. “You come highly recommended at keeping your mouths zipped and delivered with no questions asked. I hope that’s still true. I believe Reaper filled you in on what we are looking for?”
“He has,” Rage offers without missing a beat.
Small arms. Semi-automatics. Untraceable.
My phone goes off again, but reaching for it right now is bad form. My crew will get an earful when I get back to the clubhouse.
“Gentlemen,” I look each of them in the eye. “You can call me Ares and this is Rage. I appreciate your candid nature. Let me return the favor. We can supply what you need if you can meet our price.”
Harlon seems like the leader of the trio with the way he stands apart from the other two slightly. Almost imperceivable but I grew up learning to read body language and exploiting it to my advantage and this man is the one who will be making the deal. The other two are important but Harlon is the one who handles shit when it hits the fan.
Hair falls in his eyes and he easily brushes it away. In doing so I notice the gold ring on his finger. A married mafia man in the middle of a war. All of them wear bands. I file that information for use if I ever need it.
“I was informed you would go directly to money. I like that. It’s why we’re all here, right?”
“I’m reaching for my phone.” Harlon offers and opens the side of his coat slowly. I spot the butts of two Smith and Wesson .40s with silver inlay hanging in their holsters. Not my choice of weapon, but powerful enough to get the job done.
Harlon pulls a phone from his inner coat pocket, taps a couple of times before he flips his phone around. “This is just one of our bank accounts. All you need to do is give me the coordinates and I’ll make sure you receive your amount in full right now. Deal?”