He’s been chasing junkies all day long, searching for Cannon and his friend, whatever his fucking stupid nickname is. A few years back, Cannon owned the best brothel in the city. He was engaged to a supermodel and surrounded himself with rich, famous friends. Back then, we did business daily.
Until he slipped.
He fell for theit’s-just-this-oncenonsense. It’s never just this once. Once you cave, you’re doomed.
Cannon started with LSD but soon became addicted to everything he could get his hands on. His girl left, friends turned their backs on him, the brothel went bust, and Cannon fell through the cracks.
I glance at the clock, gripping the steering wheel harder. I promised Layla I’d pick her up at eight, twenty minutes from now, but getting my hands on Cannon takes priority this time.
“Don’t touch him. He’s mine.” I make a sharp U-turn. Incoming drivers flash their lights, veering to the side, barely avoiding a collision.
“I’m coming to watch. I’ll be there in fifteen.” Spades cuts the call before I get a word in.
I step on the gas, dialing Rookie’s number. “Spades found Cannon.” I maneuver around the slow traffic. “Pick Layla up at eight and take her to my house.”
“Sure, I’ll leave now.”
I stopped throwing my fists around four years ago once it got too tiring. I never enjoyed sporting bruised knuckles, so I appointed three guys to do the deeds: Cai, Luca, and Jackson. They’re my main boxers, but I won’t sit back while they beat the ever-living shit out of the fuckers who touched my girl.
I turn left, burning down the street where Amber is, the go-to place of all the junkies and degenerates—one of the leading outlets for my product down south.
Grinning like a Cheshire cat, Spades smokes, leaning against his car. “I haven’t seen you land a punch in forever.”
“Take a good look tonight. It might be a while before you see me land another one.”
Cracking my knuckles, I get ready to unleash the fury, following Spades as he pushes the double doors with both hands, slamming them against the walls with a bang. The place reeks of stale beer, puke, and sweat. I’d never willingly walk in here if not for the prize lurking somewhere in the corner.
A cloud of smoke that looks almost blue—a mixture of crack, pot, and cigarettes—hangs in the air, illuminated by the bright fluorescent light. It has to be bright so the clientele can see their veins clearly. The bartender resembles a butcher from a low-budget horror movie. He lifts his head, but his eyes look in different directions. I’m unsure if he sees us until a scowl twists his tired, sweaty face. My presence doesn’t bode well for anyone. He rakes his hand through the long, greasy hair, returning his attention to the task at hand—polishing a beer glass with a filthy cloth.
Most guests sit at small tables, daydreaming or dozing off, oblivious to their surroundings. A few guys talk quietly while someone else is tripping on the dirty used-to-be-white floor. He might be dying, but no one gives a flying fuck.
A skin-on-bones woman with protruding cheekbones and cracked lips sits nearby in a dirty wifebeater, tightening a fast-release tourniquet belt around her arm, a syringe between crooked teeth.
I step around the bar with Spades close behind and step over the guy thrashing on the floor, frothing at the mouth like a dog with rabies. Cannon sits at a large concrete table with four friends. They look alike—thin, sunken eyes and cheap, meaningless tattoos. Instead of salivating or daftly staring into the distance like everyone else, they’re ranting in raised voices.
“You want help, or will you be an egotistical bastard and fuck them up all by yourself?” Spades asks, still excited.
“Do you know which one was with Cannon last night?”
“Loki.” He points to a guy in a tattered black t-shirt.
“Make sure he stays where he is.” I walk over to the table, taking a seat beside Cannon. “Good evening.”
I’ve always been a little theatrical. I make a show, basking in my superiority, in the fear glimmering in the eyes of those who crossed me; their pleas like music to my ears when they beg for mercy.
Mercy that’s never granted.
Cannon jitters in his seat, pupils dilated, unfocused eyes jumping all over my face. Looks like he’s already had a few snorts of speed this evening. The evidence is there: a rolled-up one-dollar note and a few white lines on the table. “Dante, shit, Boss, what are you doing here?”
His companions follow his lead and sit up, trying to appear intimidating... it doesn’t fucking work.
“I’ve been told you tried to score with Frankie’s daughter last night.” My tone borders on casual, shoulders relaxed, giving the fucker a false sense of security before I release a bomb and watch him shit his pants.
Cannon sneers, showing off a row of crooked, yellow teeth, two missing at the top, two more turning black. “I knew you wouldn’t be pissed off! I told Luca that he should stay the fuck out of it, but he wouldn’t listen. You should have a word with him, boss. He ruined our night! Frankie would’ve had a hard time recognizing the bitch if Luca let us finish. I guarantee it.” He moves closer, the stench of his breath, like something old and rotten, fanning my face. “I’ll finish it off for you. Just say the word. I know where Frankie lives.” He looks at his friends, bouncing in the seat. “We’ll grab her and have some fun, right?”
Everyone nods, eager to please me because they know I’m the one who supplies their dealers with the product. One word from me, and no one will sell them shit.
“Yeah, just say the word, Boss,” Loki says. “I’ll fucking gut her like a fish for you.”