“Am I?” Remi jars me back to the conversation, he moves over to the secured door leading to rooms used for unpleasantries. “Why else would he want to use one of Dad’s rooms?” he snaps.
“It doesn’t sit well with me either. I’m meeting with Mateo today to get more information. Right now, Father wants to show us something.”
“What about Freya?” he asks, ignoring me.
“What about Freya?”
Freya. Freya. Freya.
“She lives here, Noah. I’m not locking her in her room from the outside with a house full of fucking perverts and killers who can walk in if they feel like it.”
“We’re killers, brother, and occasionally perverts.” I try to lighten the mood, but his face remains stony.
Sighing, I walk to where he’s standing, his posture rigid, fury radiating off him in waves. Resting a hand on his shoulder, I tell him, “We’ll make sure she’s not here, and I promise, no women are dying in this house.” He jerks his head in agreement. “Let’s go. Father wants us.”
Finding Father waiting for us just outside the kitchen, he nods, gesturing for us to follow him.
“I have to show you both something. It’s not something I’ve ever thought to share with you, and as my sons, I didn’t think I ever would, but this may calm your mind, Remi. Perhaps a little.” He signals with a wave of his hand toward the garage.
There’s another secured door in here that leads to the basement. I’ve never really thought about it or asked what’s down there, just assuming it’s for storage, equipment for the business. Punching in a code, the door gives way, opening up.
“You have a lot of secret doors in this house,” Remi grunts.
“Some secrets need to be contained. Others…I just prefer privacy.”
Stairs leading down into an open space, bare apart from cabinets bordering the walls. It’s open and well looked after. Walking over to another door on the far wall, Father hesitates before opening it, looking us both in the eyes.
“If this is a sex dungeon, I’m going to throw up,” Remi retorts, smacking me in the gut and snorting a laugh. Father just stares at him.
“Oh shit, is it a sex dungeon?”
“This is the secret room Antonio was speaking of.” The door opens, and he enters, flicking on a light.
“It’s a sex dungeon,” Remi gasps, his jaw unhinging. He turns in a circle, taking in all the equipment designed for kink fetishes. “Oh god, did you bring Mom in here?”
“Remi,” I snap, trying to rid the image from my mind.
“I won’t be answering that. But I do have a past and a life. You’re both grown men.”
“Doesn’t mean we want to see your sex dungeon,”
“It’s better than my torture chamber,” our father jokes, a rare smirk kicking up his lips.
“Depends which way you’re looking at the room. Do you like being on the rack or putting someone else on it?” Remi shudders.
The room is cavernous, with beds lined in latex mattresses, chains, nooses—shit that should be in the gallows, not a room for pleasure. Paddles in an array of sizes have a special cabinet on one of the walls, another for whips and weird looking tools.
“This is as far as I’m willing to go with discussing my sex life with you. But I thought it may give you, Remi, some peace of mind that the requested space is here and not upstairs where I conduct my business.”
I probably could have gone my entire life without ever knowing my father was into this stuff. But he’s right, it makes hosting the party more tolerable. We’re still going to need to get rid of Freya for the night. It may be a good idea if Remi’s not here too.
The location of the Ruin meet is at a different place this time, probably due to the liability the last place turned out to be.
Pulling up at the curb, Caleb looks at me through the rear-view mirror, his brow tense, dropping low over his eyes. “This is where the coordinates lead, sir.”
I dip my head, looking out the window at the row of shops. A busy street with apartment buildings stacked high all around. Wedged between a seven-eleven and a florist, there’s a black door. Above it is a flicking sign reading Food.
“It’s fine, Caleb. Wait in the car.” Stepping out, I straighten my suit jacket.
Aromas coming from inside actually smell good. Pushing through the entrance, a small red corridor leads to a front desk.
“Welcome. Name sir?” a young woman asks, her lips spread in a bright red lipstick smile, hair pulled back in a bun.
“Remington.”
“Right this way, sir.” Double doors lead into a restaurant.
Lavish furnishings, dark cherry wood tables, green velvet bench seats forming booths full with patrons. You’d never know walking past this is a full-fledged restaurant.
Bypassing the booths she leads me to another room. Antonio is seated at a large round table, eating some type of fish.