Antichrist

I kick the door in so hard it smashes against the wall. “Who the fuck is in charge here?”

There are four people inside the lobby and one behind the reception desk. Young, naive looking, probably didn’t want to be here but had to be here, an older woman in a suit who has a phone up to her ear, and two chums standing in the middle, staring at me like I’ve got three fucking heads.

I chuckle, sliding my gun back into the holster to show I don’t give a fuck what they do, and take the steps into their space.

“Damn, you all look a lot like you don’t know who the fuck we are, huh?”

“We know who you are, fucker.”

I turn to where the voice came from just in time to see the fucking asshole spit to the ground. He has a gun directed right at me, and I know he’d use it. Lester failed to mention that we were walking into a fucking white power casino, but I’d handle it. Truth is, none of these idiots are smart enough to be carrying out the hits that are happening, which brings me back to my earlier issue. He has a gun, and he would pull the trigger, but he’s not smart enough to know who the fuck I really am.

The corner of my mouth tilts up. “Lower your gun and go get your boss.” I don’t look at him when I say the words. My eyes stay on the woman with the phone in her hand, because she’s the one I know I need to talk to. Whoever it is that runs this place, it isn’t the racist fuckwits that just tried shooting us down.

She tilts her chin up defiantly. “He’s coming.”

I grab my pack of cigarettes from my pocket and bang the bottom on my palm before biting one into my mouth. I’m sucking down the smoke when I point around the place.

“Gotta say, I’m disappointed with the term casino being used for this shithole.”

I take a step deeper inside when my boot lands in a puddle of oozing red liquid that sticks to the sole. Taking a drag of my smoke, I smirk up at her. “But judging by the company you keep, gotta admit I understand why.”

“Brother, we can wait outside,” Fanta says from behind me, but I keep my eyes on the older woman.

“Nah, we’re good here.”

Hers are on mine. She’s attractive enough to fuck, but not enough to go out of my way to do it. She has blonde hair that curls around her sharp chin, an upturned nose, and eyes as dark as mud. The kind you can’t fucking scrub off. Her body is curvy enough to spill out of my hands and fall on the tip of my tongue, and on any other day, I’d fuck her. Probably. But right now, all I can think about is killing her.

“Tell me…” I say, taking steps closer. “When are you going to tell us who it is that is actually in charge here? You know… aside from yourself.”

Her beady eyes fly to look over my shoulder. I got her. Read it as soon as I saw her in the room. I could sniff out her dominance like a fucking alpha finding its pack.

She flicks her head up. “He’s here now.”

Pierre Laurent steps through the fallen bodies, his eyes on mine.

I cock my head. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Because I am going to tell you who is doing all of this.”

The distaste of betrayal. Like clockwork, I keep replaying last night. Almost like a bad movie that just will never end. Lydia, Niko, pregnant.

Luca.

When I came home last night, he wasn’t there. I wasn’t surprised. I was surprised to get the flowers from him this morning, though. Red roses. Truth is, they are no longer my favorite. He asked me what my favorite flowers were at Ari’s funeral. I remember thinking, what an odd question, but I answered anyway. “Red roses,” I had said blankly, allowing the tears to fall from my eyes and trail down my cheeks.

I liked red roses.

They were simple. Classic. Some would say overrated, but I would say not respected enough.

Now all they do is remind me of Ari’s funeral. The smell of rain hitting the asphalt on that stormy winter day.

They remind me that I lost Niko and he didn’t give a fucking damn about leaving me behind.

A hand is on my thigh as I slowly bring the martini glass to my mouth, the sugar dissolving against my lips. I’ve had three lemon drop martinis, and I know this will need to be my last if I want to remember anything tomorrow. I have to. I have to be in control where I can.

“You okay, honey?” Luca asks, squeezing my thigh.