He’s right to fear me, most men do.
That’s why it’s so hard to grasp the events that’s unfolded here.
“Just fucking move,” I bark, shouldering past him. I’ll deal with him later.
Marcello my cousin and number two has beat me here and is standing by Serena’s room, our room, his hands on his hips, head bowed.
We’ve both seen a lot of death, been the cause of most of it, so to see him rattled it unsettling.
My chest thuds violently, his eyes lifting to meet mine, the pinched features are shouting, No. Don’t come closer. Don’t fucking look. But I have to. I have to see her.
The scent hits me first, the metallic tinge clinging to the air coating my tongue with every inhale, my eyes explore the room and land on her, Serena.
Fuck what did they do to you.
Blood.
So much blood.
Everywhere.
It’s on the walls, the ceiling, seeping through the cracks of the tiled floor, congealing beneath her naked form. Thick, wet crimson slashes cover every part of her pale flesh, her body discarded at the foot of the pole she’d danced around a hundred times for me.
It was supposed to be only me, she was my exclusive girl. I don’t like sharing and everyone knows she belonged to me.
I’m not the sort of man to claim a woman for more than sexual gratification. I’m a selfish bastard, never offering her more than my cock and a paycheck—and she was greedy for both. It works for us—worked.
Who did this to you? The questions barrel through my mind coiling my muscles.
A small pile of fabric, what looks like bra and panties have been discarded on the small booth but there’s no money—champagne bottles—glasses all the things you’d expect to find in these rooms when a girl is entertaining.
My eyes flick up to the video monitor, the wire deliberately cut to shut off the live feed.
Dropping on my hutches I stroke a strand of hair from her face, she’s beautiful even in death, the slash across her throat is deep, vehement, her killer enjoyed this.
“This is an attack on me,” I rumble, running my hands through my hair, getting back to my feet. Someone has a death wish and when I find them it’s going to be slow and painful.
“We don’t know that.” Marcello jerks a shoulder, his brow dipping.
“Look at her,” I snap “This is my club, my girl, someone is trying to send a message.”
Exhaling he places a hand on my shoulder, “No one is foolish enough, Luca, this is just some sick prick who gets off on hurting women, just a coincidence.”
“This can’t just be another coincidence.” I bite, a pounding sounds in my ears. “Not after my mother.” I’ll burn this city to the ground if someone is inciting a war, every battle scar I own is from victory and this time will be no different.
“The police said your mother’s murder was a mugging gone wrong—"
He’s words fall flat when I shoot a scathing glare his way, my finger coming up to his face. “You know better than that,” I warn through gritted teeth. NYPD doesn’t want a battle in their city. They would say anything to keep that from happening.
“We looked into every lead. She was my aunt, Luca. I lost her too. It was an opportunist. Bad luck—nothing more. And the cunt who did it is fucking dead.”
“I know!” I bellow, rage festering in my belly. It’s always there.
“Her handbag was taken, Sir, nothing else.”
My jaw ticks with the memory of that day.
A low life, drug addict piece of shit was arrested close to the scene the purse still on him, he wasn’t getting prison, I took that bastard apart piece by piece, peeled the skin from bone, and hung him from George Washington bridge for all to see what becomes of a man who wrongs a Leto—only after making him first watch his own mother and brother die.
My mother was a Queen. It will haunt me to my grave that she was shot and left to bleed out next to the men hired to protect her.
My fist clenches, and I smash it into the door until the skin over my knuckle splits and blood trickles between my fingers.
Startled squeals ring through the air from the lingering workers waiting to be dismissed—be given answers I don’t have.
“What do you want to do?” Marcello asks, running a hand down his face, scratching his chin, his own knuckles showing a cut no doubt from Ricardo’s nose.
Serena’s wide, vacant eyes peer up at me. “We find out who came into one of my places and touched what belonged to me.” I seethe, rolling my shoulders.
“Ricardo,” I bark.
He scampers down the corridor, lines crinkling his eyes and mouth. “Why the fuck was she back here?” I snarl, gripping him by the throat and smashing him into the wall. The plaster fissures under the force.