“He’s been gambling with Ricardo.”
I release the smoke into the air. “Seriously? Ricardo? So, he’s getting desperate.” I take another draw from my cigar. Ricardo is as shady as they come. He’s nothing more than a wannabe gangster in a shitty neighborhood, playing bookie for amateurs.
Logan nods. “He owes him a shit ton of money. He won’t be paying anyone. He’s broke as hell. He was up so fucking high and it all came crashing down. Now that he’s in over his head, he’s got nothing to lose. Remember when I told you he’s been making threats about going to the higher-ups?”
“We need to discuss this shit in my office, not out here.” Standing and walking toward the back door, I flick the cigar onto the ground then step on it, putting it out. We get back into my office and I shut the door, already wishing I was back outside, smoking. There’s no way I’m calm enough to have this conversation.
Leaning against the front of my desk, I face Logan, who is standing against the wall. I give him a look that says to speak, and he does. “He’s not only threatening to turn us in for the underground fighting, but also for the money laundering.”
“He doesn’t have proof.”
Logan’s head drops and my fists clench in response.
“He doesn’t have proof, right?”
“He’s dating a woman at the bank.”
My fist tightens and I punch the closest thing to me—a metal filing cabinet—the pain radiating through my knuckles and up my arm. There’s something more going on here. I fucking know it.
“So. Fucking. What. He’s a goddamn cop, not the FBI. What the hell is he going to do?” I stalk over to Logan, closing the small gap between us, and grab him by the collar of his shirt. “There’s something you’re leaving out. I’m not fucking around, Logan.”
He shakes his head.
“Logan, I’m giving you one chance to tell me what the hell is really going on.”
“Okay, okay.” He puts his palms up in a placating manner, and I consider grabbing his hands and breaking each one of his fingers. When he doesn’t say anything, I fist his collar tight enough it almost chokes him as I push him against the wall.
“Logan…”
“Fuck! Okay. Look, just hear me out, all right?” I let go of his collar, slightly backing up so I can look him in the eyes. He bends over, coughing lightly.
“Stand the fuck up and talk,” I demand.
“Luis noticed people were looking for…a pick-me-up on fight nights. As you know, his brother sells, so he came to me and offered us a cut if we let him sell on fight nights. On an average night, we bring in five figures easily.”
“What sort of pick-me-up?” I ask, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it with my own ears. Luis is one of my bouncers underground, and his brother is one of the biggest drug dealers in Atlantic City.
“X.”
“You’re selling ecstasy in my fucking club. Anything else?”
“Coke.” Jesus fuck.
I give him a pointed look, wondering how the fuck I didn’t notice this was happening under my roof, and realizing I’ve put way too much trust in Logan. “And what does the cop have to do with this?”
“He found out and started demanding a cut in order to turn a blind eye.”
I shake my head, not believing the shit he’s telling me. “You risked my fucking club over five figures? What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Money’s money.”
“Says the guy with nothing at stake. You know damn well why I don’t fuck with drugs.”
Logan blanches. “I didn’t think about that. It’s been, what? Ten years?”
“Twelve, and I don’t give a shit if it’s been twenty years. We don’t deal drugs, ever.” Not even my father deals anymore. He knows it’s a hard limit for me—and why—and respects it. Weapons, alcohol, gambling, money laundering—I’ll handle anything else he needs me to handle, but I’ll never touch drugs again.
“I didn’t think you would care as long as you weren’t the one dealing.”
“Bullshit, Logan. That’s why you hid it from me.”
Walking around my desk, I grab my cigars and phone from the drawer.
“Where you going?” Logan asks nervously.
“I’m going to handle the fucking cop. I can’t let it get out that he owes me two hundred fucking grand, and I’m sure as fuck not going to let him get away with blackmailing me.” Logan’s eyes bug the fuck out, telling me there’s something else he’s hiding.
“I’ll handle it,” he offers. “It’s my shit.”
“Okay.” I nod in agreement. “But I’m going with you.”
Logan opens his mouth to argue but thinks better of it. “All right.”
We jump into my Nissan GT-R and head over to Stephen’s place. I’ve never visited the cop myself, so Logan gives me directions that lead us to a decent apartment complex just outside of Atlantic City.