Brutal Prince: An Enemies To Lovers Mafia Romance (Brutal Birthright Book 1) Page 19

  “Well,” Callum says, exchanging a look with my brothers, “There are two options. One, we try to follow this lead about the girl Zajac’s been fucking.”

  “But we don’t have her address,” Nero says, obviously not a fan of this option. “And we don’t know how often he sees her.”

  “Or,” Callum continues, as if he hadn’t been interrupted, “we could hit one of his businesses. Smash his shit up, maybe take something, then wait for him to call us.”

  “We’re leaning toward his casino, because it’s remote and cash-heavy,” Dante says.

  “Why not both?” I say. “Are you talking about Francie Ross? She works at Pole, right?”

  “Do you know her?” Callum asks quickly.

  “No. But I know a girl who knows her,” I say. “That’s what I was trying to tell you, earlier.”

  Callum gives me a look, half annoyed and half curious.

  “Does your friend know where Francie lives?”

  “Maybe,” I say. “We should ask her.”

  “Why bother!” Nero snaps. “Who cares about finding Zajac. We need to hit him back for what he did to our job site. We don’t need to look him in the eye to kick him in the balls.”

  Dante looks like he could go either way. “The casino seems like more of a sure bet,” he says.

  “Well . . .” Callum glances over at me. “Let’s do both. You guys can hit the casino, while Aida and I talk to her friend.”

  “You think three people is enough?” Dante says to Nero.

  “Of course,” Nero says, tossing his head.

  “Take Jack, too,” Callum says.

  “Then it’ll just be you and Aida . . .” Dante says.

  “We don’t need an army,” I say. “We’re just talking to a waitress.”

  Dante frowns, and reaches inside his jacket. He passes me a Glock, loaded.

  “Is that wise?” Jack says, eyeing the gun as Dante puts it in my hand.

  “Don’t worry,” I say sweetly. “I won’t leave it lying around like an idiot.”

  Jack looks like he wants to retort, but he drops it, since Callum is standing right there.

  “Everybody else got what they need?” Dante asks.

  We all nod.

  “Let’s head out, then.”

  Dante and Nero get back in the Escalade. I wave to Gabriel through the window. He grins and gives me a little salute. Jack climbs in the backseat next to him, introducing himself with a grunt and a curt nod.

  I’m extremely pleased not to have to spend any more time cooped up in a car with him, and even more pleased that Cal and I are running down my lead. Well, sort of his too—but I thought of it first.

  Anyway, I like when Cal drives. It lets me sneak glances at him while his attention is fixed on the road.

  Every time we’re alone together, the energy seems to shift. There’s a thick tension in the air, and my mind starts inevitably wandering back to what we did the last time we were alone.

  Since I’m thinking of such pleasant things, I’m startled when Callum says, “Why did you break up with Oliver Castle?”

  It jolts me, and makes me remember, uncomfortably, how Oliver accosted me on campus earlier. How does he keep running into me like that? At first when he would find me at every party, I assumed my friends were texting him. But even later—

  “Well?” Callum interrupts.

  I sigh, annoyed to be talking about this again. And without the likelihood of kinky jealousy-fueled sex afterward.

  “It just never felt right,” I say. “It was like putting a shoe on the wrong foot. Right away it was awkward, and the longer it went on, the worse it got.”

  “So you weren’t in love with him? When we met?” Callum asks.

  There’s the tiniest hint of vulnerability in his question.

  I’ve never heard Callum be vulnerable. Not even one percent. I desperately want to look at him, but I use all my willpower to keep my eyes pointed forward. I feel like we’re actually being honest for a minute, and I don’t want to ruin it.

  “I never loved him,” I tell Cal, my voice steady and sure.

  He exhales, and I know, I just know, there’s relief in that sigh.

  I have to smile, thinking of something poetic.

  “What?” Callum asks.

  “Well, ironically, when I broke up with Oliver, I thought I should find someone more compatible. Someone more like me.”

  Cal has to laugh, too.

  “Instead you got the exact opposite,” he says.

  “Right,” I say.

  Opposites have a kind of symmetry. Fire and ice. Stern and playful. Impulsive and restrained. In a way, they belong together.

  Oliver and I were more like two objects selected at random: a pen and an owl. A cookie and a shovel.

  That’s why there was no emotion on my side, just indifference.

  You need push and pull to feel love. Or hate.

  We pull up in front of Pole. It’s a cabaret club on the west end of the city. Dark, low-ceilinged, sprawling and seedy. But also wildly popular, because it’s not your run-of-the-mill strip club. The performances are dark, kinky, and fetish-based. Some of the dancers are semi-famous in Chicago, including Francie Ross, who’s one of the headliners. It doesn’t surprise me that she caught Zajac’s eye.

  “Have you been here before?” I ask Callum.

  “No,” he says carelessly. “Is it good?”

  “You’ll see.” I grin.

  The bouncers check our IDs and we head inside.

  The thumping bass makes the air feel thick. I smell the sharp scent of alcohol, and the earthy tones of vape pens. The light is deep red, making everything else look like shades of black and gray.

  The interior feels like a gothic dollhouse. Plush booths, botanical wallpaper, ornate mirrors. The waitresses are dressed up in strappy leather harnesses, some with leather animal ears and matching fur tails—bunnies, foxes, and cats, mostly.

  I spy a table emptying out close to the stage, and I drag Callum over before someone else can snag it.

  “Shouldn’t we be looking for your friend?” he says.

  “We might be in her section. If not, I’ll go find her.”

  He looks around at the busty waitresses, and the bartenders who are wearing skin-tight pleather bodysuits, unzipped to the navel.

  “So this is what Zajac’s into, huh?” he says.

  “I think everybody’s into this, to one degree or another,” I reply, biting the edge of my lip and grinning just a little.

  “Oh yeah?” Callum says. He’s looking at me, curious and more than a little distracted. “Tell me more.”

  I nod to the corner of our booth, where a pair of silver handcuffs dangle down from a hook.

  “I could see you making good use of those,” I say.

  “Depends,” Callum growls, his eyes dark. “On how you behave yourself tonight . . .”

  Before I can answer, our waitress comes to take our order. It’s not my friend Jada. But she says Jada is working.

  “Can you send her over?” I ask.

  “Sure,” the girl nods.

  While we wait, the lights lower even further, and the DJ drops the music.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he croons. “Please welcome to the stage the one . . . the only . . . Eduardo!”

  “Oh, you’re going to like this,” I whisper to Callum.

  “Who’s Eduardo?” he mutters back.

  “Shh!” I say.

  A spotlight follows a slim young man who poses for a moment in its light, then saunters down to the stage. He’s wearing a fedora and zoot suit— well-tailored, with exaggerated shoulders. He has a mustache and a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

  His presence is magnetic. Every eye in the room is fixed on him and on his outrageous swagger.

  Right before he ascends to the stage, he pauses next to a slim, pretty blonde girl in the front row. He grabs her hand and drags her up on stage, despite her protests and obvious shyness.

  Th
en he goes through a little comedy routine where he instructs the girl to hold a flower for him. The top of the flower immediately falls off, tumbling down the front of the girl’s blouse. Eduardo plucks it out again before she can move, making her shriek. Then he teaches her a dance routine, a very seductive tango, which he performs masterfully, whipping her around like a mannequin.

  All the while he’s keeping up a patter of jokes and insults, making the audience howl with laughter. He has a low, smooth voice, with a slight accent.

  Finally, he tells the girl that he’s finished, and asks for a kiss on the cheek. When she reluctantly puckers up her lips, he holds out his cheek to her, then turns his head at the last minute, kissing her square on the mouth.

  Of course the crowd eats it up. They’re cheering and chanting, “Eduardo! Eduardo!”

  “Thank you my friends. But before I go—one last dance!” he shouts.

  As the music plays, he dances across the stage, swift and sharp. He grabs his fedora and yanks it off his head, letting down a spill of white-blonde hair. He tears off his mustache, then rips open the front of his suit to reveal two absolutely spectacular breasts, full and bare, except for a pair of red tassels covering the nipples. “Eduardo” hops and shimmies to make the tassels spin round, then blows the crowd a kiss, bows, and leaves the stage.

  Callum looks like he got slapped in the face. I’m laughing so hard that tears are running down my cheeks. I’ve seen Francie’s show three times now, and it still blows me away. Her ability to walk and dance and speak like a man, even laugh like one, is just incredible. She never breaks character for a second, not until the very end.

  “That’s Francie Ross,” I say to Callum, in case he still hasn’t figured it out.

  “That’s the Butcher’s girlfriend?” he says in astonishment.

  “Yup. If the rumors are true.”

  I get my chance to ask Jada when she brings over our drinks. She passes a whiskey on the rocks to Callum, a vodka cranberry to me.

  “Hey!” she says, “I haven’t seen you in forever.”

  “I know!” I grin up at her. “It’s been crazy.”

  “So I heard,” Jada says, casting a significant glance in Callum’s direction. Jada has dyed-black hair, a multitude of piercings, and plum-colored lips. Her father used to work for mine, until he was sent to prison for unrelated mischief. Specifically, he tried to scam the state lottery. It was going great until he accidentally won twice in a row, which kinda tipped them off.

  “Did you see the show?” Jada asks me.

  “Yes! Francie’s the best.” I lean a little closer, keeping my voice low so it’s covered by the music. “Is it true she’s dating that Polish gangster?”

  “I don’t know, “ Jada says, picking up an empty glass from the table next to ours, and setting it down on her tray. She’s not meeting my eyes anymore.

  “Come on,” I coax her. “I know you two are tight.”

  “They might be,” she says noncommittally.

  “Does he come in here to see her?” I ask.

  “No,” Jada says. “Not that I’ve seen.”

  She obviously doesn’t like this line of questioning. But I don’t want to drop it just yet.

  Callum reaches under the table, smoothly pressing a folded bill into Jada’s palm.

  “Where does she live?” he says.

  Jada hesitates. She sneaks a glance down at her palm to see the denomination.

  “The yellow building on Cherry Street,” she says at last. “Third-floor walk-up. He goes there Tuesday nights. That’s when she’s off work.”

  “There you go,” I mutter to Callum after Jada leaves. “If he doesn’t make contact after we fuck up his casino, then we’ll get him on Tuesday.”

  “Yeah,” Callum agrees. “It’s still early—text your brothers and see if they need us over at the casino.”

  I’m about to do so when Jada brings us another round of drinks.

  “On me,” she says, friendlier now that I’ve stopped grilling her. “Don’t be a stranger so long next time.”

  She slides a fresh vodka cranberry toward me.

  I didn’t really want a second, but if it’s free . . .

  “Thanks,” I say, raising it in a cheers motion.

  “Roxy Rotten’s up next,” Jada says. “You want to stay for that one.”

  As I raise the straw to my lips, I see a strange sheen on the surface on my drink. I set it down again, looking at the cocktail. Maybe it’s just the red light on my red drink. But the surface looks a little oily. Like the glass wasn’t washed well enough.

  “What?” Callum says.

  I’m not sure I should drink it.

  I’m about to tell Callum to check his own drink, but he’s already slugged it back in a gulp.

  The lights lower again, and the DJ introduces Roxy Rotten. Roxy performs her striptease in zombie makeup, under black lights that give the illusion that she loses several limbs over the course of her routine. Then, finally, her head seems to fall off. The lights go up again and Roxy stands center-stage, miraculously whole again, and displaying her lovely green-painted figure to the crowd.

  “Should we go?” I say to Callum.

  “Did your brothers reply?”

  I check my phone. “Not yet.”

  “Let’s leash, then. I mean leave.” He shakes his head. “Are you gonna finish that first?” he points to my second drink.

  “Uh . . . no.” I pour half of the new drink into my old glass so Jada won’t be offended. “Let’s go.”

  I stand up first, slinging my bag over my arm. When Callum stands, he stumbles slightly.

  “Are you okay?” I ask him.

  “Yeah,” he grunts. “Just a headache.”

  I can see how unsteady he is on his feet. It’s not the whiskey—he only had two shots, and I know from experience that Callum can drink a lot more than that without getting tipsy.

  I see Jada standing next to the bar, arms crossed. She looks like a malevolent gargoyle with her leather fox ears, and her lips painted dark purple.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I mutter to Callum, slinging his arm over my shoulder.

  I’m reminded horribly of the day we met, when I had to carry Sebastian down the pier like this. Callum is just as heavy, slumping over more and more with every step. He’s trying to say something, but his eyes are rolled back, his voice mushy and incoherent.

  If I can get him into the car, I can drive us someplace safe and call my brothers.

  But just like on the pier, the door seems a million miles away. I’m wading through sand, and I’m never going to make it.

  As I reach the exit at last, the bouncers surround me.

  “Is there a problem, Miss?”

  I’m about to tell them I need someone to help carry Callum over to the car. But then I realize they’re not coming to help us. They’re blocking the door.

  I look around at the semi-circle of burly, looming men.

  No time to call my brothers.

  I do the only thing I can think of.

  I slump down like I’m passing out, hoping it won’t hurt too bad when I hit the floor.

  22

  Callum

  I wake up with my hands tied over my head, suspended from a meat hook.

  This is not a great position for me. I’m a big dude, and all that weight hanging from my arms for god knows how long makes them feel like they’re about to be pulled out of the sockets.

  Plus my head is fucking banging.

  The last thing I remember is some dude that wasn’t actually a dude doing the tango across the stage.

  Now I’m in some warehouse that stinks of rust and dirt. Under that, a cold, wet, rotting smell.

  And it really is fucking cold. Even in my suit jacket, I’m shivering.

  Maybe it’s the after-effects of the drugs. My muscles feel weak and shaky. My vision keeps switching from fuzzy to clear, like a pair of binoculars going in and out of focus.

  Drugs. Someone drugged
my drink. When I was sitting with . . .

  AIDA!

  I whip my head around, looking for her.

  Thankfully, she’s not hanging from a hook right next to me. But I don’t see her anywhere in the deserted space. All I see is a table, covered with a stained white cloth. Which is not, generally, a good sign.

  I want to yell for Aida. But I also don’t want to draw attention to the fact that she’s gone. I don’t know how I got here, and I don’t know if she was with me or not.

  My shoulders are screaming. My feet can almost, but not quite, touch the ground.

  I try twisting my wrists, turning them against the rough rope to see if there’s any chance of wriggling free. The movement makes me rotate slightly, like a bird on a spit. But it doesn’t seem to loosen the knot.

  The only good thing is that I don’t have long to wait.

  The Butcher enters the warehouse, flanked by two of his soldiers. One is slim, with white-blond hair and tattoos down both arms. The other looks familiar—he might have been one of the bouncers at Pole. Oh, fuck. He probably was.

  But it’s the Butcher who draws my attention. He fixes me with his furious stare, one eyebrow permanently quirked a little higher than the other. His nose looks beakier than ever under the harsh light, his cheeks hollower. The pitted scars along the sides of his face look too deep to be from acne—it might be shrapnel wounds from some explosion long ago.

  Zajac pauses in front of me, almost directly under the single overhead light. He lifts one finger and touches my chest. He pushes, making me swing helplessly back and forth from the hook.

  I can’t help grunting at the increased pressure on my arms. The Butcher gives a small smile. He’s amused by my discomfort.

  He steps back again, giving a nod to the bouncer from the club. The bouncer strips off Zajac’s coat.

  Zajac looks smaller without it. But as he rolls up the sleeves of his striped dress shirt, I can see that his forearms are thick with the kind of muscle built by doing practical things.

  As he rolls up his left sleeve with deft, sure motions, he says, “People think I got my nickname because of Bogota. But it isn’t true. They called me the Butcher long before that.”

  He rolls up the right sleeve as well, until it matches the left precisely. Then he strides over to the covered table. He pulls back the cloth, revealing exactly what I expected to see: a set of freshly-sharpened butcher’s knives, their blades arranged by shape and size. Cleavers, scimitars, and chef’s knives, blades for boning, filleting, carving, slicing, and chopping.