3. Tony

“You’ve just made the worst mistake of your life, kid.”

Sheesh! I froze, and my life flashed before me as I imagined my less-than-pretty fate. If only I’d waited until later or another day or… but I messed up by being too eager to find out the boss’s secrets.

“Snooping around is frowned upon here.” Emilio shoved me against a wall, my cheeks flattened on the cold brick, probably with indentations from the mortar. He twisted one arm behind my back, and I winced, my teeth splitting my lower lip and the metallic taste of blood flooding my mouth. “The boss will want to see you.”

He shoved me along the dark corridor at the back of the club, the loud music from the dance floor muffled by the thick walls.

To avoid considering the fate that awaited me and in an effort to stop my body trembling, I allowed my mind to drift, but Emilio smacked me over the ear, pain shooting through me before he hit my nose with his elbow. Blood spurted onto my uniform as a crunch was followed by agonizing pain and my body sagged, but he yanked me to my feet.

He sniffed. “This is nothing compared to what the boss is going to do to you.” He grinned as though he was enjoying the image.

Pain ricocheted around my head, and I wished it would shoot out the other side. But the word “shoot” had my knees trembling and spiky-headed goosebumps frog-marching over my skin.

“Why’d you do it, kid?” Emilio grabbed my chin and twisted my head one way and the other, maybe admiring his handiwork as more blood dribbled over my jaw and onto my chest. “I heard you were a hard worker. You coulda had a great future here. Risen up the ranks.” His warm breath, laced with the bitterness of coffee, roiled my belly.

There was nothing that would get me out of this, including falling to my knees and begging for my life. Was that what this was? A death march? I’d survive a missing finger, even an ear, but not a bullet to the heart. Emilio was packing a weapon, as did the unobtrusive security guards, dressed in suits that probably cost more than my salary, whose gaze swept over the crowds each night.

The patrons who sat in the private section of the club or who disappeared into the VIP rooms carried guns, along with their bodyguards, burly men who stood in the shadows, saying nothing, their eyes scanning the crowd.

Sorry, Dad and Derek. Guilt overwhelmed fear as I contemplated the grief my dad and stepdad would experience when they identified my body, or parts of it, in the morgue. Unless my remains were fed to the fish and they’d never know what happened to me.

I tried to get my thoughts in order. What did police look for when trying to identify a killer? DNA under the victim’s fingernails. I had to scratch Emilio or the boss, which might result in me missing a few fingers.

Emilio made a phone call, the crackly voice on the other end indistinct, but Emilio was asking if the boss was in his office. Seemed we had to wait, as he hadn’t arrived.

I breathed through my mouth, convinced my nose was broken, and my companion checked his messages, grumbling about the trash not being collected. Would the garbage collectors find my body tomorrow? Maybe, and then the police would barge into the club, demanding to know where everyone was last night. Unless they were on the boss’s payroll and they’d enjoy a drink with him and bemoan how lousy their football team played last Sunday.

Emilio shoved me into an empty office and threatened me that if I yelled or tried to escape, he’d shoot. For one of the city’s premiere nightclubs, it sure had a lot of shitty offices. The current owner was Flint Durand. He was the grandson of the man who’d built the original club, Florian Durand. Florian and his son had both met grisly deaths—at different times—according to what I’d read online.

But my research showed there wasn’t a whiff of anything illegal around La Luna Noir, nor Flint himself, and his father and grandfather were never convicted of a crime. But before they were eliminated, people around them had disappeared over the decades. I shivered, wondering if many were buried six feet under.

Emilio interrupted my thoughts. “Tell me why you were in Arnie’s office.” I cringed at his dry, flaky lips so close to my face. Gross! There was lip balm in my locker if he’d let me get it.

“There was something wrong with the door, and it didn’t lock. I was trying to fix it.”

He snorted, and his nostrils flared. “By checking behind the picture?” His brows shot up. “Stop the lying, kid. It won’t help.”

I should have known someone would notice me slipping into Arnie’s office. There were cameras in every section of the club. And worse, my sniffing around might have put Derek and my dad in danger. I’d never even hinted at my plan because they would have forbidden it. Thinking back, what had I hoped to achieve against a man who had money, power, and a team of lackeys to do his bidding?

Emilio’s phone buzzed, and he sent a text. Was he posting on social media, Going in for the kill, before dragging me up the circular stairs to the boss’s office? I sent a “Help me” look to the security guy, but he ignored it. Having been told the boss rarely came into the club itself, preferring to work upstairs from his private domain, I wondered what a mob boss considered “work.” Perhaps ending a nosy employee’s life might count, and he could tick that off his to-do list and call it a day.

I banged my leg on the stairs, but what was a bruised knee when I might be missing a kneecap by the end of the night?

My underarms leaked sweat, the pungent aroma a reminder I’d fucked up, and my heart was hammering so hard my ribs ached as we reached the top of the stairs. He knocked on the door, and it opened.

“Come.”

Despite my fear and the urgent need to pee, my body reacted to the voice. It reminded me of caramel sauce swirling through the air when poured on vanilla ice cream, the tawny brown a contrast to the stark white slipping and sliding into the bowl.

Emilio shoved me inside, the thick carpet cushioning my feet despite the threadbare soles of my shoes, and I almost toppled over. The dark room was anything but inviting, the shadows on the walls a reminder that this room held secrets. But I smelled money, just like in the club itself, but the air in here was rarified, as if few entered the space. Lucky me!

“Found him looking through Arnie’s computer, boss.” Emilio kicked me in the ass, and just before I fell on my face, I caught sight of a tall man with dark hair and a tattoo on his wrist. The carpet threads tickled my nose and it twitched. I didn’t have the energy to get up, and if my last moments were right here, there was no point struggling to stand.

But there was a fragrance in the room, and despite my broken body and whatever fate awaited me, I reacted to it, or parts of me did.

“Get out!” The harsh voice echoed and bounced around the room.

But I’d come here to die, and he was telling me to leave? Did he have a prior appointment or were there other rule-breakers in front of me? Maybe I was supposed to take a number and await my turn.

“Boss?” Emilio knew as much as I did.

“Leave us, Emilio.”

“Yes, boss.”

I closed my eyes, awaiting a kick in the ribs or worse. But a whispered word reached me before the pain in my body, combined with the tension, shut my eyes.

“Mate!”

Huh? Now he wanted to be friends? I raised my head, one eye swollen shut, the other blinking rapidly. He towered over me, a finger resting on his lips. The snake tattoo was now visible as it curled around his wrist. I gulped, hoping he wasn’t going to put me out of my misery by introducing me to his pet python or rattlesnake.

“I don’t tolerate snooping.” Despite my looming death, his voice billowed over me, similar to a warm breeze.

“Sorry, boss.” There was nothing else I could offer.

“I’m curious.” He stood in front of me, and I inspected his shoes. Not a scratch on them. “What were you looking for?”

I had to come up with a story pronto. “I thought the other bartenders got paid more than me, and I was looking for a salary spreadsheet.” In my dazed state resulting from my injuries and what I guessed was the boss’s enticing cologne, it sounded like a reasonable excuse.

“I can’t let you get away with that. ”

Before I took my last breath, I should ask if his father or grandfather had murdered my biological alpha father. That was why I’d taken this job. What did I have to lose?

“You have to be punished!”