17. ~Levi~

17

~Levi~

They thought Dear Old Dad had called me home.

Well, I had little doubt he would once Mason ran his standard check into my whereabouts by calling him up to confirm. As soon as my dad found out I'd lied about heading to the family estate, he'd suspect that I was up to no good, then make a move to tug on my reins.

It was a small price to pay as a cover for what I was really doing.

It had also gotten Mason's human surveillance off my back.

And it had put some distance between me and Brianna.

As much as it had killed me, I'd realized from her reactions the morning-after that I'd needed to give her some space to absorb it all. Inundating her and continuing to come at her had just been seen as a threat by her and something to battle against, so it had created an automatic antagonistic response in her.

Fortunately, it had come at just the right time.

Because I'd finally gotten another lead in the crusade I'd been on for the last three years ever since I'd gotten out from under my dad's invasive supervision and moved to Stonewell for college. This crusade was why I'd taken a supposed internship last year. Supposed being the operative word. No time to get into that right now… later.

Right now there was this—me lounging back in a booth in the far corner near the bar of strip club, Ravage. It was a couple of hundred miles away from Stonewell and my family home in the college town's neighboring City of Tolhurst.

It straddled the line between actual strip club and whorehouse. This place was off-the-radar with patrons needing to be on an exclusive guest list in order to gain entry. Those patrons being seedy businessmen. Real slime balls. It had been made clear to me from the moment I'd walked in after editing myself onto the guest list for tonight, that the place had no limits.

It was sleazy as fuck.

It fit well with its owner, Jeff Hurst.

At least that was the name he went by nowadays.

He'd had to go into hiding six years ago from my dad.

And me.

He just didn't know that last part yet.

It wouldn't be long now, though.

My intel had determined that at the start of every night he would review the guest list, then personally greet and schmooze any new blood. It was his way of being attentive in order to boost the expansion of his clientele.

He'd realize I was here soon enough.

I took another sip from my vodka and lime.

I didn't actually like the lime aspect. I always favored my vodka straight without any adornments. But I'd requested the lime for a specific reason.

I tried to ignore the uncomfortableness of being clad in a suit. Really not my thing despite my dad's many attempts when I was younger to make it so. I was all about casual, through and through. But this had been the required dress code. So here I was clad in a sleek black Armani suit, even a pair of designer Italian loafers on my feet instead of my usual boots. I even had product in my hair instead of leaving the curls wild and free as usual.

I finally caught sight of my target venturing out onto the club floor, enjoying the spectacle of the three topless women—one redhead, one blonde, and one brunette—grinding and working a pole on the stage.

He was in his late thirties now, still sporting that same slicked back hair that had so much gel in it that it looked greasy—I hated that look. Or maybe it was more about the memories I had associated with it when it came to him specifically. He hadn't lost his bulky, roided out shape. The cheap gray suit he was wearing was pulling taut across his frame, too tight and looking like the seams would burst at any moment with the struggle of containing all that mass.

After a few moments he drew his attention away from the strippers and adjusted his pants obscenely, then turned to one of his staff members beside him, wherein they passed him the guest list, the thing on some ridiculously fancy gold-leaf paper.

I saw the moment he registered my name.

Well, my dad's.

There was no way any venue would dare to deny the almighty Roman Knight entry.

Me, on the other hand? Well, I was a wildcard. More than that in this case, that bastard and I had a bad fucking history. The bastard I knew as Kyle Trass, his real name.

I watched him rapidly scan the room, his eyes wild, really showing the fear.

I drank it in like the sweetest fucking nectar.

Considering our history, it was incredibly satisfying in a sick thrill kind of way.

Finally, his gaze landed on me at the far back of the establishment.

His wild eyes widened, his shock and fear at it being me sitting here and not my dad who was far more reasonable and controlled in his actions than I would ever allow myself to be.

I smirked and raised my glass, tossing him a wink.

He pulled at his tie and swallowed hard, then raised a palm toward the two security guards with him, gesturing for them to remain where they were.

And then he approached, one wide stride at a time.

I kept my unflinching gaze on him the entire time.

He couldn't manage to do the same, breaking eye contact. Whether it was shame or fear—possibly a bit of both—I couldn't tell. Yet.

"Levi," he uttered unevenly as he finally reached the booth. "How did you find me?"

"The more pertinent question you should be concerned with is ‘why?' "

He cleared his throat. "All right, what do you need?"

I downed the rest of my vodka, then rose to my feet. "We'll talk in your office."

"Here is fine."

"I won't do business on the club floor of a seedy strip joint."

I could see his first reaction was to resist, but he made the right choice and gave a nod. "Sure. My office it is then."

He tried to finagle things so I was walking ahead of him, but I made it clear it would be the other way around.

As if I'd be fool enough to allow anyone to be at my back.

Sure, thanks to my many years street fighting, my reactions were lightning-fast, but you couldn't stop what you couldn't see coming.

I followed him off the club floor and down a poorly lit corridor all the way to the back where my research had already determined his office was.

He took a moment to unlock the door, then he opened it and stepped inside, gesturing for me to do the same.

"So what can I do for you?" he asked, trying to feign a casual air as he tensely walked behind his desk and took a seat as I shut the door and approached.

I took a seat in one of the two chairs opposite him and kicked my feet up on the desk.

He glared for a moment, not liking the insult of it, but he didn't speak to it.

"Your former boss has been underground for years. For as long as you've been hiding away actually."

"Malcolm Lynch?"

I only just managed to suppress a shudder at the mention of that fucker's name. No matter all the preparation I'd done through knowing it would come up, it was still a bitch of a thing to suppress a reaction.

I ground my teeth. "You know it's him I'm talking about."

"Fine, yeah. But, underground? He's dead."

I clasped my hands in my lap. "Yes, what a well-fashioned coverup that was."

"Coverup? I don't know what—"

"Your denial is futile. You helped with his escape from my father's wrath."

"Levi, I—"

"I have proof, Kyle. "

He scrubbed his hand over his clean shaven jaw. "He forced my hand. Our hands. Me and—"

"Royce Humphrey. I'm well aware you were both involved."

"Look, even if that was true, that we helped get him out, thinking he survived much beyond that night is a whole other thing. Roman Knight and Curt Walker were after him, for fuck's sakes."

" You survived. For the last six years too."

"I was just following orders along with Royce. Your old man and the girl's knew that's all it was on our end."

"On your end, perhaps. Royce was another story. Malcolm might have been the big boss back then, but Royce was his right-hand and overjoyed to be so." Overjoyed by a lot of what had gone down in that hellscape, what he'd inflicted upon us. "I understand why you're defending him, though. After all, you have all of this because of him. His resources and the protection of that militia he's running these days ensure your safety and that you can actually have a life after what you did for that sadistic madman."

I put my legs down and pushed to my feet, noting Kyle eyeing me warily.

Shoving my hands into the pockets of my suit jacket, I commented, "Also, in order for you to remain safe, you need to remain a step ahead. That means knowing where your enemies are at all times. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that you know Malcolm is alive and well."

"Listen, kid—"

I slammed my hands down on his desk, rocking it under the force of my strength. "I've laid eyes on him, you fool!"

He choked. "Jesus. How the hell did you manage that?"

"That's for me to know." I pushed off the desk. "Just like I also know that rumors have been circulating in underground circles you're still connected to concerning the reawakening of a sleeping giant. Moves have been made, deals struck by a shadowed organization with no apparent name. Power plays are being made all over the place. They've tried to fool people into believing they were separate acts and moves committed by different groups and individuals, but I've managed to connect them to a single effort. This is one organization trying to rise, to exert influence, and claw its way to the top within the criminal underground."

"And you think it's Malcolm?" He shook his head and rose to his feet. Starting to round his desk, he told me, "Look, Levi, I get you heading down this path. But it's not gonna turn out well for you at all. I've just confirmed to you that Malcolm Lynch is alive. Let's leave it at that, yeah?"

"You didn't confirm anything. I told you I already knew."

"It's all I know too."

"I understand."

"I'm glad."

"So, you really have nothing else for me, hmm?"

He held out his hands either side. "I really don't."

"I see."

"So, we're good here, yeah?" he asked, walking to me.

"We'll never be good."

"You know what I mean."

"I do." I held out my hand, giving him my best performance smile.

He hesitated for a moment, but as I kept my hand out steadily, he did what weak shits tended to do and gave into the pressure of social expectations, and reached out to shake it.

The moment we connected, I used the hold to yank him to me, deliver a chop to his throat that had him choking and disorientated, and I took advantage of it to haul him around, using his weight as an asset for me as I forced him down into a bent position over his desk.

As he struggled, I swiftly drew a blade from the inside pocket of my suit jacket and then drove it through the back of his hand, crucifying it to the desk.

Take your punishment, bitch.

He squealed like the fucking pussy he was and flailed on the desk, thumping his free fist down on the oak in agony.

"Christ! We check for weapons... how did you get the knife through?"

"My vodka needed a lime. The bartender turned their back to serve other patrons, giving me the opportunity to lift it."

"Fuck. Take it out. Please," he begged.

"Please?" I hissed. "Did you pay any mind to my pleas in that hellscape during those two weeks of torment? To hers?"

"I… couldn't. Malcolm wouldn't allow it… would've killed me."

"He still will if he learns where you've hidden yourself, this new identity you've used as a smokescreen. All his accomplices from the kidnapping were supposed to be annihilated. But two of you survived and scurried underground like the rats that you are."

"Don't… don't out me. I'll… whatever you want… it's yours. I swear."

"The name."

"Name?"

I twisted my knife, making him squeal again. "The name of the reincarnated version of Lynch Corp, you fuck!" I needed it to be able to move forward with my investigation, to take it the last leg.

I'd known that would require insider intel only those closest to that motherfucker would be privy to. While Royce was that person through and through, he wasn't as easy to approach—not singlehandedly at least—as Kyle was. And, fortunately, I knew Royce would keep his old buddy abreast of all intel concerning Malcolm for his own safety.

Kyle Trass was the weak link.

I shifted my grip, fisted my hand in the back of his hair, then used the hold to smash his face into the hard wood of the desk.

A satisfying crack sounded as it shattered his nose, blood spurting, as a nasally cry tore from his throat.

"Name! Now!"

When he still resisted, I wrenched the knife from his hand, enjoying his screams.

They evolved to pleas all too quickly when I shoved the flat of the blade between his legs.

"No! All right, fuck! Please! I'll tell you! I'll fucking tell you!"

I pushed harder so he could really feel the cool metal against his balls. "Still not hearing a name."

" Osiris!" he called out frantically. "That's it, I swear!"

I frowned, taking it in.

"You believe me, right?" he asked, worriedly.

According to Ancient Egyptian mythology, Osiris was the ruler of the dead and underworld, their judge as well. Definitely fit with Malcolm Lynch.

I released him roughly and pocketed the bloodied knife.

"Nice doing business with you," I seethed, as I strode to the door.

"You pursue this and you're a dead man," he warned. "You won't get the closure you need, he'll never allow it. You'll just end up suffering even more than you and the girl already did."

I paused at the door.

"I'm not that little boy anymore. He needs to fear me. It's time for a motherfucking reckoning."

With that, I threw open the door and walked out, leaving that pussy reeling with the damage I'd inflicted.

The only reason it had been limited and he was still breathing was because he could prove useful as a source of intel down the road with my crusade.

Once that stopped being true, however, and he'd outlived his usefulness, he'd suffer the fate he'd long deserved.

Extermination.