She doesn’t try to move or speak, but her quiet sniffles reach my ears just moments later. “Shhh,” I soothe, my hand making gentle circuits. “I wasn’t trying to make you cry.”
“Sadly enough,” she mumbles, “they’re happy tears.”
A smile ticks up on the corner of my lips, and it turns into a full-blown one of epic relief when the darkness of the garage’s tunnel closes in around us. We’re home. We’re safe. She’s safe.
As the Hummer comes to a stop in the well-lit garage, Riley comes hustling from his post, opening my door with haste. “Boss, we have a situation,” he says, motioning for me to exit the vehicle. “There was an attempt on the manager’s life at Dark Star, but one of our hired security was able to kill the suspect before anyone was hurt.”
I motion for Lorenzo, Carlos, and Ivan to join us in the huddle. “Do we know who the shooter was?”
My eyes land on a wary Piper, who’s still seated in the Hummer. Normally, I’d send her up to the penthouse, but I’m rattled enough by this attempt that I only draw her out and press her into my side. We’ll go to the penthouse after it’s been cleared.
I point toward Cary. “I need you to clear the penthouse.”
“Bro,” Ivan says, shaking his head. “There’s no way anyone’s breeched the premises.”
“That’s not good enough,” I bark, giving him a hard look. “It never hurts to be extra fucking careful.” My eyes pan back to Riley. “Tell us everything.”
He shakes his head. “That’s all the info I have. The cops wouldn’t let me see the body, and they’ve taken the security guard in for questioning.”
“And the acting manager?”
“She’s in protective custody, for now,” Riley replies.
“Security footage?” I ask, my eyes swiveling to Ivan, even though the question was for Riley.
“Pigs have it,” Riley replies.
“No worries.” Ivan smirks. “I’ll send you a copy.”
“Good.” I nod, looking over the faces before me. “Any suggestions on how to proceed?”
“I think we should use this as an excuse to shut the club down for a bit. At least until the meeting in Boston,” Lorenzo suggests, his tone thoughtful.
“And make us look like fucking wimps?” I counter.
“Better than tainting the club with death,” Carlos replies, lifting a brow.
“And there’s no way Maddy’s going back in there until Miami’s been wiped off the map,” Ivan adds, straightening his glasses.
“I am right here,” Madeline speaks up. “But I agree.” Her wary blue eyes meet my hard green ones. “I’m scared, Dante.”
Piper pinches my side softly, but her message is clear. “Fucking fine!” I snap, irritated by them all. “Have it your way. Let the Kents think we’re a bunch of pussies.”
Carlos smirks. “That’ll make it even sweeter when we watch the life drain from their eyes.”
THREE
OTHER PLANS
The vibration of my cell on the table top ceases all conversation from the people gathered in my office. “Talk to me,” I bark into the line.
“Boss, Special Agent Tate is here, and he’s asking for entrance to your penthouse,” Riley replies, his tone unsure.
“Send him up,” I snap and end the call, turning my attention to the curious eyes of my men. “Let’s see if he has any new information before we admit how much we know.” I motion to the laptop as I circle to stand behind Ivan. “Play the fucking video again.”
The scene hums to life. Ivan has taken the parts specific to this incident and merged all the camera feeds into one single video that basically shows every move the thug made. At the door, he shows ID to a couple of guards—who’ll be getting their asses fired—who fail to check for weapons. When the metal detector shrills an alarm, he lifts to show his large belt buckle—one I recognize—and they wave him on through like fucking idiots.
The camera changes as the street scum takes a seat at the bar and orders a shot. His eyes are shifting around, and it’s clear he’s up to no good even in the black and white image. Lucky for us, the guys who monitor the cameras were suspicious also, because one of them left the booth and requested our security check on the fuckwit. The footage goes split screen here so we can watch simultaneously as everything unfolds within the blink of an eye.
In the same frame with the street scum is the hallway leading from the liquor storage area. Our newly hired manager appears, and I watch for it—that one single knowing glance she gives the gunman as he slips a revolver from an ankle holster and stands. She braces, making no move to try to get away, but their plan goes haywire when my hired guy sweeps into the room and fires a shot, taking down the scum who fires an errant shot into the ceiling as he goes down.
The bitch manager goes into hysterics—either a good act or she knew him personally—as security piles into the room while patrons and dancers get as far from the scene as possible. The rest of the footage shows what it’s supposed to: my hired guys taking control until the cops get there.
My eyes snap to Carlos. “She was a plant, and this was a carefully constructed plan. I want someone on this! Send a few people down to the staffing agency and give them carte blanche to do whatever the hell it takes. I want to know how the fuck she got into this position.”
“Got it, Boss,” he says, turning
