When he lets go, she scurries away, running.

Not a moment later, Lion notices me and happily exclaims, “Slade!” He stands up, greeting me as though he didn’t just threaten a life and saying, “Hello,” like we’re one and the same.

“Hey, man.”

We bump fists.

Under normal circumstances, I’d run after that girl. Make sure she was okay. But I’ve got business here that can’t wait. It’s just a one-time thing. I won’t need more after this.

Sweat beads at my brow.

I met Lion after moving out here. A few former Marines introduced us after a few drinks at The Blue. As an aggressive motorcycle club president who expects nothing but complete loyalty to the hierarchy he’s created, veterans easily gravitate to Lion. Still, I was honest about the fact that I wasn’t interested in the brotherhood. He asked if I could be a friend to the club if they needed it. As the head of security for the Milestone, I’m able to get information on people much quicker than they can. Not one to make enemies, I was evasive with my answer.

Last week, he requested some information from me. I was ready to say no when I realized there was something I could use in return. I named my price. He accepted. And here we are.

The music is loud, but he doesn’t shout when he says, “Glad to see you came around.”

Another woman walks by in a bra and panties, medium-height with gigantic fake tits and red lipstick. Sweat, like slick oil, beads between her breasts. She’s coked up to the gills. Lion’s beady eyes dart to her, tongue flicking to the top of his mouth.

Grabbing her by the wrist, he says, “Don’t move from this spot. I’ll be back.”

She nods.

I hear a loud moan. Turning to see where it’s coming from, I find one of the club’s members with long and stringy black hair fucking some club slut on one of the tables for all to see. My stomach rolls. This entire situation is fucked. If Lauren were here, she’d be revolted. My heart pounds with the thought of her name, but I push it away and focus on the task at hand.

Lion and I walk together into a back room when I check my watch. Shit. It’s already been twenty minutes. A small and round wooden poker table sits in the center of the room. We take seats on opposite ends.

I light my smoke, and he does the same. I’m here tonight because he needs some information on Tom Maione, the Mafia boss of Kill Incorporated, known on the street as Kill Inc. And I need something, too.

“Word is,” I pause, clearing my throat. “Tom is running the enforcement arm of a few Italian American families. He’s handling contract killings and running small businesses on the East Coast—some legal and others not. I’m sure expansion is on the horizon now that Antonio is out of the picture.”