Page 23 of Scream For Me
“If I may, Boss,” Trip chimes in, hand slightly raised. Trip is the president of the Raptors MC. He’s the youngest in the room after their last president passed away. The old man saw something in Trip, so he bypassed all the older members and made Trip president. He’s the only person at this table, aside from my two men, that I feel I can truly count on. He’s got a good head on his shoulders, but he’s wasted in this life. He should be anywhere but here, but I guess that’s what happens when you’re practically born into this life.
“The Raptors have doubled shipments to Spain this month, and we look set to double again next month,” he goes on, sitting back in his seat with a lazy grin on his face.
“And the Kings have tripled our storage capacity to accommodate the weapons moving in and out,” Michael, the leader of The Kings, says as he shuffles some papers towards me. Aside from me, Michael is the only other man at this tablewith the power and sway to actually run this city. After The Circle took Bridgeport, he was the first to swear loyalty to me. No power struggle, no undercutting, just plain respect from one boss to another. He’s supported every decision I’ve made since then with no pushback. Plus, I can actually count on him to get shit done. Aside from the Circle and Elias Monroe, the Kings are the ones who strike fear into people. They’ve been in this city for decades, an old-school Italian mob-style group. They were a household name even when I was growing up.
Gunnar scoffs in the corner.
“Something to say, old man?” Cain asks from beside me, his brow quirked as he flicks his butterfly knife open with force.
Gunnar pauses for a moment as if to consider what he’s saying. But somewhere in his smooth brain, he decides to speak anyway. “This is fucking pointless,” he says, arms flying into the air as he rises from his seat. “We need to focus on drug distribution. It’s best for steady cash flow. Dope addicts always want more.” He adds with a sly grin towards Ivan, who avoids all eye contact. “It’s simple: we make the dope and distribute it, and you get to claim your blood money from it in your taxes. I’d have thought a man of your… financial status would agree, Elias.”
My fingers tap on the table while my knee bounces underneath it. It’s not the first time he’s challenged my authority, but I’m already walking a tightrope after seeing Kat earlier today. My fingers twitch, and I take a few breaths to calm the storm swirling inside me.
“Are you losing your memory in your old age, Gunnar?” Cain asks, his feet firmly on the floor as he leans across the table. “Everyone at this table signed an agreement when we took you under our wing to remove drugs from the street. I know thatyou have an IQ level similar to the temperature of this room, Gunnar, but I thought you could at least read.”
“The Raiders don’t have any fucking money, boy!” He slams his fists on the table as his face turns impossibly crimson. “This is the only way I can make sure my men get paid. Half of our fucking cash goes to you!”
His words hang in the air, his wet breath the only sound in the room. I take a deep inhale, drawing his eyes from Cain’s to mine.
“Gunnar, I must be mishearing you,” I say to the now silent room. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that sounds like an admission.”
While Gunnar’s eyes hold against my own, the rest of the men drop theirs to the table.
“I want the tax dropped, Elias,” Gunnar responds. “Either drop the tax, or we sell junk.” He folds his arms with a nauseating, shit-eating grin on his face.
You could hear a pin drop from another state in this room. My own pulse pounds in my ears. All eyes are on me. I take a long drag of my cigarette before stubbing it out in the glass bowl—the softhissof the ember being snuffed out fuels me.
“I’m sorry, Gunnar,” I say as I place my hands on the table and stand from my chair. A flash of confusion on Gunnar’s face quickly morphs into satisfaction. “I’m sorry you felt important enough to make demands at this table. Hopefully, Ivan learns from your mistakes.”
His face drops as I pull my pistol from my holster, aim, and pull the trigger. My ears ring as the bullet finds its home—right between Gunnar’s eyes.
Blood and brain matter splash against the clinically white wall behind him, dripping down and pooling on the floor. The sound of his massive body hitting the ground is the only sound in the room. Nobody so much as flinches. The only ones who react at all are Gareth and Cain, who have satisfied smirks covering their faces.
“I never liked that slimy bastard anyway,” Cain says, his voice cutting through the silent room as he kicks his feet back up on the table and resumes flicking his knife.
I carefully place the gun back into its holster underneath my suit jacket as I walk over to where the former leader of The Raiders lies. I reach out my hand and rest it on Ivan’s shoulder, ignoring the twitch that wracks his body at the contact.
“You’ve just been promoted. Get the drugs off my street and do better than he did. Or it’ll be a bullet in your skull next,” I warn, my voice lethally calm. I don’t wait for a response before looking to Cain. “Clean this up.”
I don’t look back as I leave the boardroom.
Fuck. If men are starting to test me, I’ve been too lenient. I need to remind them who Elias Monroe really is.
Eleven
Kat
Learn to Fly – Foo Fighters
“For fuck’s sake, Ryland. It’s A minor, E minor, and D,” I exclaim in frustration, pinching the bridge of my nose as I watch Ryland’s fingers fumble over the strings for the seventh time tonight.
“I know that,” he snaps back defensively, even though he very clearly does not know that.
Ryland has been hounding me for weeks to teach him guitar in our downtime—which, admittedly, isn’t often these days. After spending the last hour teaching him the same three chord progressions and getting nowhere, I’m seriously questioning both our friendship and my teaching skills. I’m not the best teacher, but Ryland is also not the best student. If his teaching skills are anything like his learning skills, it’s no wonder he barely has any drum students.
I sigh and scoot my chair forward, my knees touching his. “You don’t, though. Move your ring finger. No—ring finger, Ryland. That’s your middle finger.”
He releases a frustrated breath, but lets me take his hand to adjust his fingers on the fretboard. His skin is calloused in all the wrong places for playing the guitar. He winces when I press his fingers down harder onto the strings. Oh, he has so muchto learn. I run my thumb over my fingertips, feeling the rough calluses there from years of playing.
