Page 14 of Nicoletta
When we reach the door to the chapel, the prospect nods to Bolt. “They’re in there waiting for you.”
Bolt turns his back to me, punches in some numbers, the lock releases, and the door springs open. He flattens his palm against the door, then turns to the prospect. “Keep an eye on her,” he orders in a flat, unemotional tone.
The door closes behind him, and the prospect jerks his chin to the main room of the bar. I follow him to a table in the back of the empty room. Too late for the lunch crowd and too early for the evening chaos.
The prospect pulls out his phone, basically ignoring me. The time passes torturously slow, and even swiping my favorite apps doesn’t fill the void of not knowing what is going on.
Forty minutes later, Bolt stalks toward me. His face is unreadable, his expression serious.
When he reaches the table, he jerks his head at me. “Let’s go.”
I slowly stand, and he flanks me, ushering me into the hallway and then into the smoke-filled chapel. Like the last time, all eyes are on me, and it’s just as terrifying as before.
“Sit.” Bolt points to the end of the table, and I lower my body into the same chair as the last time. Must be the one reserved for scaring the shit out of people.
Once again, Smoke is at the head of the table, and again he leisurely draws deep on the cigarette resting between his fingers. A steady stream of smoke escapes his lips as the others glare at me. I’m so rattled I don’t know what to think, but whatever is going on is definitely not good.
Three monitors on the wall flicker as Marisol’s brother, Manny—who according to Bolt, is the club’s tech genius—taps at the keyboard of his laptop. Someone lowers the lights, and one of the screens comes to life. Grainy security footage shows the outside of a low, squat building wedged between a liquor store and a pawn shop, both draped with iron bars, along with an unhoused man slumped on the cracked sidewalk.
The second monitor flashes on with footage of a black Bentley pulling up to the curb. The driver’s door opens, and my eyes widen as my father steps out in one of his usual golf shirts and khakis, followed by a man in the passenger seat and two more from the back seat.
All eyes are on me, not the screen. No one speaks. My heart speeds up, then beats dangerously slow. “I don’t believe this,” I mumble.
Smoke points to the screen. “Freeze it.” Then he looks to me. “Any of them look familiar?”
“All of them.” I swallow hard. “Aside from my father, the shorter man is Tom Hanson. He owns most of the coastal developments in Southern California. The bald man is Stuart Hinchman. He owns billions in commercial property in and around Southern California, and sits on the boards of three different banks in Los Angeles. The taller man is George Henley, the CEO of Cedars-Sinai, and on the board of Riviera Country Club. He’s responsible for all the charity functions throughout the year and partners with a local children’s organization for the Christmas toy drive.”
“Pillars of the community, huh?” Smoke’s voice drips with sarcasm.
I push out of my chair and move closer to the monitors, trying to make sense of the Royal Bastards having surveillance footage of my father and his golf buddies.
“Keep it rolling,” Smoke orders.
The footage resumes, and all four men enter the dilapidated building, then the camera switches to inside the bar, showing dim lighting, scratchy music, shadows, and a throng of people all minding their own business.
They move past half-hidden booths and small tables crowded together with faceless people. The men with my father are confident, like they know where they’re going. Like they’ve been here many times before. No one looks in their direction. No one stops them either.
The footage follows them to the back of the room, where the bass of hard rock music and loud voices lower. My father pulls out a key, unlocks a door, and the film cuts out.
I spin around. “What happened?”
“No cameras leading to the basement.”
“What’s down there? Drugs? Guns?” I ask, frantic for the answer.
Smoke steps forward, resting his palms on the table. “This is where it gets ugly.”
His eyes scan over the room. The air around us shifts.
CHAPTER 6
NICOLETTA
“Women,” Smoke’s low tone spits out the word. “Or, more likely, underage teens.”
The room tilts, and I grab on to the edge of the table. Bolt rests his hands on my shoulders to steady me, then eases me into the chair.
“What?” My harsh whisper sticks in my throat.
