Page 6 of Defiant Queen (Mount Trilogy 2)
“What?” I ask, glad for the distraction.
“Lieutenant to one of the cartel jefes has already been warned once about the way he’s handling his girl for the night on the gaming-room floor, but the dumb fuck isn’t getting the message.”
The familiar coldness of purpose settles over me, bringing me back to center. This is where I excel. Something I can easily control.
J’s right. This isn’t a situation that needs my assistance, but I do want input. And tonight . . . maybe I’ll even handle it myself.
“Let’s go.”
I follow J as we leave my study and all reminders of Keira. We head back through the rabbit warren of passageways to the casino floor. Owning an entire block of the French Quarter has its perks, like being able to remove interior walls and turn the center section of half the block into an underground gambling establishment that produces more profit in a night than most men make in a year. Membership is exclusive, selective, and rarely granted. Only the very rich, very powerful, or very well-connected are allowed in, with the unspoken threat hanging over all their heads—if you talk, you die. If you cheat, you die. If you look at me wrong, you die.
When I say I rule over them with intimidation and fear, backed up by action, there is no exaggeration.
We arrive through the rear club entrance I always use, and it takes only moments to locate the private room where the lieutenant with a death wish is now playing high-stakes blackjack.
The girls who work this club are under my protection, and an offense against them is an offense against me. I don’t care that their dresses barely cover their tits, pussies, or asses, or that their makeup is thicker than the paint on my favorite car. It doesn’t matter that they’re working for their money in the world’s oldest profession. They don’t get manhandled in my club. That’s part of the rules, but drunk men sometimes forget. When they do, I have no problem with my staff reminding them of the consequences.
This girl, a skinny blonde with dark roots, is trying to discreetly disentangle herself from his embrace, attempting to avoid a scene. The dumb fuck, as J called him, isn’t letting her free. Instead, he fists her hair and yanks her down with such force, she hits her knees.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I ignore it as wrath fills my veins. The ones who fuck with the blondes always bring it out of me even more.
The lieutenant, who is at least six inches shorter than me and fifty pounds lighter, forces her face into his lap. “Suck my dick, bitch.”
“He dies tonight.” I say it quietly, but J doesn’t ask me to repeat myself. This is a foregone conclusion.
“I’ll take care of it, boss.”
I shake my head as I harness my rage and turn it cold. “No. I’m handling this personally.”
“You sure? I can—”
When I swing my stare to J, my second-in-command sucks in a breath.
“Of course you’re sure. Maybe it’ll be better coming from you anyway.”
J assumes I’m doing this myself because it’ll send a clear message to the lieutenant’s jefe, but that’s only part of it. Tonight, I need an outlet for everything raging inside me, and this piece of shit picked the wrong day and the wrong motherfucker’s place to cause problems. He won’t make that mistake again.
I stride into the room, drawing the attention of the three other players and the dealer as soon as I close the door behind me with a decisive click.
The dealer will never speak of what he sees in this room because he owes me his life. I stopped him from being murdered execution-style on a street corner by a crack dealer when he was sixteen. He also knows that breathing a word of what happens here would be a betrayal resulting in the same fate he escaped. Besides, he makes a healthy living, has a pregnant girlfriend that he’s planning to marry next month, and wouldn’t dare put her and the baby in jeopardy.
The other players are a dirty city councilman, a megachurch preacher, and an oil baron who has ruthlessly driven people out of their homes to expand his territory. With the dirt I have on each of them, they wouldn’t dare talk either.
As
I cross the room, I don’t speak. Actions carry more power than words, and power is what I know. I stop a foot behind the lieutenant’s chair and grab him by the black braid at the base of his skull. I wrap it around my hand and, with a yank, jerk his head backward until his neck is overextended. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat.
When he drops his hold on the girl’s hair, I rip him out of his chair and drag him over the back of it. Using his braid as a rope, I lift him off his feet, watching them dangle inches above the floor as his expression morphs into shock.
I may be over forty, but I push my workouts to the max every day. I learned firsthand too damn young that sometimes brute strength is all that stands between you and your worst nightmare.
The skin of his scalp stretches until a chunk of his braid rips free, leaving a bloody patch of skin attached to the hair in my hand. His feet hit the floor first, but his legs give out and he drops to his knees in front of me.
Exactly where he belongs.
A stream of unintelligible Spanish follows, but it doesn’t matter what he says. No one crosses the line here, no exceptions.
He puts both palms on the floor, ready to jump up. Not happening. Before he can move, I slam a heel down on the hand that he used to touch her, crushing the bones beneath my handmade Italian shoes.
