Page 72 of Pretty Poison

A small laugh slips free at the sight. “Did you have to tie the man up?” I ask, approaching Ciro at the desk.

“You wanted the footage and the prick wouldn’t let me have it. Does it matter how I gained access?”

I shrug even though I know he can’t see me. He’s busy focusing on the three computer screens in front of him as he flicks through the surveillance of the entrance, the main area that also covers the back door and the last two feeds of the back dining area and gates.

“Work your way backward,” I say, pulling a chair from the side to join him. “I found her ring out back.”

“Got it.” He pauses the other tapes and quickens the pace on the ones covering the back door and the gates. His eyes focus on the gates while mine stare longingly at the dining area.

“There,” I point, and within one click, both feeds have paused. “Can you get a close-up of those guys?” He works his magic, zooming in as much as possible before the feed becomes grainy and the men unrecognisable. “How the fuck is it even possible that they managed to get her out without a single question asked?”

“They had a bottomless brunch that started an hour before she arrived. I’ve already seen two ladies and one guy either being removed or carried out by their friends and partners. Looks like it’s a recurring thing.”

“So, you’re saying nobody suspected anything unusual?“

“Not enough for them to intervene, no.”

That answer alone sends a deep feeling of anguish spiraling down into my gut and hopelessness eats a hole in my chest. “One woman entering alone only to be carried out by three fuckingbrutes wasn’t enough to warrant a single question? They left through the back door, for fuck’s sake. Anyone with a single brain cell would realise that’s sketchy as fuck.”

He exhales. “A lot of shit happens in this place. You don’t want to know what it becomes at night.”

“Oh yes, I fucking do.”

“When the restaurant closes at 5 p.m., it reopens at 7 p.m. On Mondays and Wednesdays, it becomes a swingers’ club. On Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, it turns into a hooker’s bar. On Sundays, it’s available to rent for parties or whatever you please.” He stops his frantic motions on the keyboard to glance at me. “It’s underage friendly most nights, Rio. I think the youngest they’ve let in was like fourteen or something. She was assaulted and killed herself last fall.”

“How do you know all this?” I ask, bile reaching the back of my throat.

“When that bastard over there didn’t kindly grant me access, I hacked my way in. Everything was handed to me on a silver fucking platter. They keep all the articles that never make it into the newspapers. They even have a spreadsheet that has a couple dozen names of people they’ve paid off, threatened or signed contracts with to keep the information from going public.”

“Can you tie these pricks to it?”

“One-thousand-fucking-percent,” he says with a smile. “The fuckers signed their names on the dotted line. It’s always good when they sign their own death sentence, isn’t it?”

“We’ll take them back with us,” I say, the knot in my throat growing tighter. “Now, back to the footage.”

He nods in agreement, playing the video further. “I’ll send everything to myself so we can go over it at home, too.”

“Make sure you delete it from their system when we’re done. I want no fucking trace of this if the authorities catch wind. The last thing we need is another crooked cop looking for a payday.”

“Already on the agenda,” he replies, giving himself a pat on the back.

“Alright, there’s the third guy. Pause it and get a close-up.” Before the words leave my lips, he’s already doing it.

“We can definitely get a name from this.” We both squint our eyes at the screen. “He’s giving us everything we need to identify him on a silver platter—”

“Zoom in on his mouth and slow it down,” I tell him, smacking his arm. “Go back to his first appearance after his friends leave.”

He does, and I inch closer, my forearms resting on the desk for support.

He can’t be more than thirty, tattoos coating every inch of his exposed skin with a sleek black biker’s helmet under his arm. I watch in slow motion as he lifts his hands to showcase Liana’s ring. His lips move, but it’s impossible to make out through my fury.

“I can’t make out what he’s saying,” Ciro says, rewinding it and setting it back to its original speed. “Two… hours. Your… house. I’ll… explain… everything.” He mouths each word. “How the fuck does this prick know who we are, let alone where we live?”

“I don’t know,” I say, my eyes zoning in on the time in the corner of the screen. “But we’ve got about an hour and we’ll be fucking ready for the cunt.”

Ciro sends himself the footage of each camera before deleting it and shutting their system down completely. He then takes his trusty blade, driving it hard into each of the screens and smashing their hard drives; he’s nothing if not thorough.

We retrace our steps, calling for each of my brothers before storming out of the restaurant.

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