Page 100 of Impenitent Claim

“So do you understand what he’s offering you?” the boss asked from behind his wall of men.

I shrugged. “You’re a powerful businessman, and you have employees that are willing to fight for you in exchange for a crap-ton of money.”

That innocent explanation, delivered with a bored, languid drawl, produced a wave of chuckling from the men.

The kitchen was empty. I walked to the middle of the room, putting my back to a wall so that I could keep all the entrances in my line of sight as well as the windows. The six men fanned out around the space, with their boss in the center.

“What are you willing to do? For untold wealth?” The don took out a cereal bowl and tapped the end of his cigar on it.

My princess had eaten from that bowl. I had to force the muscles in my fingers to relax and keep from fisting.

The words changed on the tip of my tongue, falling out differently than I intended. “I’ve been fighting my whole life. It would be nice to fight for something worthwhile.”

Truer words had never been spoken.

I was a man fighting for his future.

The don nodded approvingly. “I’m going to have to ask that you remove your jacket and your shirt.”

“I’m not wearing a wire, if that’s what you’re worried about.” I shrugged the suit jacket off my shoulders and began unbuttoning the undershirt.

Degrading. This whole dominance scene was demeaning. I ran a profitable nightclub, was an important player in a criminal organization, but before that, I’d clawed my way to the top ranks of a mercenary army after surviving hell in a war camp I’d been sold to as a child.

Stripping naked before this man was a new low.

It’s for her….

“You’d be a dead man if you wore a wire,” the don chuckled, puffing on his cigar. “No, I’m looking for gang signs. You’re full of ink.”

My finger fumbled over a button. There was nothing that should be able to give me away, but I ran through a mental list of what I’d had marked on my skin over the years. I couldn’t shoot them all before they poked a few holes in me. No, if they questioned anything, I would have to make myself very convincing.

The best lies were rooted in truth.

One of the goons approached, flashlight in hand. “I won’t touch if you cooperate,” he grumbled.

Smart man. I kept my arms hung loose at my sides. He made a careful examination of my skin as the don kept talking.

“You’ll be an associate, working for us, but not offered the same privileges and protection. You’ll answer to Christophoro,and we’ll be keeping a close eye on you.” The don took a long puff on his cigar.

“How long before I can make real money?” I asked, finding it hard to ignore the flashlight man peering at my skin.

“Right away, but it could take years to prove your loyalty to us,” Don Aldo said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“This one, what is this bear claw on your back? It’s covering a nasty scar,” flashlight asked.

I barked a rough laugh. “The beast who nearly killed me.”

Flashlight hummed. “He’s clean, but damn, this work is impressive.”

It was. I thanked whatever stroke of luck in the past prevented me from inking something symbolic of the life of crime I led. The Vlasov Bratva didn’t have a seal or symbol, but there were other images that could have given away my loyalties.

“Sorry for the precaution, Elijah, but we can never be too careful,” the don muttered. “As far as guarding Signor Fabrizi, you’ll do that only when Christophoro doesn’t have a job for you.”

“Understood.” I snatched my shirt off the counter.

The click of a bullet being chambered made me flick a glance in the don’s direction. He wasn’t aiming at me, but the threat was implied all the same.

“If you betray us, if you talk, you’ll wish for this.” He brandished the weapon. “I’m not a forgiving man. Cross me once, and you’re done.”

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