Page 43 of Graveyards & Greed

Diego smirked tiredly. “That’ll be fun to watch—from afar. We need to make a police report since this is a reputable business, and we’re law-abiding business owners.”

“Sure. Except for the occasional money laundering and tax evasion,” Ivan grunted. “We need to retaliate.”

“Agreed. I’ll see you back at the office later.” I took one last look at the bullet holes and broken glass and stalked away.

At five that evening, Xander knocked on my office door. “Sounds like a rough day.”

His long hair hung down to the collar of his wrinkled button-down shirt. I glanced down at his feet and noticed he wore loafers but no socks.

Roman walked in behind him and headed to my liquor cabinet. “The shooting isn’t the only thing we need to discuss. Ivan just forwarded us a grainy video of you with a dark-haired woman and the two missing bikers at Titties bar the same night they disappeared.”

“Fuck,” I bit out and shoved my chair back. “Pour me two fingers while you’re at it.”

Roman slid a crystal cut glass with amber liquid across my desk. “Samuel LeBaron is—orwas—a sadistic little prick. But he was also Terrance LeBaron’s only son. If you think Samuel is bad, his father is a crazy one-percenter who likes to spew Bible verses while he rapes and pillages. Tell us what happened that night and who the girl is.”

Ivan walked in as Roman finished talking, and I turned to open my laptop. Pulling up the pixelated video he’d sent over, I played it. Sylvie had been smart to wear that wig and a fuck-ton of dark makeup. Now that I knew her better, though, I could see the shape of her face and body underneath the disguise and her delightful dimples. The tattoos had also been a brilliant touch.

As I thought about what I could tell my partners without breaking Sylvie’s trust, my cell phone rang and Fennick Spade's name flashed on the caller ID. Adrenaline and inevitability washed through me, and my mind flickered through worst-case scenarios.

I put the phone to my ear. “Is Sylvie alright?”

Fenn paused. “Why do I like, but also fucking hate, that Sylvie’s wellbeing is your first concern? She’s fine, you bitch-ass motherfucker, but we need to talk.”

My shoulders slowly unclenched. “What can I do for you, Fennick?”

Maybe it was a cosmic coincidence that Fennick called me seconds after I heard about the video of Sylvie and me in that shitty, cockroach-infested bar, but my luck wasn’t that good. “I don’t have the energy to pretend to be civil, so just tell me why you’re calling.”

“Don’t fucking mess with me,” Fenn ground out. “I saw the video of you and Sylvie, but we’re not discussing anything over the phone. Meet me at the mortuary in fifteen minutes.”

“Sylvie who?”

He growled, and I thought I heard his teeth grinding. “Either you be here in fifteen minutes, or I’ll burn down your fucking loft. You two are going to tell me what happened that night.”

“You’re going to have to narrow it down.”

He breathed heavily. “You two smartasses deserve each other. Just come to the mortuary. Now.”

“You’re a bit of a nag, Fennick.”

“You call it nagging. I call itlistening the first time. God, I sound like my mother. Hurry your ass up.” Then he hung up.

Xander leaned back and looked up at the ceiling, his lips twitching. Ivan chuckled and took a sip of scotch.

Roman shook his head and glared at me. “The woman in the photo is Sylvie Spade. Why the hell are you two together at Titties bar back in…” he leaned forward and looked at the time stamp on the video, “August, and what happened to the two bikers?”

I slid my phone into my suit pocket. “I need to talk to her first, and then I’ll fill you in. We also need to increase security.”

Ivan leaned forward. “I’ll continue to keep tabs on the MC compound and Terrance.”

The drive to the mortuary was a blur of streetlights as I wondered who else had seen that video and recognized Sylvie. I also worried about what kind of danger she was in and how best to protect her.

Fenn waited for me outside, a dark silhouette against the flickering light of the vintage mortuary sign. As I approached, I could sense his barely restrained anger.

“You’re still wearing your fucking suit. Do you ever take it off, or do you sleep in them?”

“Where’s Sylvie?”

“Inside.” He stepped closer to me. “Tell me what happened.”

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