Page 27 of Empire of Seduction

Loud male voices sounded close by. Cristo, what now? It was too early in the day for this shit.

I tried to ignore them, but it sounded like a heated argument behind the kitchen. Putting out my cigarette, I started toward the sound, and as I drew closer, I could hear their conversation clearly.

“. . . have to get me more.”

“Not gonna happen, motherfucker. Not until you pay for what you’ve used.”

“I will, Buzz. I swear it. But I’ve got to get through the weekend. Please. Just a few more pills.”

Madre di dio. Did Maggie and Michael have no control over these people? Drugs were a fact of life in the mafia, but addicts could be dangerous. Was this one of Benetti’s men, supplying the winery staff?

I rounded the corner. A man in a white chef’s jacket was standing with a tall biker, his leather cut atop a black long-sleeve compression shirt. A swastika neck tattoo peeked out from the collar. Cazzo, I hated bikers. They were dangerous, and I didn’t want them anywhere near Maggie or the winery.

The two men looked over at me and both frowned. “You mind, asshole?” the biker said with what was surely supposed to be a menacing snarl. “This is a private conversation.”

“Yeah, I fucking mind.” My voice was flat, in control, my hands loose at my sides. “Are you dealing here?”

He angled toward me and braced his feet. “You a fed?”

The patches on his cut were familiar. He was one of the Red Raiders, a motorcycle gang I’d run out of Toronto last year. “No. I’m the man who will knock out your fucking teeth if you’re dealing pills on the winery grounds.”

Suddenly, the chef stepped in front of the biker to face me. I could see that his pupils were pinpoints even from three meters away. “Dude, everything’s cool,” he said. “Just go back inside or whatever.”

“Nothing’scool. You think it’s okay to come to work high?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. But we’re in the middle of a conversation here.”

“Yeah,” the biker said. “Get fucking lost.”

I didn’t bother arguing. There was no reasoning or talking it out because Red Raiders only understood violence.

Which was perfect for me. I was in the mood.

Stripping off my overcoat, I let it fall to the ground. “I’m not going anywhere. But I will give you one more chance to get off the property. Because if you don’t, they won’t be able to find all the pieces of you after I’m finished.”

The biker charged for me, big and clumsy, like a bull. Chef coat attempted to stop him, but I beckoned the asshole forward. I knew how to fight, thanks to years spent with Enzo and Maz, as well as boxing lessons in my twenties. “Andiamo, stronzo.”

I let him get close. At the last second, I dodged out of the way and twisted my body to land a punch on his kidney. He stumbled, but came at me again. This time he swung and I saw it coming. I ducked, then let my fists fly. I hit him in the mouth first. Two rapid strikes of my fist, right in his teeth. He stumbled backward, but I didn’t let up. The punches I threw landed anywhere I could reach—his nose, his cheeks, his stomach. Blood covered his skin as he slumped to the ground.

The back door swung open. “What the fuck?” It was Michael, disheveled and barely awake.

I pointed at Chef Coat and tried to catch my breath. “This man no longer works here.” I shook out my aching hand. I’d need to put ice on it soon.

“I didn’t do anything, Mikey,” Chef Coat said. “I was telling this guy to go away—” he pointed at the biker “—when this Italian asshole walked up and started beating the shit out of him.”

“That Italian asshole is our new owner, Chuck.”

Chuck turned whiter than his chef’s coat. “Wait, what? New owner?” He looked over at me. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t?—”

“You’re fired,” I said. “Get the fuck off the property.”

“Wait,” Michael said. “He’s our chef.”

“Not anymore.”

Michael scrubbed his face with both hands. “Chuck, what did you do?”

Chuck held up his hands. “Nothing. I swear.”

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