My eldest brother seemed to have forgotten that he was not in charge of the family just yet, nor did I answer to him or the organization. One more slip of his loose tongue, and I’d take great pride in removing it from his reckless mouth. We’d been rehashing the same shit over and over and were all starting to get unreasonably quick-tempered. The bickering back and forth only fueled my urgency to get back to Remington and see to Otelia. The way we’d left things, the shit she’d witnessed, the disappointment in her eyes, it was all I could do to stop myself from jumping on a plane. Fuck what my father and brother had to say about it.
She was alone and unprotected. Everything I’d had on me was confiscated the minute I’d hit the secure building, preventing me from checking on her safety. A precaution, I was told. No one was allowed on the grounds run by the syndicate carrying, and since I was a suspect, that meant all my shit was taken, including my cell phone. Didn’t matter that I’d left a man on her. It wasn’t me; I needed to be the one.
Otelia was mine.
We’d become this thing during the plotting stages of the average Joe fights. By day, we’d kept things above board, clinical even, never touching, never making promises to each other of things to come. But by night, once the work was done and it was just the two of us, something took over. It grabbed me by the balls and shook the living shit outta me. Hunger, possession, need. She was mine to do with whatever the fuck I wanted, and she fucking loved it. In my bed, I made her body sing and sparked in mine a feeling I’d never be able to duplicate. I wanted her under me, screaming my name while I mercilessly slammed into her sweet wet pussy. I’d planned on taking her ass the night of the fights, something I was greatly looking forward to, if it hadn’t been for Bella’s peculiar visit. I’d promised myself I’d make things right between us, but I had to get the hell away from this bullshit inquisition first.
An unexpected knock on the door put a temporary hold on my escape plans. I was so caught up with thoughts of Otelia naked and wonton that I hadn’t noticed when my father had finished speaking with the random visitor. He stood close to Oran. His face looked grave and stricken.
“I’ve been asked to make my way to the gallery,” he announced. “They found O’Brien’s killer and have convened the council for judgment.”
I knew what that meant, and so did everyone else. I’d heard my father and older brothers speak of the gallery a time or two. It was the place where decisions were made, lives were measured in deservedness, and men argued for the right to merely exist. I breathed a sigh of relief, grateful that this bullshit was over and I could finally return to Remington and reclaim my woman. The thought was short lived as anger replaced my peace of mind.
“I’m going in,” I told him.
“You can’t, son. Only bosses allowed in the gallery. I might be able to…”
“Going,” I pushed. “I have a right to be there, see who the fuck was responsible so I don’t have to keep looking behind my back for retribution. I won’t be free until I’m free, you get me?”
My father mulled it over, gave a look to Oran as his final approval, and the two of us left the room. I would fill in as his second for today, which wasn’t an easy role for my brother to relinquish. As future head of the family, it was his job to watch my father’s back, ensure his protection, and represent the clan as the rightful successor. Allowing me to take his place went against everything he’d ever been conditioned to expect, yet I couldn’t bring myself to give that first fuck. I needed this shit.
End of.
My father and I walked to the end of the hall that to me looked like nothing but a brick wall. At wave of his hand, a panel appeared, revealing a keypad of intricate symbols, real high-tech, James Bond bullshit. He pressed the appropriate code, and the wall became an elevator just big enough for two people at most. I shook my head at my father’s knowing smirk and stepped inside. The only option was down considering we were on the top floor.
“I don’t need to tell you how to act once we get inside, do I, Darragh? You are not to speak, make hand gestures, or scratch your balls unless you’re told to do so. Am I making myself clear? You are not in Remington, and this is not your fighting establishment. The heads of families will all be present. You’ll hear things, bear witness to the events, but you are not allowed to take part in the proceedings. Son or not, I won’t be able to save you if you disrespect the council in any way. Those are the rules.”
“I understand, Father.”
“Good.” He clapped me on the back. “That’s really good, son.”
We continued on, descending lower than the ground floor of the building. I could tell by the change in atmosphere. The air surrounding the metal box became cooler, and there was a distinct smell of dirt as we drifted beneath the earth. The elevator finally stopped and opened to a dark tunnel that led to another door. This one had several guards posted outside, each heavily armed with a take-no-shit look about them. I expected us to breeze right in since my father was a boss, but the second we got closer, one of the men held up a hand to stop us.
“Password, sir,” he grumbled.
“Petticoat,” my father replied.
Next came the pat-down and metal screening with a hand-held security wand. I thought that would be the end of it, but these jackholes took it a bit further by pricking my father’s finger and running the blood sample through a specimen-holding device as if he were diabetic. Once they were satisfied with the results, we were ushered inside after a series of bows and welcome, sirs. Respect where respect was due.
I wasn’t sure what to expect once we cleared the doorway, but it certainly wasn’t an archaic demonstration of faux superiority. Five throne-like chairs were positioned side by side along an elevated stage. Its occupants were looking down over the sunken floor made of stained concrete with a metal drain in the middle.
One guess what that was used for.
We were the last to arrive. The other bosses were seated expectantly. Their seconds stood by their side, faces grim, shoulders stiff. My eyes landed on the far left of the platform. Bella O’Brien sat amongst the men, representing her clan in place of her deceased husband. Timing as well as circumstances made her appearance temporary, as only first-born males could represent the head of the family. That honor would soon be bestowed upon an uncle or cousin, or some other worthy member with a functioning dick, that much I did know. The man she’d chosen as her second looked more like a lovesick puppy than anything else. She clearly had him wrapped around her little finger. O’Brien was probably turning over in his body bag behind this shit. She was not happy to see me accompanying my father, I realized, when she sat forward in her chair for a better look.
Her problem, not mine.
My father took his seat amongst them, and I mimicked the position of second without a word. What I could only assume was O’Brien’s killer was strapped to a chair in the middle of the floor directly over said drain, hood over his head, probably beaten to within an inch of his life. The lighting was dimmed, casting him in a shadow of macabre darkness ala Phantom of the Opera. It could’ve been a hundred people in that room for all I knew. I couldn’t see shit past my own nose. Whimpering coming from the prick in the chair could be heard above the silence in the room. I appreciated the ceremonial protocol of this dog and pony show, but they were wasting my fucking time with this bullshit. Shoot that motherfucker, dump his ass in a lagoon, and let’s get the fuck outta here were my thoughts before someone spoke up.