“Your boss, motherfucker. So how ‘bout ya let us through.”
His eyes went to my cut, talking into his earpiece, “Creed.” He glanced over at Diesel’s cut, stating his name over the earpiece next. Moments later he narrowed his eyes at me, nodding for us to go in.
I smiled. “Fuck you very much,” I gritted out as we walked by him, purposely bumping into his shoulder.
The club was huge and packed with people. Making it hard for us to even get by without having to wait a few seconds for the crowds to separate. The further we got into the place, the worse it got. The music was pounding through the speakers surrounding us, vibrating through to my core as we tried to make our way over to the back doors. Bodies ground up against Diesel and me, random chicks trying to wrap their arms around our waists, pulling us deeper into the mass of people. The place was obviously exceeding capacity, filled to the fucking brim. Everyone dressed to the nines. Beautiful people just getting their night started. Moving to the beat of the house music blaring above the crowds.
Everything from the flashing lights to the neon strobes, strumming around every corner. There were plush couches along the perimeter with tables stacked with open bottles of Moet and other expensive alcohol. The already fucked up people were dancing their asses off. Eyes closed with their head’s leaning back facing the ceiling, letting the melody of the music take over them.
I instantly knew that drugs flowed in this place as much as the booze did.
I didn’t give a fuck about any of it. I wasn’t there to fucking party, and from the looks of it, this wasn’t even the goddamn main event. This was just a cover up for what was behind door number two and possibly fucking three or four. The bouncers let us right in, not asking who we were again. Our names already approved to enter the exclusive fucked up private party. Not one soul could ever get past those doors unless they personally knew El Santo. There wasn’t anything he didn’t know, including who we were. It was the way he protected himself. The motherfucker was a deviant mastermind. Having everything and anything at his disposal at any point in time. It came along with his world, his territory.
His legal fucking rights.
We continued our descent to our final destination, walking down a long, narrow hallway that was nearly pitch black. Leading to another door, another dimension. Another fucking world.
But this wasn’t a club, at least not any kind I’d ever been to.
As soon as the double doors opened, I swear I could feel the demons oozing out, hovering all around us. Waiting to fucking drag us under. They called this place Hell. The rules were anything fucking goes. From sex to drugs, to gambling, to fucking murder—these black walls had seen it all. This was where the elite of the corrupt partied since they could get away with anything. Sex trafficking, prostitution, drug smuggling, slavery, BDSM. You name it, it was there.
It made me sick to my fucking stomach, watching the girls who were tied up, bound and gagged. Some for pleasure, but most for fucking pain.
This was a man’s world, end of fucking story.
“Creed Jameson,” a woman’s voice purred from behind me. I turned around, locking eyes with a blonde whose tits were on full display. “Follow me, boys. He’s waiting for you. They all are.”
I nodded to Diesel, and we both followed the busty chick toward the back. Leading to yet another fucking hallway with another set of fucking double doors.
Anonymity was the key purpose of this club.
She opened the doors, nodding for us to go through. My hand never strayed far from my gun, prepared for anything, expecting it all. Not knowing what the fuck we were walking into. It could easily have been a setup for all we knew. From what I heard, El Santo was a sadistic motherfucker. A cruel bastard who thrived on pain, pussy, and power. He’d put a bullet in your head just because he was fucking bored. He had no sanctity or value for anything or anyone. Nothing was sacred to him. He respected nothing.
He didn’t have to.
He was the best prosecuting attorney in the nation. They called him El Santo for all the good he did around the world. The man could literally get away with murder.
And he did.
All the fucking time.
“You got some brass fucking balls, requesting a meeting with me when you’re a wanted fucking man,” El Santo challenged in a thick Spanish accent, sitting at the end of the narrow, wooden conference table. Leaning back in his chair. His hands resting behind his head.
His intense, menacing brown eyes were narrowed in, focused solely on me as if Diesel hadn’t even walked in the room beside me. His long, dark curly hair that came down to his chin was wild and crazy, hanging along his pretty boy fucking face. He was dressed like he’d just stepped out of the courtroom which he probably had. His black suit jacket was placed on the back of his chair, leaving him in a gray collared shirt with a black vest and matching black tie that hung loosely around his neck. Except that wasn’t what caught my attention.
It was the bloody rolled up sleeves he was sporting like he just beat the fuck out of someone or killed them. I’d put my money on both. His gun holsters were still securely strapped to his sides, but his two Glocks were missing. They were sitting right on the table in front of him.
Pointing straight at us.
“Please, by all means, gentlemen. Mi casa es su casa. Take a fucking seat,” he added, nodding to the empty chairs on the other end of the table. Directly in the line of fire with the barrels of his guns.
There were two other men sitting next to him, one on each side. The man to the right was Benjamin Robinson, but everyone knew him as Bossman. He was a notorious mobster who recently spent some time in the slammer. Was sentenced to life in prison until he escaped, killing a shit ton of guards on his way out.
Supposedly he had some sort of involvement with Martinez and coincidently was indicted right after his murder. He was wearing his signature ball cap with his hair tied back in a ponytail. Dressed in a plain white shirt and a pair dark jeans. I couldn’t help but stare at his ink. It was an ocean inspired sleeve on his left arm. The detail was unreal, I was tempted to ask for his artists digits, but I thought it was wiser to keep it business like. Rumor has it that the man loved the water, owned a fuck load of boats that trafficked drugs all over the border. I wasn’t surprised he was in Miami.
I also wasn’t surprised he was sitting beside El Santo. I’m sure he had something to do with his “escape.”
“Who invited the white guy?” I taunted, nodding to Bossman. We’d done business a few times. I liked him. He was a laid back, zero fucks given kinda guy. He didn’t talk much, but when he did it was always a smart ass fucking response.
He snidely smiled, scoffing out, “Your mom when she was sucking my cock last night.”
I chuckled, “Good to see you out, man.”