Devon

The moment she walks into the club; it’s clear she doesn’t belong. Women who frequent this place are usually either young, desperate, and looking for a sugar daddy or bad girls looking for a little rough action. This woman didn’t fit either mold. From a hundred feet away, I could tell that she was either a very high-end call girl or some irresistible bait. Either way, I know I’m her mark as she saunters the full length of the bar before stopping to glance in my direction. If she is high-end, I’m interested. If she is bait . . . I’m still interested. No one can fuck me out of a damn thing. I’m bulletproof and this is my domain.

“Hello, Gorgeous. Welcome to Devon City,” I greet her from my perch, just beyond the south end of the bar.

“You must be Devon?” she replies with a curl of her lip and a sparkle in her rich caramel eyes.

“In the flesh.” I step down from the old stage which was once a second home for some of the area’s best jazz bands, but now it serves as my office. “How can I be of service?” Her light brown hair mixed with blond highlights, stunningly seductive eyes, and full red lips are just the tip of the iceberg. I scan the length of her, taking in the most delectable curves I’ve witnessed in quite some time, all wrapped up in a stunning black silk dress. If there ever were a body that was made for sin, this is it. These are curves that only a real man can maneuver, and judging by her muscular build, she can obviously stand up to a good hard ride.

“Well, I mentioned to the concierge at the Four Seasons that I was looking for some trouble and your name came up.” She narrows her eyes and crosses her arms in defiance.

“I’ll have to stop by and thank them.” I reach out for her hand. “Devon DeLuca. What do you think of my place? I just finished getting it back into shape.”

“It’s amazing,” she gushes, looking around the space. “It’s like stepping back a full century. I love the attention to detail,” she adds, looking up at the vintage filament-style lights that cast a warm amber glow throughout the space.

“That’s exactly what I was going for,” I tell her. “I wanted a place that had the vibe of an old Al Capone-era speakeasy.”

“Well, you definitely accomplished it. I like how you and your crew have elevated tables in the back here,” she observes, getting several enthusiastic nods from my boys. “It must make it easier to scope out the women as they come through the door.”

“Yeah, we get first dibs,” I joke, playing along with her. “But it also gives us a chance to talk in privacy. Those are all acoustic tiles so no one can eavesdrop.” I point to the beige and tan tiles that adorn the walls and ceiling surrounding the stage, just one of the many functional features I’d built into the place.

The first thing I did upon arriving in Devon City was to go right to the heart of downtown and buy this huge, old, defunct night club. Originally built during the roaring twenties, it had survived prohibition, World War II, and numerous deep recessions. The one thing it couldn’t withstand, however, was the rioting and associated social collapse of the downtown neighborhoods. After I bought the building for nothing but the back taxes, I immediately put a crew to work restoring all the brick and wood to its original luster.

Next, I got several well-heeled associates to follow my lead and buy up as much downtown real estate as possible. By the time I had my club restored, several other adjoining buildings were also under renovation. Before long, everyone could see that Devon City was in the midst of a major revival. Since success breeds success, other investors and businessmen began flooding into the formerly left-for-dead downtown.

“I’ve heard that you’re the one behind the resurrection of this whole downtown area,” she says, letting me know that she has done some homework. “If that’s true, I must say I’m impressed. This whole area was a shit hole the last time I passed through.”

“And where did you say you’re from?” I ask, suddenly realizing that I was at a huge informational disadvantage. Something I’m not comfortable with.

“Manhattan,” she replies without hesitation. “Born and raised.”

“And your name?” I ask, feeling foolish for not even getting that far with her.

“Victoria.” She reaches into her purse to retrieve a credit card. “Victoria Lynn,” she adds after a lengthy pause that had me waiting for a last name.

“Lynn is your last name?” I ask, not sure what to make of it.

She flashes me the face of her credit card, and indeed, it says Victoria Lynn. “I need a dirty Sapphire martini with a couple of olives.” She glances back, looking for a bartender.

“Put the card away, Hun,” I scoff with a wave of my hand. “A woman like you will never pay for a drink in Devon City.” I chuckle, waiting for her to give me a roll of those beautiful eyes.

“Stan,” I yell, getting his attention. “Give this pretty lady whatever she wants and I’ll comp the tab,” I instruct him before turning back to her. I have yet to run across a man who strikes fear in my heart, but there is something about this woman that makes me a bit uneasy. “I have a business meeting to finish.” I nod back toward the guys. “I’ll catch up with you after.”

As she takes a seat at the bar, I go back to discussing the business of the day with the boys. Today was payday for block six, so as usual, there are a few issues to sort out. After nearly six months of bill collecting, there are still a few business owners who try to make things difficult. The strangest part of it is that every one of them agrees that traffic and business have picked up dramatically since the institution of Devon’s Law, but they’re still reluctant to share the wealth. It’s time for a crackdown.

After purchasing the club, my first initiative had been meeting with the mayor to lay out my plan for saving the city. He was skeptical at first, but since my plan included doubling his salary and those of the council members, as well as key leaders within the police department, he went along with it. As a final gambit, I also included a nice increase for rank and file officers as well as the firefighters. Every cent of it is covered by the businesses they serve, so there is a direct connection between the two. After morale improved throughout the police force, we recruited several officers to help us identify any gang bangers who could serve as potential leaders within the downtrodden neighborhoods. Many of these thugs had been instrumental in leading the riots, and we needed to get them onboard for our plan to succeed. It was easier than I thought it would be, since I was on the outside like them. Many of these guys have an eighth grade education or less and literally no prospects for a better life. Putting a few grand into the pockets of a guy like that each month makes him loyal as hell.

Once we move past the initial stage of the business and start moving product throughout the city, these guys will be in for a second round of pay raises. Up to this point, we have kept our noses clean, just running the racket and keeping everyone in line. The big payoff comes in a few months, but I know we need to move slowly. Everyone on the government side is happy as a pig in shit. As long as we give them time to adapt to the idea of our taking over the supply chain, it will be a smooth transition. Besides, they will all earn nice bonuses as our enterprise becomes ever more prosperous.

I glance back just in time to see the little curvaceous beauty being escorted out the side door by one of the local dissidents. “Fuckin’ Irishman,” I grumble to Tiny and Felix. “Where the hell is she going with that backwoods fuck?” There is no love lost between the Irishman and me. He has made it clear that he will have nothing to do with my plans. Unfortunately, he’s a made man with the Irish mafia. My father, both uncles, and grandfather have all drilled one basic principle into my brain over the years—never start a fight unless you are sure you can win it. Taking on the Irish mob is not in the cards at this moment. As I watch, he pulls something out of his coat pocket and jams his hand into Victoria’s side. Her legs instantly collapse beneath her, and in one swift motion, another stiff opens the back door of the car and she is tossed inside. She looks as limp as a rag doll, and in the blink of an eye, she is gone. “Where does the Irishman hang out?” I yell, turning back toward my crew.

Everyone looks up at me, seeming stunned by my sudden outburst. “The Irishman?” Felix asks, giving me a confused look with gravy dripping from his chin.

“Yeah, you know, the Irish mafia wise guy who has been hassling us over on block nine.” I slam my fist to the table, looking for an immediate answer. “Kid, go grab the car and bring it around,” I tell the youngest member of my crew who serves as our chauffeur and general gopher.

“Yes, boss!” He immediately jumps to his feet and heads for the back door while the rest of the guys look at each other, shrugging their shoulders and shaking their heads.

“No one here knows where the hell their hangout is?” I ask, dumbfounded that none of my guys are on top of one of our major threats. We have discussed the Irish mafia on several occasions, and yet no one has even taken the time to figure out where they spend their time. Fucking unbelievable!

“There’s an old carpet warehouse over on Central and Fifth,” Stan says with conviction. “It’s not too far from my place. I can show you.”

“Stan, The Man.” I breathe out a huge sigh of relief. “Stan the bartender knows where those douchebags hang out, but none of you do?” I scan the faces of my men in disgust. “You guys had better sharpen up your game.” I give each of them the snake eyes before glancing out the window to keep an eye out for the kid. “You two numb nuts come with me,” I tell Tiny and Felix. “The rest of you can spend the next few minutes helping each other pull your heads out of your asses!” I slap the table again before turning to head outside.

On the way out, I reach behind the bar for my trusty 357 revolver. The shiny Smith and Wesson six-shooter was my grandfather’s, and it even has his initials inscribed into the sides of the handle. I give the chamber a spin to make sure it’s fully loaded before shoving it into my jacket pocket. Nothing will get you killed faster than a misfire in the heat of battle. The four of us head out the door and pile into my black Escalade the second it screeches to a stop. I let Stan grab the front seat since he seems to be the only one who knows where the hell we are going.

“Where’s this place at?” the kid asks, looking to Stan for guidance.

“It’s just off Central Avenue,” he replies with growing angst in his voice. “I’m pretty sure it’s either Fifth or Sixth. Either that or Fourth. I’ll know when I see it.”

“You’d better fucking know,” I warn him in no uncertain terms. “Because if they so much as damage a hair on Victoria’s head, you don’t want to know what will happen!” I glare at Stan, who now has beads of sweat popping up along his brow. “You don’t fucking tell me that you know something unless you goddamn know it.” I slap the leather headrest behind him, causing him to jump as if a bolt of lightning has just struck. “There were two or three guys with him.” I turn to Felix and Tiny. “You guys have your silencers?”

“Of course, boss,” Felix replies, pulling his iron from the custom-sewn pocket inside his coat.

“Silent and deadly,” Tiny adds, patting his hip. Tiny is old-school so he doesn’t believe in concealed carry. He likes to carry it in a fucking holster right on the side of his hip. I must admit that it does make an impression when we’re talking to a resistant mark. That and the fact that he is six foot five and built like a goddamn NFL lineman.

“Every minute counts here, boys,” I remind them as the kid slows the car to give Stan a chance to look around. “The Irishman is a fucking asshole.”

“You just met this dame, right?” Felix asks, furrowing his brow.

“Don’t you fucking judge me,” I reply. “Have you ever seen a chick like that in this town?” I stare at him intently, letting him know that I’m serious as hell about her not getting hurt.

“We’ll get her back, boss,” he replies, breaking eye contact and turning toward the window. “She’ll be okay.”

“There it is!” Stan yells exuberantly upon finally spotting it on the second pass. “That’s the place right there.” The kid swings the car around and pulls up to the curb just down the block.

“Kid, you and Stan stay put. Lock the doors and keep it running,” I instruct him before the three of us get out to survey the situation. The whole front of the building is glass, so we slip down the alley and around back. One lone schmuck is standing guard by the back door, and Felix takes him out the instant we spot him. Tiny reaches down with one hand, picking up the sorry bastard and tossing him into the dumpster. “Might have to change your name to the Trash Man,” I joke before Felix and Tiny burst through the back door, taking two more guys by surprise. Three shots and three guys down. My guys are the best at taking people out. “You guys take care of these two and keep an eye on the back door. I want to handle the Irishman myself.”