Chapter 4
An Escape from the Inescapable
Kian
Most nights he was able to block out the pain of his loss. Staring across the desk at his business partner in his upscale office at the back of the club, Kian already knew tonight wasn’t one of those nights.
“Numbers are up again this month. I feel like we should follow through with the patio renovation. Buy some new furniture and open up the wall to extend it. The outdoor dance floor deal we’ve been discussing for the past months…” Jordan Fiacco went on, detailing his vision for a better club, one that would cater to more upscale clients. He wanted to increase cover charge on certain nights, host events, blah blah blah.
Kian didn’t truly care so he checked out. Fiacco had been kind enough to offer him a stiff drink, a tall glass half full of whiskey, when he’d walked into his office. He took full advantage of his host, tipping back the glass and taking a long pull of the amber liquid. It burned its way down his throat, warming his stomach. It did nothing to numb the pain in his heart. Yet. He was sure it would, if he consumed enough.
Maybe a whole bottle. Maybe then I’d stop seeing their faces.
The hiss of pouring rain, the pitch black of the night, the scream of his wife, the screech of metal hitting metal, the hard crunch of impact echoed through his brain. He jerked hard at the shrill ringing in his temples, the horrible sound that was the last sound his wife ever made.
“Kian? Fiacco stopped speaking and raised a brow.
Kian gave himself a mental shake. The image of Cynthia’s beautiful face, bloodied, smashed from the airbag breaking her nose, cut up with shards of broken glass, her luminous brown eyes stilled for life, open and sightless passed in front of his eyes. He blinked hard and the image swam away, back to the past.
“Yah. Sorry.” He slammed back another mouthful of whiskey. He didn’t taste it, hardly felt the burn past the overwhelming pressure of grief that threatened to cave his chest in.
Jordan Fiacco went on, prattling off more details, costs, the benefits, time it would take. It took Kian all of a minute to check back out. Fiacco was nearing fifty, or just over. He couldn’t actually remember. His dark black hair was always combed impeccably back. His black eyes were shrewd, but not entirely unkind. He was the kind of man who was loyal to those who were loyal to him. His family was his entire life.
Kian could relate to that. His family meant everything to him. At least, until that night four years ago, until the accident that ripped them away from him. The guy who careened through a red light, smashing into the passenger side of their car, hadn’t been drunk. He hadn’t been elderly or careless. It was just raining so damn hard that night it all but obliterated the traffic lights and the guy couldn’t see them coming until it was too late. A comedy of errors that wasn’t a fucking comedy at all. That night not only ruined his life. It changed everything he was.
“Kian. Are you listening?”
He snapped to again and realized that Fiacco was sitting patiently, obviously awaiting his input. Kian mumbled some response that he hoped passed for assent to whatever Fiacco’s plans were. He knew the guy would never lose money. The club meant everything to him. It was his retirement plan. Kian was just the partner and the capital he’d been waiting for. He did him the courtesy of discussing plans as well as depositing a huge sum of money into his corporate account every single month.
Fiacco wasn’t the weasel kind. No, he was just slick. He managed to stay off law enforcement’s radar. He obeyed the laws, paid taxes and ran a legit business, at least on the books. He turned a blind eye to the shit that went down in the club so long as no one got hurt or worse, stabbed, shot or killed. He knew just the right palms to grease to keep the heat out of their establishment.
Yes, one look at Jordan Fiacco, two years ago in that seedy bar where he’d popped in for a drink raised a shit pile of red flags in Kian’s mind. Years of instinct and training were hard to smother. That’s what he’d instantly liked about the guy. The fact that he was the exact opposite of what Kian himself was at the time. The fact that he lived beneath the law, but somehow above it as well. Investing with Fiacco gave Kian the chance to get as far away from his old self as he possibly could.
“Alright, I think we’re pretty much done here.” Fiacco folded his hands on top of his oak desk. He eyed Kian, those dark eyes cutting right through him. The guy didn’t know a damn thing about Kian’s past, but he still got the feeling once and a while that Fiacco could tell he’d once belonged to the badge wearing, gun toting kind.
“Thanks for everything,” Kian mumbled. “You’ve got a good hold on this place. You always have. I’m proud to be in business with you.”
“Because I make it easy for you to put your money in and shut up?”
“That’s right.” Kian slammed back the rest of his whiskey, a good four or five ounces. He sighed after and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I told you at the start I liked being a silent partner. You could pretty much do whatever you want here. I know you would never lose money. It’s not in you not to be a success.”
“Not when my entire life is on the line.”
Kian nodded, though he knew the guy didn’t have a fucking clue what that truly meant. He couldn’t, unless his wife, Martha and his daughters, Alexa and Savannah, were taken from him.
“You going out to get a drink?”
“What makes you say that?” Kian froze half way out of the upholstered chair in front of Fiacco’s desk.
“The look on your face. No, the shit in your eyes. It’s absolutely haunting. I know when you look like that, that I’m going to be erasing one hell of a tab.”
“What can I say,” Kian shrugged. “I’m not exactly a cheap date. Take it off my total at the end of the month.”
“I wouldn’t think of it. Do us all a favor and take a cab home after.”
“Of course. I might look like an ass, act like it too, but I’m not stupid.”
Fiacco actually cracked a smile. It was legit, warmed with the odd friendship between the two men. It hadn’t started out as being genuine, but somehow over the years, it had turned into true feeling. Kian would have been hard pressed to admit he trusted Fiacco, but he did. He actually liked the guy too, in a grudging half respectful sort of way. The guy could turn even dirt into gold, given the chance.
“What are you trying to drink away this time? A bad breakup? A hard day at work?”
“You could say that.” Kian’s back molar ached. He’d been grinding his teeth together all day so that made sense.
“You know, you’ve had dinner at my house, with my family many times over the years. You’ve never once returned the favor. I don’t even know where you came from.”
“Does that matter?” Kian slowly turned and reached the door. He glanced back over his shoulder just once before his hand hit the handle of the heavy steel door and gave it a slow turn. “My place is a dump and I cook like shit. I couldn’t return the favor. As to where I came from… some things are best left unknown. For all of us.”
“Yah,” Fiacco mumbled as Kian pulled open the door. “I figured it was something like that.”
The heavy door shut soundly behind him. Kian nodded to Dan, the young, massive mountain of a man who stood outside in the hall. The concrete walls and heavy door prevented sound from traveling in or out of the office, but the guy was there just to be sure no stragglers escaped the confines of the club and wondered down private hallways into offices where cash, staff records, and personal belongings were kept.
The guy was so large he made Kian look small in comparison. Not many people could say that. He started down the long hall and all but burst through the other steel door that led straight into the club.
It wasn’t exactly seedy, but it was dark. It had plenty of corners and booths to hide everything people could dream of. Drug deals, sex, escorts, or just a night of wanting to forget in private; you name it, the club was good for it.
Kian slid into the back booth, the booth that was just his. He rested his hands on the table top, leaned back and waited. Waited for his whiskeys to arrive and send him into the oblivion he longed for. Some pain went so deep, it couldn’t be erased. It couldn’t be forgotten either, but he was damn well going to make a valiant attempt at trying. Just for one night. For the span of an hour, he wanted oblivion. Oblivion, because he knew, in every fiber of his being, that he’d never have peace again.