DAMIEN

 

One year later

 

 

Within the last year of putting Martinez to rest, I opened one of the most prestigious night clubs in downtown Miami. On any given night of the week, you’d find exclusive private parties happening. Where no one got past my guards unless I knew them personally. It was the only way I could protect myself from the long list of people who I was sure wanted me dead. Came with the territory of being a district attorney candidate.

The rules were—there weren’t any. From sex, to drugs, to gambling, to fucking murder—these black walls had seen it all in the short amount of time it’d been open. Club Hell was where the elite of the corrupt partied, and was all the rage among the underground world. They knew they could get away with anything here. Prostitution, drug smuggling, BDSM—you name it, it took place in my establishment.

The club was in a remodeled warehouse, the exterior didn’t look like much, but the interior had an industrial, sleek and sexy feel to it. Many clubs in Miami were similar in style, but our unique format set us apart from the rest. Different rooms for different purposes, offering something for everyone. The high energy dance club when you first walked in was mesmerizing. Bright lights and strobes bouncing from the towering ceilings while the best DJs in the city spun fresh beats you couldn’t help but shake your ass to. Private tables scattered throughout where you could snort rails off your table or drink the best liquor money could buy till your heart’s content.

But this was all a cover.

At the back of the club was a set of guarded double doors which led to a long hallway that housed tunnels that led to more depravity, depending on what you were into. Each room was named after the source of entertainment it provided, from girls working the poles, to a casino, to just plain old shooting the shit in the cigar room. The private rooms in the back held beds for a more intimate setting with one of my girls, or you could be a part of a fucking orgy if you walked room-to-room.

Obviously, the club wasn’t bought under my name, I knew the right people to make it happen without jumping through too many hoops. They made sure I wasn’t linked in any way, shape, or form to the lease, and the LLC was under a ghost company, just in case some shit went down, I wouldn’t go down with it. Not many knew I owned the club either, the same way only few knew my true colors. I opened Club Hell for purely selfish reasons, wanting a safe environment to call my own, where I didn’t have to pretend to be someone I wasn’t. Where the monster inside of me could live, breathe, and be out in the fucking open without having to look over my shoulder around every corner. It felt good to not have to pretend to be El Santo, even if it was only for a few hours a night.

A few moments in time.

All that mattered was I was free. Away from judgement, scrutiny, and being under a goddamn microscope day in and day out. Especially, being in the eye of the media more so than I have before these last two years during my draining campaign for district attorney. I was physically fucking exhausted from portraying El Santo when I was truly El Pecador. Ever since I left Cuba seven years ago, I’d become a sadistic cruel bastard who thrived on pain, pussy, and power. I’d put a bullet in your head just because I was fucking bored. My sanctity or value for anything or anyone had vanished like a thief in the night. Nothing was sacred to me anymore. I respected no one.

I didn’t have to.

I was the best prosecuting attorney in the nation. A man who could literally get away with murder.

And I did.

All the fucking time.

I smiled, sliding a glass of whiskey across the table.

“When are you going to become a real man and drink scotch? This shit is like water,” the man sitting across from me asked.

I chuckled, setting my glass back down on the table.

“How does it feel to have the world at your fingertips?” he followed, arching an eyebrow.

“The same way it used to for you, until you died.”

“And don’t you ever forget it, motherfucker. You should be on your knees, sucking my cock for putting your name on the ballot.”

My guests and I were sitting at a private table on the top level of the warehouse, where all the private rooms were enclosed with one-way mirrors. Hidden from prying eyes. I could see everything and everyone, but no one could see us. I couldn’t take a chance being seen, not when I was having drinks with a dead man. Alejandro Martinez was a ruthless motherfucker most would steer clear of. Those who truly knew me, went as far as saying he was worse than me, but they obviously didn’t know me very well. He was the snake in the grass you didn’t see coming. They called him El Diablo, meaning the devil. I guess you could say he used to be the ringleader of organized crime in all parts of the world, until he gave it all up two years. Now residing in Italy as a goddamn ghost.

“You didn’t hand me shit. Besides, I owed you,” I reminded him, taking a deep breath. 

He was also the man who helped me when I tried to get Amira out of Cuba, which seemed like a lifetime ago. I reached out to him after that betraying son of a bitch, Ricardo, dropped his name during Salazar’s meeting, all those years ago. I should have let him turn Emilio’s ass over to the States, but I fucked up the opportunity. Shooting him in the head instead, blinded by my loyalty to a man who never deserved it.

Only good thing that came out of the meeting was Martinez’s name. I was lucky he had a soft spot for women and kids, and luckily Amira was both at the time. He was the one who set up everything for her escape, I just provided the cash. I was eternally grateful for his efforts, even though she jumped off the fucking boat to come back to me. We’d done more business together throughout the years, so when he asked me to help with his demise several years back, I figured it was the least I could do.

His reasoning for why he wanted to die in the first place was his and his alone. None of my business. He could tell you his story, not me.

In exchange, he gave me the names and documents of everyone I needed to take down to get my name on the ballot. Once again making me appear like I was a fucking hero, although appearances were always deceiving.

It would do you some good to remember that.

“Doesn’t change the fact that you helped with my murder and took down El Diablo’s,” he eyed the man who was sitting next to me, up and down, “friends…” he mocked. “Including this motherfucker. How the hell do you just keep showing up everywhere?” He nodded over to him.

Bossman smirked. “I guess I’m that fucking good.”

We all laughed, taking another drink. The son of a bitch never said more than a few words and when he did, he was such a fucking smartass. It was one of the reasons I orchestrated his escape out of prison. He loved the water as much as I did and transported enough drugs for us on his boats to qualify him as a fucking pirate.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught some commotion coming from the back of the room.

“Are you seeing what I am?” Martinez questioned, following my stare.

I casually stood, finishing my drink in one gulp. “Go out the same door you came in through.” Signaling behind me. “Your case is officially closed. You’re a free man.” It was the only reason Martinez was here. He liked to keep his hands clean, much like I did. Having others do his dirty work for him. Making sure all his tracks were covered and he could now rest in peace.

I didn’t wait for a response, not that I expected one. I immediately made my way toward an unruly club member who was standing in front of where the girls performed. Taking it upon himself to put his hands where they weren’t wanted. Betty, one of my girls, was kneeling on the edge of the stage, performing an exclusive dance for him, but this asshole was crossing the line. I never cared much for this son of a bitch, Luis. Word around the club was he liked to slap around his wife and kid. Though I was never one to involve myself in someone else’s business, this piece of shit just involved me.

“I pay a lot of money for my membership to do whatever the fuck I want,” he asserted, gripping onto Betty’s face to look at him while his other hand unbuckled his belt.

“You pay for your membership! Not me! I say what goes. Not you!” she exclaimed, trying to tug her face away from his forceful hold.

“Do we have a problem here?” I interjected from behind him, putting my hand up to stop security from interfering. 

“Yeah, we do! This bitch won’t give me a happy ending. Who the fuck does she think she is? A fucking cock tease, trying to give me a lap dance like that’s going to get the job done! Get on your knees, cunt!” He shoved her face down to his dick.

I scoffed, slowly rolling up the sleeves of my button-down shirt as he continued to assault her. Betty could handle her own, most of my girls could. I chose them for a reason, the last thing I wanted was to babysit. My employees gave zero fucks about the business that was carried on behind these closed doors. Many of them were born into this type of lifestyle, exactly like me.

I finally intervened when he backhanded her with so much force, her body flew across the stage. I roughly gripped onto his hair from behind him, catching him by surprise. Knocking him on his ass. Bossman was already ahead of me, opening the door to the back alley as I dragged Luis’ struggling body outside like it weighed nothing.

“What the fuck?” he spewed, stumbling to get his footing when I let him go. “This is bullshit! I’ve seen far fucking worse go down in your club than me putting that cunt in her place. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“What are you talking about?” I calmly replied, grabbing the lid off the steel trashcan beside me. “I’m just taking out the trash.”

“Who the—”

I backhanded him with the lid like he’d done to Betty with his hand. Now his body was the one flying across the narrow space between us. Always being a firm believer that you reap what you sow.

“You like to hit women?” I eerily coaxed, hovering above him with the lid still clenched in my grasp.

He rolled around, groaning. Trying to get to his knees to get up. “Fuck you!” He spit blood at me, splattering it all over my shirtsleeves.

I didn’t waver, slamming the lid against his body, sending him reeling to the ground again. I was seeing red, making him see nothing but black. “Motherfucker, look what you did. This is one of my favorite fucking shirts.” I hit him once again, this time with my fist. “Now, I asked you a question. Do you like to hit women, asshole? Hmm… te gusta golpear a las mujeres?” I repeated in Spanish, his native tongue. “I asked you a question twice, motherfucker. Won’t be a third time.”

He spit more blood onto the pavement, grabbing onto his stomach. Failing miserably to get to his feet again. “Go fuck yourself, Montero!”

I slowly cocked my head to the side with a grin, peering over at Bossman who was leaning against the brick wall with his arms crossed over his chest. Cool, calm, and fucking collected.

“Did you hear what he said? He wants me to go fuck myself, right? That’s what he said?”

Bossman chuckled, knowing precisely what I was going to do. Not faltering, I spun back around and kicked him square in the throat. He recoiled, immediately gasping for air, thrashing around. Desperately gripping onto his throat as if his hands would suddenly allow him to breathe.

“You want me to go fuck myself, Luis? Is that what you want me to do?”

“No,” he whimpered.

With my foot, I rolled him onto his back before crouching down beside him. “What? You didn’t say that? You didn’t say go fuck yourself?” I taunted, kneeling one knee on his torso. Pressing all my weight onto his chest, making it nearly impossible for him to breathe. “You calling me a liar? I’m a liar, now?” I threw the lid in front of me, pulling out my gun. Aiming it right toward his cock.

His eyes widened.

“How about I fuck you, eh? How about I use my gun to fuck that tight, little, wife beating asshole of yours. We can even take bets on what goes off first, your mouth begging me to stop or my gun blowing out your fucking insides. My club would love that.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry,” Luis whined, his body shaking. 

“You know saying sorry is a sign of weakness? Where’s the man who hits his wife, huh? The man who slaps around his little innocent kid? Where did that man go? The one who wanted to rape my girl and told me to go fuck myself? Where’s he hiding?”

“I…I…I—”

My phone rang, cutting him off. “Take care of this.” I nodded to Bossman, pushing off his chest to answer my phone. “This is Montero,” I answered.

“We’ve got a problem,” my security guard, Duke replied.

“Why is this my problem? I pay you a fuckload of money to handle it. So fucking handle it!” I argued, turning my back to the piece of shit. Walking a few feet away.

“It’s not that easy. We got two bikers at the door wanting to get in. Saying some shit about having a meeting with you.”

I looked down at my watch. “Fuck. Didn’t realize it was so late. Let them in, have one of the girls take their sweet ass time showing them to my office.”

As soon as I ended the call, I heard a single shot go off. Causing me to immediately turn around to find Bossman still leaning against the wall. The only thing that had changed was he was holding his gun aimed at Luis’ head. Laying him the fuck out.

“Seriously? After all that, you just killed him point blank? You couldn’t have fucked him up a little more?”

“Yeah.” He nodded with a stern expression, putting his gun away as he walked to the door. “You asked me to take care of it, and I did. I don’t play fucking games, it’s why I carry a gun. To take bitches out.”

I laughed, I couldn’t help it. Shaking my head, walking inside behind him to my office. Not bothering to clean myself up before taking a seat at the head of my long conference table. Bossman pulled up a chair to my right and one of my security detail stood guard on the other side of me.

I loosened my tie and undid the first few buttons of my vest, getting more comfortable. Deciding to leave my gun holsters securely strapped to my sides, but pulling out my Glocks and setting them on the table in front of me. The barrels pointing directly at where they’d be sitting.

Moments later, Electra opened the double doors, guiding the bikers over the threshold. Instantly noticing their hands never strayed far from their guns. I couldn’t blame them, they didn’t know what they were walking into. This could easily have been a setup.

My setup.

“You got some brass fucking balls, requesting a meeting with me when you’re a wanted fucking man,” I challenged, leaning back into my leather chair. Resting my hands behind my head.

Creed Jameson.

VP of The Devil’s Rejects.

I did some digging into his MC after I saw who I assumed was his little brother in Oak Island. And goddamn did I find some gold. This was the first time I was meeting him in person, though. He looked like every other biker I’d came in contact with. Broody, pissed at the world, and covered in fucking tattoos.

He eyed me for a few seconds, taking in my disheveled appearance, specifically the blood on my rolled-up sleeves. He was fully aware of what kind of man I was, or else he wouldn’t have requested a meeting. His guarded stare quickly fell to where my guns were accurately placed.

“Please, by all means, gentlemen. Mi casa es su casa. Take a fucking seat,” I greeted, nodding to the empty chairs on the other end of the table. Directly in the line of fire with the barrels.

He looked over at Bossman, appreciating the detail of his ocean-inspired sleeve on his left arm. Not surprised in the least he was sitting beside me, probably realizing I had something to do with his escape.

“Who invited the white guy?” Creed joked, nodding to Bossman. I’m sure they’d done business together. Everyone knew everyone in this shady world, especially the men who were the most corrupt.

Bossman snidely smiled, scoffing out, “Your mom when she was sucking my cock last night.”

I stifled a chuckle.

“Good to see you out, man,” he added.

“Good to be seen.”

“Let’s cut the bullshit, shall we? To what do I owe the honor of your presence, Mr. Jameson?” I chimed in, putting an end to the fucking chit-chat.

“Creed,” he simply stated.

“I wasn’t aware we were on a first name basis. You can call me Mr. Montero. You haven’t even earned the right to shake my goddamn hand, yet.”

“Just to sit in your presence then?”

“No. To answer my fucking questions. I’m known for having very little patience, Mr. Jameson. Would you like to test that fucking theory?”

I was over the pleasantries. We weren’t friends or even acquaintances for that matter. If it wasn’t for the fact I was genuinely curious on why he wanted a meeting with me, I’d call him in as a fugitive at large.

“With all due respect, Damien…”

I grinned, arching an eyebrow. Finding it amusing he didn’t bow down to me like most men would of in his situation.

“We asked for a meetin’ wit’ you. Not your fuckin’ entourage, yeah?”

“And here I thought we were all becoming friends now,” I mocked. “You’re coming into my territory, making demands? You really are just a stupid biker, eh?”

“Says the man who took the meetin’.”

I laughed, big and throaty. Grabbing my gun off the table and pointing at him. “I fucking like you! And because of that, I’m going to excuse your shitty manners, and not shoot you in the goddamn leg. You’re welcome. With that being said, what the fuck do you want?”

He nodded to my gun, silently ordering me to get it the hell out of his face.

“Bikers…” I dramatically breathed out, laying my Glock back on the table in front of me. Still pointing it directly at him. “They have no fucking respect for authority. You have five minutes before my hand gets cold and I get trigger happy.”

“What do you know ‘bout my father?” he asked, knowing he wasn’t going to win this battle.

“What do I know about him, or what do I have on him? See what I did there?” I leaned forward, placing my elbows on the table. “Learn to ask the right fucking questions to get the answers you need.”

The question he should have been asking was what didn’t I know about his father…

“I thought we were cuttin’ the bullshit. You know exactly what I fuckin’ mean. You help me, and I’ll help you. Now, those are words you fuckin’ understand, yeah?” he scorned, leaning into the table mirroring my posture. “You tell me what you got on my old man, and I’ll get you the fuckin’ evidence ya need to lock his ass away behind bars, for good.”

I smiled, leaning back into my leather chair. Now he was speaking my fucking language.

“You’re up for District Attorney, yeah? Breakin’ news… ‘El Santo, Damien Montero, brings down yet another notorious outlaw. MC President, Jameson of the Devil’s Rejects, who has been wanted by the FBI for decades. Evidence found, making him liable for the innocent lives he’s taken and other crimes punishable by the United States judicial system,” he proposed in a serious tone, glancing over at his friend. “What do ya think, bro? Sounds like a fuckin’ promotion to me.”

“I’d bet my Harley it was, and you know how much I love her,” his friend retorted, only looking at me. 

“So… what do you know ‘bout my father?” Creed cocked his head to the side. “Am I askin’ the right question, now?”

I didn’t hesitate, ordering, “Leave us,” in a harsh, demanding tone.

They did as they were told. Bossman nodded over to Creed before he walked past them, followed by my guard. Standing up from my chair, I walked over to the makeshift bar in the corner of the room. Pouring three glasses of bourbon, setting them down in front of them before leaning against the edge of the table. I took a long swig from my glass, slamming it down on the surface when I was done.

Contemplating what I was going to say or how I was going to say it. “Have you ever wondered why your Prez and Martinez are friends?” I questioned, emphasizing the word are. Knowing he would immediately catch on to my subtle, yet not so fucking subtle reply. 

He jerked back, stunned by my response.

“Hmm… I know you hate the motherfucker, but I’ve come to miss him. Things were a lot more entertaining when he was alive. Especially between your old man and him,” I added, setting out the bait I knew he’d catch. 

“The fuck?”

“You said you wanted to know what I knew about your father. Not what I had on him. There’s your fucking answer. Now get the fuck out,” I demanded.

“You ain’t given me shit.”

“I’ve given you plenty. I’m a prosecuting attorney for fuck sake. Can’t put words in your mouth. Won’t hold up in fucking court,” I taunted, grinning. “It’s up to you to find what I need and then we’ll both get what we want. Entendido?”

I could have told them what I knew they’d eventually find, but again…

Where would the fucking fun be in that.