He still didn’t have to force Benito at gunpoint to sign away monies he needed to live his life as he preferred to live it and help finance his comeback.
Rodrigo had not pushed the Luxe rights demanding claim to Tallulah’s films, mostly because Chaos had, so Benito didn’t have them to give.
No.
Not Tallulah’s.
Rebel’s.
He’d learned that from Rodrigo too.
She was not Tallulah Monroe. She was Rebel Stapleton and she was Tack Allen’s son’s gash.
The very thought made Benito feel nothing but frigid.
So he had his list.
Rodrigo first, as he’d be easy.
Some unknown shooter had taken out Lannigan, so he didn’t have to bother with that.
Though he could say he was delighted Chaos hadn’t gotten him. Tack Allen stood there and watched the man’s head explode and then . . . nothing. Every Chaos brother was riding hellbent to Tack so they all had alibis seeing as they arrived minutes after the cops came to the scene. And so far, the slaying had gone unsolved.
It was small consolation Chaos did not get him, but Benito still relished it.
Back to his list . . .
Mamá Nana would be next, simply because she should learn to show more loyalty to her people.
Then whoever that woman was who had come to his home and her two handsome toys. Benito had no idea where she came from, or who she was, but he suspected Mamá Nana knew and she’d certainly be moved to share before Benito was finished with her.
After that, Daisy Sloan because she’d been foolish enough to speak of what should not be spoken of, and regardless, even if Marcus was out of the game, the man could use being taken down a peg.
And finally, Chaos.
Starting with this Rebel.
Fooled once more by a woman.
Never again.
Which meant the only sex he fucked (or rather, let fuck him) was male.
He let himself in his apartment with his groceries, very much looking forward to the day when he could again afford a man to see to these menial chores for him. Including cooking. And cleaning. Benito detested cleaning. But he liked his space to be just so. So he did it.
It would be good when he was back.
In a number of ways.
But at least he’d found a nice place. His liquidation had gone well, considering the real estate market in Denver and the wisdom of his investments. So it was fake adobe and even had those ridiculous beams in the ceilings. It had a good view, lots of light, quiet neighbors, a great deal of space, a fabulous pool area and he’d selected exceptional furnishings.
He entered, flipped on the lights and stopped dead.
This was because the place was devoid of anything, not a painting on a wall, not a stick of furniture.
Except one of his handsome armchairs had been left.
And in it a man was lounging, wearing jeans, a leather jacket, his dark hair overlong and tousled, his features striking barring the scar that ran along his left cheek, which only served to make him look more interesting. And even from across the room, Benito could see the fullness and length of his eyelashes.
In other circumstances, Benito would be looking at him for different purposes.
In this circumstance, Benito did nothing but stare.
The man had a leg slung over one arm of the chair, his other leg with its motorcycle boot on his foot resting negligently on the floor, his back to the opposite arm of the chair.
He lounged there like he owned that chair, that apartment, the whole luxury complex.
Benito had never seen this man in his life.
He still knew who he was.
The Bounty brother who got his face sliced because his club had been foolhardy enough (though perfectly right, in Benito’s mind) to teach a Chaos woman an important lesson.
“We got your shit,” his deep voice came at Benito. “We got your safe.”
Benito felt that different kind of chill pervade. The one he hated. The one he felt when that woman came to visit him with her two toys.
He’d used most of his money to make a risky investment, that risk necessary as, if it panned out, the dividends would be astronomical.
But he’d been playing it smart. He’d kept some back just in case.
And that some was in his safe.
“Take us a while to crack that motherfucker, but I reckon what’s in it, as well as dumping all your shit, will at least buy us a new table,” the man went on.
It took a good deal for Benito not to shiver at the words “dumping all your shit” considering it was all nearly brand new and top of the line.
He hadn’t moved his things from Denver.
He’d sold them, and attempting to get into the spirit of things, had embraced a new southwestern design scheme.
“Who are you?” Benito demanded.
“Now that,” the man growled, taking his leg off the arm of the chair, putting his boot to the floor, and standing to a rather impressive height, “is your problem. You don’t know who I am. You got me and my brothers all jacked up, and you don’t even know who the fuck I am.”
“I know you’re Bounty,” Benito fired back.
“And there you’d be wrong,” the man murmured.
He then moved.
Right to Benito.
He was not only tall, he was broad, and Benito was not fooled.
The space felt empty, but this man would not be there alone.
So Benito got out of his way.
Benito shifted around to watch the man stop, hand on the knob to the door of an apartment that, until his investment came through, he could no longer afford to lease.
“It was us who fucked up by listenin’ to some shit-for-brains puppet who was being controlled by a shit-for-brains asshole. But it was you who fucked up, thinkin’ you could lay us out like that and then walk away,” he said. “Figure you’re learning a lot of lessons about loyalty these days. Just glad we got our shot to let that shit sink home.”
With that, he closed the door.
And Benito stared at it, adding Bounty to his list.
Right at the top.
Beck
Two months after that . . .
The floor had been covered in carpet. Not industrial. A nice plush in a color called buckskin.
The cinderblock walls had been built out and lined in a nice wood paneling, the stain called moleskin.
Spartan’s old lady got the large shadowbox done with the torn off edge of their old table with the Chaos scores in it. Griller’s cut folded just right. The memorial patch Chaos had made.
It was on the wall next to their flag.
On the other side was a picture of them all together before Griller bit it. A selfie. Around those old, pushed-together tables, their new patches scattered on the top, Beck’s face beat to shit, all the men lifting beers, expressions ranging from determined scowls (Beck, Web, Spartan, Core, Rainman) to shit-eating grins (Muzzle, Eight and Griller).
That was all that was on their walls.
For now.
They’d build on that.
“There,” Beck ordered.
“Thank fuck,” he heard muttered.
The six men holding it put the table down centered in the room.
Mahogany.
Christ, the veins in that, the edges inlaid with two different grains, it was spectacular.
And the middle was etched with a biker wearing a maniacal grin riding from a wall of flame, a rocker at the top spelling Resurrection.
Totally the shit.
That was more like it.
“We done here?”
Beck looked to the mover who he figured was the foreman.
“Yeah,” he said, going to him, yanking the wad of cash out of his pocket.
He handed the tip to the man.
The man nodded, “Thanks, bud.” Then they took off.
It was Beck himself that moved to the executive swivel chairs, tall-backed, and done in a dark chestnut leather, with special casters that moved on carpet that were pushed up against the walls.
He rolled the seven chairs around the table.
Only then did he grab the cut off the back of the chair he’d wheeled to the head of the table.
It now had patches stitched on the back.
He swung it on and walked out into the common room that was no longer a bunch of shitty couches and card tables with folding chairs.
It was gutted.
The carpenter would be putting in the bar first, work starting next week, the rest would come later.