The call from Isabel canceling their plans had been unexpected, but worth it. Dutch was set to meet Vargas.
He pulled up to the valet in front of the Enigma nightclub in the heart of LA.
“Hey, man,” one of the twentysomethings wearing an orange vest said, approaching him. “Insurance won’t let us take it, but you can park right there.” He pointed to a parking spot in the valet area.
Dutch gave the kid forty bucks, twenty for valet and another Jackson as a tip to make sure they looked after his bike as if it were their own. “Not a scratch on it.”
The guy nodded enthusiastically. “Sure thing. No one will get close to it.”
Dutch rode over and backed into the spot sandwiched between a Mercedes and a Tesla. He took off his helmet and raked a hand through his hair.
Isabel let him know about the club’s dress code. But Dutch had deliberately dressed down, jeans and a V-neck tee. He got that Dante Emilio Vargas had an appreciation for the finer things in life and would judge a book by its cover, but there was no disguising that Dutch came from middle-class means. No hiding the way he carried himself, how he spoke, like a man born and bred on the streets.
Silk threads and putting on airs wouldn’t win over Vargas anyway. Men such as her uncle respected two things. Power and strength.
At the core, neither had anything to do with money.
Besides, Dutch didn’t know how to be anything other than himself, something that worked in his favor with Isabel. Other than the omission of why he’d stepped into her life—and granted, that was pretty big—he didn’t have to pretend with her.
He strode past the long line to get in that wrapped around the corner and went up to the bouncer at the door. “I’m Dutch Haas. Here to see Dante Vargas.”
The burly dude dressed in all black checked him out from head to toe with a wary look, but Dutch knew the vibe he gave off and was used to the split-second assessment people made about him based on his appearance.
The bouncer lifted a tablet and swiped through a list of names. After a few seconds, he glanced up. “You can go on in.” He opened a door that was set off to the side of the main entrance.
Loud, throbbing electronic music and colored strobe lights washed over Dutch as he stepped inside with his helmet tucked under his arm. On his left, the general public entering through the main door paid a cover charge and had to walk through a metal detector.
Weaving through the throng of gyrating bodies, he went to the bar. The line was long, but he waited, in no rush, not wanting to seem overly eager to Vargas and needing to be certain what was in his drink. He ordered, got his drink and tipped well. Then he made his way to the stairwell, leading to the VIP area.
Instead of a waitress serving as a gatekeeper to the exclusive section upstairs, there was a bodyguard. Dutch spotted the telltale bulge in his jacket. The man was armed.
“I’m Haas,” Dutch said. “Here to see Mr. Vargas.”
“Not with that you aren’t.” The bodyguard gestured to his helmet.
“Man, this is a Schuberth.” The name was synonymous with top-of-the-line. Sure, his helmet was sleek and looked cool, but it was a piece of serious gear. The outer shell was made from three layers of patented fiber called S.T.R.O.N.G. and the interior padding had special hygienic material to prevent pathogens from building up while ensuring comfort, and it had a sophisticated ventilation system and noise dampening inserts for the quietest ride possible. “It’s worth two grand. Where I go, it goes. Besides, I’m here as a guest. Just ask Mr. Vargas if I can bring it with me?”
The guy touched his earpiece and spoke in Spanish, which Dutch understood, into the mic that extended to his mouth, even relaying the helmet brand.
Looking around as if bored, Dutch knew exactly what the response would be. Vargas, the kingpin of Southern California, wasn’t going to be worried about his niece’s date carrying a helmet. Not when he was surrounded by loyal, armed men.
“All right,” the guard said. “The helmet is fine, but I’ve still got to pat you down.”
Extending his arms and spreading his legs, Dutch assumed the position, letting the man do his job. First, the guard ran a wand over Dutch’s body, scanning for listening devices. Even if he had one hidden on him, with the loud, pumping music, he’d have to be right next to Vargas for any equipment to clearly pick up both sides of the conversation.
Satisfied that he wasn’t wired, the guard moved on to the pat down, going across his arms, over his torso, up and down his legs, getting a little too close to his groin.
“Watch it, buddy,” Dutch said.
“Not my concern.” Pursing his lips in a tight line, the guard unhooked the velvet rope and then hiked his thumb toward the steps, giving him the okay to go up.
Dutch ascended the industrial metal staircase only to be greeted by another guard at the top of the landing.
“The helmet,” the second one with a manicured beard said. He had the build of a middleweight boxer, tall and lean, but wiry.
“This again?” Dutch asked. “I was given permission to take it with me.”
“Well, I didn’t give permission.”
“Max!” Rodrigo called from the swanky seating area. According to the dossier, Rodrigo was Vargas’s right-hand man and second in command. Beside him, Vargas sat like he ruled the world as young women in skimpy dresses danced around the VIP room. “Let him through.”
“See. What did I tell you?” Dutch said.
Max narrowed his eyes and took a step forward, blocking him.
“You want to dance?” Dutch asked, referring to a tango with fists. He clutched the rim of his helmet so tight his knuckles strained.
“Maximiliano!” Rodrigo said again. “It’s okay. He’s Isabel’s new admirer.”
Clenching his jaw and his fists, Max hesitated before finally letting him through.
What was his problem? Did he have a crush on Isabel and wanted her for himself?
Dutch brushed past Max, deliberately making contact without being aggressive enough to start a fight. This was his element, his culture, and he knew exactly how to behave to survive. To thrive in it.
There was another set of stairs leading to a third floor, where there appeared to be only one room. An office?
He walked by two more armed guards and dancing women, up to the sofa.
Rodrigo rose. “Welcome.” He ushered Dutch into the seating area and backed away as if to give them privacy.
Dutch nodded to him and strode closer to the man he came to see. “Mr. Vargas, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He put his helmet and drink on the coffee table and held out his hand. “I’m—”
“Horatio Haas.” Vargas shook his hand, and Dutch could tell the mob boss was assessing everything—Dutch’s clothing, facial expression, exposed tattoos, the firmness of the handshake—and motioned for him to sit in the leather club chair on the other side of a round glass coffee table.
“Everyone calls me Dutch.” He sat, not sure what he hated more, being called Horatio or having his back to the iron railing that overlooked the dance floor. At least he had a clear line of sight of the stairs and all the guards, and the other VIP tables were vacant and not a concern.
Dutch gave the appearance of relaxing in the plush chair while staying ready to spring into action, his senses dialed into the environment. All the women threw him easy smiles, from the ones lounging on the sofa to others dancing. They were beautiful. Blonde, brunette, redhead, curvaceous, slim, you name it and that type was there.
The women gyrating to the music and shaking their assets were a shiny lure, meant to bait him. To test him.
“Call me Emilio,” Isabel’s uncle said. “What are you drinking?”
Under normal circumstances, Dutch would’ve gotten a beer, but he had to set the right tone for the conversation. “Scotch. Macallan.”
Surprise lit Vargas’s cold, shrewd eyes. “I’m a Scotch man myself.”
Dutch was aware.
To get her uncle’s attention and keep it, Dutch had to defy expectations.
“Do you know why I asked to see you without my niece present?” Vargas asked.
How would the typical dude answer? Act as if he didn’t know and perhaps, he wouldn’t. Or soften the response to avoid coming across as brash.
Dutch decided to speak his mind. Unfiltered. “To size me up without the distraction of Isabel’s interest in me, and if you deemed me unworthy, then try to scare me off.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. Dutch was certain that was the reason.
Vargas stilled, his gaze not faltering for a second from Dutch’s. “Try? You don’t think I’d do an adequate job of scaring you.” His tone was teasing.
Her uncle wasn’t what Dutch had imagined. Without a doubt, he was vile filth, but the cultured packaging, the detached, refined demeanor, the imposing air about him was impressive. Now Dutch understood how Isabel could’ve failed to see through his charismatic thrall.
“I don’t scare easily.” Dutch took his first swig of the Scotch. Peaty, hot, not bad at all. He noticed Max speaking into his mic and covering his ear as if trying to listen.
Max pivoted and hustled to Rodrigo. “There’s a problem with the delivery.”
Delivery being drugs. Every business that Vargas owned or paid for, including Isabel’s art gallery, was used to either deal drugs or launder money.
“I’ll go handle it,” Rodrigo said. “But I want you to come with me.” He waved the other two guards over. “You come with us.” He pointed to the taller, stocky one. “Stay here and keep an eye on things.”
The trio hurried down the stairs while the stout guard went to the landing and stood as sentry in Max’s place.
“My niece tells me that you’re between jobs right now,” Vargas said, crossing his legs.
“Actually, I’m on terminal leave from the army. So, if you’re wondering whether I collect a paycheck, the answer is yes.”
“For how much longer? A week? Two?”
“Three, sir.”
“What are your plans when that runs out?”
“I’ve been working since I was sixteen and I’ve always had a steady stream of income. Plus, I’ve got a decent amount saved. But I won’t need to dip into it. Once my background check is completed, I’ll start a position at a private security company.” Dutch finished his drink and noticed Vargas’s glass was empty. “Why don’t I get us another round?”
“I’ll have Macallan as well, but since you’re buying, make it the twenty-five-year-old.”
Dutch got up, thankful for the reprieve and time to think. He headed to the bar against the far wall in the area and ordered. “Macallan 25. Two.”
The waitress poured a generous amount of liquor into the tumblers. “That’ll be four hundred dollars.”
Dutch coughed, choking on the price. The most he’d ever spent on booze was for a keg and that had cost a fourth of the amount. He couldn’t whip out a credit card since there hadn’t been time to make a fake one for him, so he slapped down the last of the petty cash he’d been given.
The bartender threw him a disgruntled look. The crappy tip was less than 10 percent.
“All you did was pour,” he said.
She cocked a brow. “Without spitting in the glass first. I’ll be sure to remember you next time.”
Dutch picked up the rock glasses and walked back to the seating area, strategizing, his wits reined in tight.
Vargas shooed away a brunette who was in his lap and waved for Dutch to sit beside him.
Dutch handed him the drink as he lowered into the seat. They clinked glasses, and he took a sip. The smooth, silky heat slid down his throat.
That was what old and expensive tasted like.
“May I be frank with you?” Vargas asked.
“By all means. Cutting the crap will save us both time and energy. I’m nothing if not efficient.”
Vargas chuckled. “I appreciate your directness. My niece warned me that you’d speak freely, and I see that she was right. What do you know of the Vargas name in this area?”
Dutch shrugged. “Your niece owns an art gallery and you’re a big venture capitalist.”
“Where are you from? I can’t pinpoint your accent over the music.”
“I was born in New York City. Spent some time out in Chicago—”
“I’m going to cut to the chase... Dutch. To put it simply, we are royalty. My niece is a princess. Whereas you are a peasant. You aren’t good enough for her and have nothing of consequence to offer.”
Dutch sat up, setting his drink down. “What about companionship?”
“Isabel has a full life. She’s active in the community and has plenty of friends.”
“Not male friends who she feels safe around,” Dutch said, and Vargas straightened, his brows drawing together. “She’s leery of men.”
“As well she should. Guys tend to think with the little head between their legs, only interested in what they can get from a beautiful woman like Isabel. A night or two of pleasure. A bit of fun.”
Swallowing a groan, Dutch couldn’t believe how arrogant the man was, making such premature judgments based on nothing but his appearance. Vargas was the worst kind, valuing money and influence over kindness and decency.
“If all I wanted from your niece was a night of pleasure, I could’ve had that and moved on. Instead, I’ve shown her the utmost respect, which is what she deserves,” Dutch said, staying focused on Vargas as well as his surroundings. “I’m here tonight not because you wanted to meet me, but because I insisted on meeting you. Isabel is leery in the way a woman is when she’s been hurt by a man. Physically.”
Vargas uncrossed his legs and slammed his drink down on the table, spilling two-hundred-dollar scotch like it was well liquor. “What are you saying?”
From the corner of his eye, Dutch noticed the stocky guard distracted by a voluptuous woman in a glittering gold dress dancing beside him, flaunting her curves.
Then Dutch saw it. Someone trotting up the steps, hurried—cloaked in darkness. The person wore a funnel-neck hoodie. The thin material would appear stylish when pulled down, but raised, it’d obscure someone’s profile.
Too late, the guard turned and drew his gun.
The person threw something—overhand for added power and velocity. The blade struck perfectly, lodged in the bodyguard’s right eye. Staggering back, the guard dropped his gun to bring his hands to the knife and fell to his knees.
Fast, so fast, the killer reached the top of the landing and raced toward the seating area while digging into a pocket. Drawing another knife, he held it by the blade. White. Synthetic. Maybe plastic or some polymer that a metal detector would miss.
The hit man threw the knife at Vargas.