Shadows of Deception Ch. 01

Note: Depending on when this is published there may be a discrepancy in Roman's name from Solis to Aurelius. I wasn't 100% sold on Solis, it was just a placekeeper till I found something I liked more. His name is Roman Aurelius. Happy reading.

One: Shackles by Rodrigue

The night was supposed to start with a slinky dress that hadn't seen a night out in over a year, some overpriced drinks that could be made for cheaper at home, and end what she had hoped to be a memorable, hot and very irresponsible one night stand with the first gorgeous stranger she clicked with. She wasn't looking for Mr. Right, just Mr.Tonight. She wanted hard and fast sex, the kind where you didn't get fully undressed, just enough to get it done; panties pulled to the side, dress hiked up around her waist, some guys pants open, dick out, just enough to get it in. She wanted hair pulling, bruises on her hips, red marks on her neck and the thrill of a stranger pawing at her like she was the most delectable thing in existence. It had been a bad year and she needed to get fucked.

The worst she expected was a bad DJ, a disappointing romp in the sack, and a hangover. Instead, it ended with gunshots, the smell of sulfur, threats of torture, and several dead bodies at her feet.

It wasn't like she'd snuck beyond the door that read 'Employees Only' because she was trying to cause trouble. Hardly; she was just trying to make a quick getaway from a guy who thought he was hotter than he actually was. At first, it hadn't been anything personal, but he sure made it that way, a simple "not my type" situation

When it came to handling unwanted attention, especially from the opposite sex, you're often stuck with two tags: either you're leading them on and you're a tease, or you're a bitch who wasn't even that hot to begin with. Politely declining his drink offer didn't quite register in his universe where alcohol flows freely, and short dresses seem to be an open invitation for misinterpretation. He either didn't take the hint or he didn't care.

He just wouldn't quit. Following her around the bar, he was on a mission to buy her drinks, convinced it would prove he was a nice guy. She turned him down time and again, quickly dropping any pretense of being subtle or polite after the first rejection. No more "I'm waiting on friends" or "I'm not thirsty." She straight-up told him she'd rather die of thirst than take a drink from him. But did that stop him? Nope. He came back even more determined, not once but twice.

He was the type of guy who was a few years older than he let on, wore cologne to hide the fact that he was too lazy to shower before going out, and probably couldn't find the clitoris with both hands and a map but insisted he was God's gift and women loved him, when he was more like a re-gift. There wasn't a suit nice enough to cover the cringe nor was there enough liquor in the universe.

Wherever she went, he was right behind her. If she was on the dance floor, he was trying to lock in on her. Hiding in the bathroom? He was right outside. She had been dying for a smoke but there was no way in hell she was going outside where he could corner her on the dark street. And he'd made it only too clear what he'd been interested in when she decided to ditch him for good. Sure, she shouldn't have been there but she just wanted to lose the guy. The back of the house seemed as good an option as any.

The door didn't have a lock, it was a simple push and it only took her a split second to slip past it. A quick but maybe not the best decision but she didn't have a ton of options. Rejecting a man was dangerous at the best of times and she was alone in a club in a wealthy part of town where a cosmo cost nearly twenty dollars. Hit a man where it hurts; his dick or his wallet and no telling what those types would do.

The door had no window so she couldn't tell if he was right behind her but she instead decided on rounding a corner just in case he stuck his head in. Maybe it would have been better if she'd just kneed him in the crotch and run like hell. The closest corner to duck behind was at the end of a fairly long corridor. Her high heels clutched firmly in her hand as she ran barefoot down the corridor to avoid making any noise that might alert him to where she went, the LAST thing she wanted was to give him the notion she'd disappeared as a means of an invitation for him to follow. It worked a little too well and she barely made a sound, unfortunately, and not in any way that benefited her in the long run.

Several seconds of silence passed as she glanced back down the hall sticking out as little as possible with only the sound of her slightly hurried breathing. No sign of the guy, and several seconds turned into a few minutes of dead silence but something about it was wrong, the hair on the back of her neck stood up the way it did in horror stories, and as soon as she turned around, the reason became clear. That bad cold sensation ran down her back and settled in the pit of her stomach.

Shit.

As Belladonna stumbled into the room, it was clear quickly that no one was supposed to see what she was seeing. Two rough-looking men, probably used to more covert dealings, shifted from surprise to outright anger at her intrusion; faces twisting into pure outrage from the snarl of their mouths to the narrowing of their beady eyes. Their expressions practically screamed annoyance -- not just at her presence but at the extra hassle she brought with her.

The nonchalance they possessed as they casually shifted from their task at hand to reaching for convenient weapons was chilling, one dude reached for a box cutter, the metal catching the light ominously, while his buddy picked up a hefty pipe as though one might reach for a baseball bat. These were no strangers to solving problems in a back-alley fashion.

Then there was the third character, the one who set off every alarm bell in Belladonna's head screaming 'stranger danger.' Slicked back, greasy hair added a layer of griminess to the whole scene. As if that wasn't enough, a casually tucked handgun completed his menacing ensemble.

Dread crawled up Belladonna's spine as the room closed in around her as she grasped the gravity of being an unwanted witness, a witness no one else knew was there. Each glare and every weapon in play painted a vivid picture of the danger she now found herself in. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Bad. Bad. Bad.

He shook his head like a disappointed parent, as he stepped towards her hand tucked casually on the gun sticking out of his waistband, he couldn't pull off a sympathetic look if his life depended on it. Shame, because hers did.

"Bad timing lady..." He almost sounded sorry.

"You're telling me." Her voice was hardly a whisper and the words hadn't left her lips when she dropped her shoes and turned to bolt back the way she came. Shouts followed her, and the sound of heavy boots and shoes on the ground echoed loudly.

She had no idea where she was and in her panic, the simple hall back to the club's main floor had been erased from her memory and it felt like it stretched on for a mile. She took several turns hoping to run into someone, anyone but also dreading running into anyone, she had no idea if those men were the only ones who would be after her.

The sound of shoes faded and she chanced a look back but saw no one, her furious heartbeat hammered in her chest. She was alone.

Maybe they'd gotten scared and run off, afraid of being discovered while pursuing her.

Time to go home.

It would have been a great idea if she hadn't turned another corner and collided into a solid mass of man. Rough hands grabbed at her arms and pulled her back down the hall, like she weighed nothing. She shrieked, finally finding her voice and feet flailed, kicking her legs out, not knowing or seeing all that well what she was aiming for, but just hoping to hit something. Panic flooded her chest as her fight or flight kicked into overdrive.

A grimy hand quickly clamped over her mouth accompanied by an earthy, dirty smell that made her want to gag, as she was dragged back down the corridor kicking and trying to break the iron grip on her. Not that she thought anyone could honestly hear her, the music was muffled from the main dance floor which gave her little chance of being heard.

The guy in the suit was waiting for her, leisurely leaning against a table, arms crossed over his chest like he owned the place and he looked pissed. The table behind him was its own shady story, littered with small plastic bags of powder. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what it was. Then there was the briefcase of cash in plain view, with enough bills stacked high enough to make you second guess your life choices. People with good intentions didn't just wander around with that much cash. She was no narcotics cop but she knew drugs when she saw them.

Panic kicked into high gear and between feeling like passing out and feeling like throwing she bit down on the hand over her mouth, effective but it didn't win her any friends. A powerful backhand sent her flying like a rag doll against the wall hard enough that it knocked the wind right out of her. Her lungs clawed for air trying to catch up with what had just happened, that horrible feeling where you think you're dying but in her case that could very quickly become a reality. As quickly as she scrambled back into a sitting position and managed to get a breath in, gulping in lungfuls of broken air, she could taste blood on her lips.

One thumb tucked into his pocket looking down at her like this was all somehow her fault. He was the type of guy who liked looking down on people but was probably too low on the totem pole to get to do it too often. He wore gold jewelry but not in any tasteful way; gold rings, gold watch, gold chain necklace. From a distance he could have just been a guy in a bad suit, up close he looked like an extra from the movie The Goodfellas or a Mr. T reject.

He suddenly smiled and it was very off putting because it wasn't a real smile.

"Should have stuck to the dance floor." There was only one door that she could maybe reach and it was an emergency exit. The way she had come in was blocked by the two men. He watched her eyes flicker to the emergency exit and shook his head, and actually gave an audible tsk, tsk, tsk. When the exit wasn't an option she frantically searched the room for something, that little voice in the back of her mind screamed 'Now or never'.

"You know, if a sign says employees only, maybe you should stay on the other side of the door it's on."

He probably thought he had the upper hand, thought she was too scared to do anything or try anything, and she was scared shitless but not enough to do nothing. The two men behind him chuckled and he turned to nod to them. The gun was still in his waistband, and before she realized exactly what she was doing, her hand shot out and miraculously found purchase with the cold steel of the grip. She jerked her hand back, the gun went off and an odd sense of disassociation came over her.

The room smelled like sulfur and the bang was deafening, sending tinnitus ringing her ears and in an instant, she had somehow managed to fire off a shot. The suit monkey in front of her looked down at his gut where the white of the suit was quickly becoming drenched in red like someone dumped a whole bottle of red wine on him, the way he slowly looked up at her and the gurgling sound was awful. He was on his back clutching his stomach, blood flowing from where she had just shot him, looking up at her in disbelief.

His accomplices couldn't be of much help, as she caught the motion of their movements in her heightened state of panic, she raised her hand and the gun went off again two more times; one bullet struck one man in the leg just below the knee, the other in the hip. They too hit the ground, and she looked at the gun, the barrel wasn't smoking, shouldn't it have been smoking?

Oh shit. Oh fuck.

Fight had turned to flight and as quickly as she could, she scrambled to her feet making a mad dash for the way she'd come in and again, ran into another hard body.

This guy was different. He wasn't like the other men, a grip of cold steel shot out and grabbed the gun that had still been clutched in her hand, aiming towards the ceiling away from any potential targets. Another shot went off before it was wrenched from her hand, she dropped and clutched her ears. Another arm wrapped itself over her chest, keeping her from making good on her escape.

"What in the fuck is this?!"

The voice was angry; reminding her more of a barking dog than a man and when he called out to someone else she realized he wasn't alone. "Take this." His other arm now free of the gun kept her caged against his body and she had even less room to maneuver. "For fucks sake, stop struggling already!" He tossed her to the ground into a corner, her head smacking against the cinderblock wall.

"Looks like quite the party back here." Another voice, the other man, it sounded cold, detached, and completely unaffected by the chaos in the small room. Then something mechanical sounding, the gun. "Well, she won't be winning any marksman competitions anytime soon but three out of four isn't bad."

It must have been the little birdies and stars dancing around her head but there was an air of lightheartedness to his voice and she couldn't tell if it was comforting or concerning. Things either weren't as bad as they seemed or they were far worse.

"Jesus Christ, look at this mess..."

The first man sounded less angry but still plenty pissed now and more likely he was inconvenienced, like he was running late to a meeting. He turned to the suit monkey on the floor and suddenly shooting the guy seemed like a mercy compared to the look this guy was giving him

"Bar's fully staffed tonight. What's going on here, Jimmy?"

Jimmy, the guy she shot? Yeah, he looked like a Jimmy, he was bleeding out all over the floor but despite that, he didn't look even remotely concerned until the guy in the suit spoke to him and only then he looked up at him with a look of fear in his eyes. Like his greatest nightmare had stepped out of his subconscious. He tried to choke out words but nothing short of a garbled response was audible, he struggled to squirm back, looking like a worm or a maimed bird.

"Boss?"

"What is it, Mercer?"

Mercer? What the hell kind of name was that? Sounded like a cult leader. Or a serial killer. He looked like a bouncer, the small and viscous type, no hair, clean-shaven, and somehow seemed not quite human.

"We've got a bit of a situation here."

"What could possibly be worse than-" he stopped dead and his body stilled in a concerning way. The man he'd called Mercer, who she could finally see properly now, was standing next to the table holding up one of the white bags. "Fuck!"

Christ this guy could yell, he stormed across the room and snatched the bag, and examined the packet like a jeweler checks out a diamond.

"Looks like Finch's branding. Picking up some side work, Jimmy?" Mercer looked at Jimmy with pure disgust. His brow furrowed in anger and the corner of his lips turned into a restrained snarl.

"Finch?"

His voice now sounded positively feral.

She had no idea who these men were or what exactly was going on but she knew the name Finch. Everyone knew that name. Lysander Finch, drug dealer, arms supplier, owner of the Velvet Cabernet, overall a well-known name, and most definitely not a man to cross. Suddenly her presence wasn't the biggest issue in the room but the situation had gotten even more dangerous.

Christ. She just wanted to get laid not fucked.

As if he suddenly remembered she was there, he stalked over to her, held the bag's contents in his gloved hand, and looked down at her before crouching to make eye contact. Several tense moments passed, and his face gave little away in terms of what he was thinking. Maybe he was trying to decide if it was more trouble to kill her, pay her to be quiet, or count on fear to keep her silent. Maybe he was trying to decide where to dump her body.

"Know what this is?"

Yeah, it was probably drugs but she couldn't be more specific and she didn't want to give the impression that she knew more than she did, so she shook her head.

"No."

Something about how he spoke and looked at her gave her the impression that he preferred words to gestures. She shouldn't have been concerned with it but now that she could see him better it was hard to ignore. He was gorgeous. Eccentric but gorgeous. Black pinstripe suit with silver accents that were giving her hardcore Liberace vibes. Dark hair styled perfectly, a little longer on the top and shorter on the sides not slicked back like the greasy suit monkey and he was wearing rose-tinted glasses. The look worked for him but the irritated look on his face was kind of spoiling the whole thing for her.

He looked to Mercer and then back to her. She was probably much prettier when she wasn't terrified. She reminded him of a cornered mouse.

"What's your name?" His tone was flat and uninterested, like asking was just a formality.

"Belladonna Black." She tried to keep her voice from shaking but it was difficult.

"Why are you in the back of my club, Miss Black?" His lip curled in a hint of a snarl.

A weight dropped in her stomach and that cold feeling raced up her back. The kind you get when your body is trying to tell you that you're in deep shit. His club? This was Roman Aurelius. He was usually in the tabloids, known for having a volatile temper, a laughably short fuse, and extravagant tastes; now the suit and glasses made sense.

It took a minute for her lips to form words, suddenly dealing with a creepy guy wasn't so bad compared to this.

"I--I was trying to lose a guy in the club, I just ducked back here long enough to lose him."

He didn't seem very impressed with her reasoning but he also didn't seem like he didn't believe her.

"And it looks like you walked in on something that you weren't supposed to see. Well, that's unfortunate..." His voice went cold. "Maybe you should have found a bouncer instead."

She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, that was the sort of thing you heard just before you had your brains blown out.

"Boss?"

Mercer held out a smartphone to Roman, he rose up and looked at the phone, watching carefully, the audio was loud enough for her to recognize her own voice and the sounds of running and struggle.

While Roman looked at the phone, Mercer kept an eagle eye on her with an expression that said he definitely had a plan to kill her and dispose of the body or knew the right drug to give her to make her forget this while night had happened; he was just waiting on word and that he didn't particularly care which one happened. Mercer was one of the most intimidating men she'd ever seen, if his stone-cold sociopathic expression didn't do it, the dozens of scars from what looked like knives, bullets, and burns across his chest as well as neck, did. He sported scars like most men had tattoos. His gaze was icy, suggesting that the workings of his mind were very pragmatic and matter-of-fact. Meanwhile Roman seemed to be having a debate in his head, he looked like he was trying to solve a very complex math equation that no one else could see. He handed the phone back to Mercer and shoved his hands in his pockets and with a tilt of his head he studied her.

"Well, look at that Angel. Looks like you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Nothing could be more innocent." His emphasis on the word innocent suggested he believed in the concept about as much as unicorns. "Kill the feed."