Miller caressed her hair and brushed it back for her when it would fall into her face.
“Mama was sick when I left for America. I felt so guilty leaving, but she told me I had to go, that if I did not, when I was an old woman, I would regret it. She was right, as she is in most things. I know I will never see them again, and it breaks my heart. But I like to think that my brother found his way home to Mama and Papa and is helping people as best he can.”
There was nothing Miller could say. No words would ease her heart on the subject. Her family was half a world away; they might as well have been on the moon.
They sat in each other’s arms as the stars passed above until Miller finally broke the silence. “I’ll get us some more wine.”
“Okay.”
Miller was nearly shaking; he steadied himself to pour the wine. She was really home. It still didn’t feel right to call this place home, but if she was here, then home it was. He put the bottle back into the refrigerator, palmed the glasses, and turned to the balcony.
Soraya stood naked, silhouetted against the moonlight, her green dress in a pile around her feet. Her emerald jewelry glistened in the moonlight. If she had any say in the matter, she’d never remove the stones.
Miller set the glasses down; he undid his tie and went to her. They embraced, kissing passionately under the stars. Soraya undid his belt and buttons; she slid her hands underneath his clothes and undressed him. She pulled him close—felt his body against hers and his warm breath on her skin. She’d dreamed of this moment for months in that hotel. When she was at her lowest, even with Isabelle for company, the hope—the sliver of a chance—that she would be reunited with him drove her forward.
Soraya arched her back and opened herself up to him completely as he gently ran kisses up and down her neck. She guided him inside of her and held back tears of joy for fear of spoiling the moment. If there existed a way to hold him tighter, she would. For them both and for so very long, this moment remained nothing more than fantasy, a dream that neither truly expected to ever see manifest. Soraya and Miller embraced under the stars, and after such a long road filled with loss and trials, all other concerns faded away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
A Creeping Frustration
The crowd in Underworld was more riled up than usual. Perhaps the spectators knew that up above Kayembe was entertaining and that, with him, heightened security would follow. Those below were like children left alone to their own devices, their parents trusting that they would return home to find everything is in order after a well-deserved night off. The children, of course, were off the leash; a taste of freedom and their truest impulses boiled to the surface.
The Pit was overly crowded, and people were jammed in shoulder to shoulder. More fights than usual graced the ring as, one after the other, downed opponents were hauled off behind the scenes to be tended to by Underworld’s version of a medical staff. Perhaps it was the full moon. People often said that beasts emerged on such nights. Foul creatures with a taste for blood, and their human counterparts with appetites just as deadly. Why should now be any different?
Isabelle had already fought—more than once. She never lingered afterward; she either went to the tattoo man or returned to her quarters for her other job.
Radzinski didn’t raise his hands when the announcer introduced him to a throng of doting fans. He simply looked on at his opponent with a deathly stare and a cruelty that was unbecoming of the man. Radzinski exuded an aura that made his opponent doubt whatever life decisions had led him to this spot right here, right now, across the ring from a man who was clearly becoming unhinged.
Was it too late to back out? the man wondered. His question was answered with the ring of the bell. He led with his fists together, extended forward to tap hands as a show of respect before any fight.
Radzinski swatted the man’s hands away and immediately went in for the kill. A right to the guy’s ribs took his breath away; a left to his jaw and another right to the temple buckled his legs. Radzinski kicked him in the sternum, and what little air the man had left in his lungs escaped as he collapsed. Radzinski followed him to the mat and relentlessly pounded on his face. The man went unconscious in a matter of seconds, though that didn’t faze the enraged Marine. Radzinski beat on that man like he never hit another human being in his life, as if this poor soul was the crux of every frustration that Radzinski faced. Months of servitude under Lady Setsuko’s thumb had driven him to it. The referee tried to pull him off. He couldn’t. Other fighters stormed the ring; it took five of them to untangle Radzinski from the pulp that was his opponent.
Afterward, Radzinski yanked the towel from his cornerman and wiped the sweat and blood from his face and chest. “Get outta here,” he barked.
~~~
Damon dissolved away into a booth in a darkened corner of Underworld proper. He was surrounded by a group of women, most of them could barely keep their eyes open. The girls appeared far higher than anyone should ever dare while out in the open like this, especially in Underworld. So did Damon, for that matter. Just outside of his booth, some of his men stood guard in a semicircle. A few of them were sober or at least what passed for sober of late. Most of Damon’s crew, though, had that lean about them like a strong breeze would knock them over. Damon led by example; if he was going to use his own product, then so would his underlings. It had been weeks since he last reprimanded one of his crew for anything, much less put his hands on anyone for anything other than titillation. If it wasn’t for his crew’s swelling numbers, the Vatos certainly would have reneged on their deal by now. As it were, they merely observed and plotted how best to use this to their advantage.
The leader of the Vatos, Paloma, held sway over certain sections of Underworld, as long as those sections didn’t overlap with either the Haitians’ or the now-defunct Hooligans’ territory, though in such small confines the idea of territory and turf was laughable. The lines blurred and were in a constant state of flux. Who owned what tentatively agreed-upon space between bartender Mike’s place and the Pit was ultimately left up to the gang leaders’ discretion and the mood of the day.
Paloma was no fool. She knew all too well that a peace between multiple gangs in a finite area wouldn’t last forever. It couldn’t. Logistics made it impossible, and unless everyone who lived above suddenly decided that they didn’t want to work and got themselves thrown into Underworld, then the gang’s customer bases were finite as well. There were only so many resources to go around, traded from one hand to the next. A guy down the hall might have a nice pair of shoes that would be hers tomorrow, and that same pair of shoes might belong to the Haitians or Sona the following week. Once an item made its way downstairs to Lady Setsuko’s domain, that was where it would stay. The economy of Underworld began and ended with her. The Hooligans and the Haitians didn’t want to work with outsiders, none of them, rival gangs included. Paloma hoped that just maybe Damon could see reason; with his swelling numbers, a compromise would be best for all. The alternative was Setsuko running over all of them, one gang at a time.
Paloma wore giant baggy jeans and a white T-shirt with a matching hat that held up mounds of long, curly hair. Massive hoop earrings swayed when she talked. She wasn’t the most vocal member of her gang, but since she was the leader, others often spoke for her. When she did speak, it meant something, and she used a fast, heavy-accented intonation with huge, animated expressions to emphasize her point. Paloma marched up to Damon’s booth. She didn’t bring a show of force; she came alone to prove to Damon that she honestly only wanted to discuss the future of Underworld on equal footing. “Damon, we need to talk.”
Even in their current state, Damon’s guards did their job. They wouldn’t let her pass. “Not so fast,” the soberest of the bunch said. “The boss isn’t taking meetings right now. Leave your contact info and he’ll get back to you.”
“Contact info?” Paloma’s cool demeanor was nearly shattered. “You know goddamn well who I am, puto.”
Damon’s guards were amused with themselves; so was Damon, for that matter. Even so, he straightened himself and waved her in.
Paloma pushed past the guards who didn’t bother to move out of the way but took the opportunity to check out her tight body as she squeezed by.
“Come on in, Paloma.” Damon sat up straight, or as straight as he was able.
“We need to talk.” She stood opposite Damon with her hands at her sides. She eyed with contempt the wasted girls who stirred on either side of Damon.
“I’m all ears. Can I offer you a hit? I need a pick-me-up.” Damon motioned to a pile of cocaine sitting on a mirror.
“No, thank you. That’s not why I’m here. You mind getting them out of here?” Paloma nodded at the gaggle of women half-passed-out around the table.
“Man, you’re no fun,” Damon said before relenting. “Alright, you heard her. Get the fuck up.”
Slowly, the girls did as they were told, but not without a little help from Damon’s guards, who escorted the women across the way to Mike’s bar.
“So what can I do for you?”
“It’s what we can do for each other. It’s no secret that you’ve amassed quite the following on the heels of my generosity.”
“I didn’t take shit from you. I can’t help it if people are naturally attracted to me. We had a deal, and I fulfilled my end of it.”
Damon had a sudden sense of clarity about him, and it gave Paloma pause. It left her pondering if he was feigning the wasted act all along.
“You did fulfill your end of the bargain. That’s why I’m standing here talking to you instead of cutting you up into little pieces.” She couldn’t help herself; the bravado came as second nature after months of hard living.
“Hmpf.” Damon grinned. “You couldn’t get away with that now if you tried. So I’ll ask again. What do you want?”
“I want us to work together. To pool our resources.”
“I thought the Vatos didn’t like outsiders. Why the change of heart?”
“I can see the writing on the wall. War is in the air. You can feel it. Lady Setsuko is about to bulldoze this place and you, me, and the Haitians with it. What happened to Rottweiler and the Hooligans can easily happen to the rest of us. It will happen to the rest of us. She’s going to destroy all of us, and when the dust settles, she’ll have the majority stake in Underworld and the numbers she needs to put Sona down once and for all.”
“So why come to me? Why not talk to what’s-his-name? That asshole who runs the Haitians.”
“Luther, and no, they won’t have it. If you’re not island-born, then the Haitians won’t so much as talk.”
“So you come begging me for help?”
“Who’s begging? I’m calling in a favor, plain and simple. I gave you your start. If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have shit down here. You’d be forced to get in the Pit for chits and something tells me you wouldn’t fare as well as your Marine friend.”
Damon studied Paloma in silence for a moment. He knew her well enough that for her to come to him like this alone, she must have been more than a little concerned. But on the other hand, this revelation of hers worked in Damon’s favor. If the rival gangs took each other out, Damon could pick up the pieces and claim all of Underworld for his own. “Let me sleep on it. I’ll get back to you.”
“You’ll get back to me. Nice.” Paloma closed her eyes for a moment, lest frustration dictate her next move. Is Damon really this dense or is he playing an angle? “While you’re keeping yourself high and getting your fill of ass, things are being put into motion that are soon going to be out of control. We have a chance to keep breathing, but we have got to act now. Try not to think on it too long.” Paloma excused herself.
As she made her way through the bar and back toward Vatos territory, Damon noticed that eight people spread throughout the surrounding area rose and followed. He grinned and nodded slowly at the realization. Paloma didn’t come alone after all. Part of her crew was mingling with the crowd; they had probably been there for as long as he had, maybe longer.
One of Damon’s guards sat down beside him. Guillermo was a former member of the Vatos, an opportunist who recognized which way the wind was blowing. He abandoned Paloma when it became clear her faction’s days were nearing their end. The man wore a well-groomed black beard, and he kept his hair styled back but let a few strands casually fall in front of his forehead. He typically wore tight black T-shirts and matching jeans that hugged his carefully cultivated physique. Golden earrings, chains, and bracelets finished out his appearance. He was smooth, and he spoke in a smoky, even tone. Guillermo quickly earned Damon’s trust when he revealed he had an in with the bet-taker at the Pit and a line on fixed fights.
The three women who had been escorted to the bar earlier returned the moment Paloma and her crew were out of sight. Two of them joined Damon’s guards standing watch while a third, a Jamaican girl with long, purple braids, joined Damon and his man at the table. Shayna wore a golden septum ring, and she had a violet, half-inch-wide vertical line tattooed on her bottom lip that ran from the inside of her mouth to the middle of her neck. Her hair fell to her belly and swayed around her exposed midriff just below a black sports bra that covered an intricate set of tattoos on her back and chest. She wore cut-off jean shorts over fishnet stockings and black motorcycle boots. Shayna proved herself when she slit the throat of a Haitian who was attempting to shake down Damon as he was taking his first, tentative steps toward power.
Everyone sitting at and those standing around the table appeared—for anyone paying attention—suddenly and mysteriously sober.
“So what do you think? Is she telling the truth?” Guillermo asked while using two fingers to wave over a wandering server.
“Most likely.” Damon sat up straight. He had a determination in his eyes.
“What are we going to do about it?” Shayna asked through a sneer as she lit a long, thin cigar.
Damon watched Paloma disappear into the crowd over by the River Styx. “We’re not going to do shit. Let these motherfuckers kill each other. When this turf war has run its course, we’ll finish off whoever is left standing.”
~~~
Isabelle wasted no time acclimating to Underworld. While her friend Soraya lived above and spent her days and nights finding her way and getting to know her new shipmates, Isabelle had found a place of her own where she could thrive, and she was earning hand over fist. By the end of her first week aboard Haven, Isabelle had bought herself a room just off of Underworld’s main drag, where she could more easily accommodate her clientele. She didn’t mind getting people off in dirty corners or rented brothel rooms, but many of her customers did. So she decided the best business sense was to cough up the chits for a room.
Isabelle was busy with a threesome, her second of the day. She was sandwiched between a man beneath her and a woman with a strap-on from behind. Another man was unconscious in a corner; Isabelle was more than he bargained for. She used him up and threw him away. Her clients were on a time limit, though not one that they had any say over. When Isabelle stopped enjoying herself, the session was concluded, be it five minutes or fifty. That these people were paying customers was not a factor. A client the day before learned that the hard way. She was finished; he insisted that she wasn’t. He left her room with a dislocated shoulder and a fractured cock.
Doctor Nazneen couldn’t help but guffaw at the sight when the man rushed to the infirmary in tears. She knew exactly what had happened, and as far as she was concerned, it served him right. Word traveled fast aboard Haven, and tales of a wild woman in Underworld who would do anything—and they meant anything in the privacy of her own quarters if you had the coin—was the exact kind of gossip she secretly yearned for. Nazneen would don a disguise and meet this woman with a list of her own and a pocket full of chits. As soon as she worked up the nerve.
“Get out,” Isabelle said with the threat of impending violence in her voice.
&n
bsp; Both clients, though mid-thrust, did as they were told. The woman was just about where she needed to be, and although she was frustrated, she didn’t put up a fight. They scraped their friend from the floor and left as fast as they were able.
Isabelle lit a cigarette and stood in her open doorway with only a sarong around her waist as she scanned Underworld. Both arms were bandaged up, covered in gauze. As were her shoulder blades. Cautious onlookers snuck a peek where they could but were careful not to gain her attention. Isabelle stood and took in the sights for the seven minutes or so that it took for her to finish her cigarette. She was never in a rush, even though she had a fight coming up, her third of the day. After that, she had another appointment with the tattoo artist and then more clients later. She kept herself busy, if nothing else.
Paloma was passing and almost continued on her way but stopped for a word with Isabelle. “Your friend has a chance to change the course of the way things work down here. Someone needs to talk some sense into him.”
“Damon is no friend of mine.” Isabelle slowly turned to face the gang leader.
“Yeah, but the Marine is.”
“So?”
“So you can talk to Radzinski and he can talk to Damon. If some of us don’t start working together soon, we’re all going to get picked off one by one.”
“How is that my problem?” Isabelle remained emotionless but kept her eyes locked on Paloma.
Paloma stared for a moment while weighing the outcome of this impromptu conversation. “Never mind,” she said while leaving. Paloma continued toward Vatos territory, frustrated and shaking her head over the futility of even trying to have a conversation with Isabelle.
Isabelle shrugged as she watched Paloma leave the area surrounding the River Styx. She turned her attention to Damon, who was far across the expanse. He was none the wiser of her and Paloma’s brief interaction. Isabelle had her own agenda to worry about; whatever was brewing in Underworld was of no concern to her.
The Roaming (Book 3): Haven's Promise Page 34
