Venom & Glory (Venom Trilogy Book 3)

by S Williams

  I was fucked over, and I have made it very clear to never fuck me over and never think I won’t show my wrath, no matter who you are to me.

  A line wraps around the nightclub in the heart of Cancun, the bass of the music rattling the supposedly vintage building. They say it’s vintage, but to me it’s a piece of shit that needs updating and remodeling before the roof falls on their heads.

  The stench of cheap weed and cigarettes floats around me as I walk past the line and to the entrance. When the bouncer sees me and the two men trailing behind, he immediately steps to the side to let us in.

  People shout and protest, demanding to know why they can’t go in, too.

  I ignore it all, my eyes ahead, my chin held high, and a pistol with a silencer hidden under my suit jacket, tucked away behind my back.

  It’s a completely different atmosphere when I enter. It’s much darker, strobe lights pulsing, but hardly giving any actual light.

  The bar is surrounded with bodies, waitresses rushing around with trays above their heads, wearing skimpy leather skirts or dresses and way too much hairspray.

  There are people everywhere, either dancing, drinking, or sitting because they can’t hold their fucking liquor. It’s way too hot and way too crowded.

  I walk through the crowd, toward the spiral staircase not too far ahead of me. The DJ shouts something into the microphone, making the guests scream and cheer even louder, some even rushing to the dance floor when the song changes.

  I hustle up the stairs with my men behind me.

  I know he’s here.

  He thinks he’s safe. He is sadly mistaken.

  I walk past each curtained VIP section—past the men getting lap dances from idiotic American girls and a group of women squealing as they down shot after shot of tequila, sporting bridesmaid ribbons and glittery white shirts.

  I start to get annoyed, sweat prickling at my forehead…until I finally hear him.

  That motherfucker’s raspy, dry laugh can’t be mistaken.

  I look over my shoulder, holding a hand up, signaling for my men to keep watch of the hallway.

  “Don’t let anyone through,” I order, and they nod, turning with their arms folded in front of them, keeping watch.

  I draw my gun, walking toward the sound of his voice. I meet up to a black curtain and don’t hesitate. I yank the curtain open, ripping most of it off the rod.

  A bitch with long black hair, wearing only a thong, screams as she scrambles back, her body hitting the sofa. My teeth grit together when I hear him curse, and stumble back.

  “Oh, shit!” Morales yells. “Je—Jefe, what’s going on, man? W—what can I help you with?”

  My jaw clenches tight as I step toward him, towering over him. “Get down on your fucking knees,” I order in Spanish, and he drops down, eyes bloodshot and watery as he stares up at me. He throws his hands in the air. I bring my gun up, gripping his face with one hand and lifting the gun to his face with the other. “Open your fucking mouth.”

  He blinks quickly. “Jefe—”

  “I said OPEN YOUR FUCKING MOUTH! NOW!”

  He groans in defeat, his chin falling. As soon as his mouth is open, I cram the barrel of my gun into his mouth. I grip a patch of his hair with one hand, my finger weighing on the trigger.

  “I think you forgot exactly whose bitch you really are,” I snarl, glaring down at him. He blinks rapidly, making muffled noises around the gun. “You lied to me, Morales. She wasn’t where you said she would be. You set me up.”

  He tries to shake his head, but I squeeze the patch of hair in my hand, tugging harder.

  I pull the barrel from his mouth, pressing it into his cheek.

  “No, Jefe, please!” he pleads. “You have to understand—she told me to tell you she would be there because she wanted to talk! She said you wouldn’t be harmed!”

  “And you believed that shit?” I snap, jerking his hair again and forcing his head back. “She tried to fucking kill me! She sent a message with my cousin’s skull . . . and you didn’t know?”

  “Ahh!” he cries out, tears lining his eyes. The bitch in the thong whimpers from her corner, her hands shooting in the air when I look over at her.

  Towering over him, I grab Morales by his thick throat, eyes boring into his. “You are nothing but a piece of shit, Morales. I have no idea why my father ever trusted a sloppy, no-good, traitorous motherfucker like you.” I shove him away from me, and his body hits the floor. “Fat, lying, greedy pieces of shit like you don’t deserve to fucking live.”

  “No—wait! Please, Jefe!” He crawls on his knees toward me, begging with his hands clasped. “Please! If you just give me another chance, I’ll find her. I—I’ll get her to you.”

  He can beg all he wants. It’s too fucking late. He works for her. He’s sold himself out. That’s why he’s here. He was celebrating. He thought he was never going to see me again.

  He was fucking wrong.

  The Jefe won’t fall that easily.

  My gun goes off.

  One quiet, seamless bullet through the brain. Two more through his chest. He falls backward, eyes stretched with horror, landing hard on the dirty floor, body slumping like the sack of worthless shit he is.

  The bitch he had with him screams at the top of her lungs. Her scream doesn’t last for long. I shoot her in the head, too, for associating with a worthless fucker like him.

  Her body falls forward, crashing onto the glass table, her face landing in the pile of coke.

  One of my guards appears behind me, his gun out, ready to fire.

  I turn, walking out of the room. My guards follow suit without a single word.

  Everyone is too drunk or high to notice us. I bet they won’t even find the bodies until morning.

  See, that’s the thing about places like this.

  This is why they’ve never intrigued or enticed me.

  A person can die right up under their noses, and they still dance and party and get drunk, completely unaware of their surroundings. A bomb could be getting placed in one of the stalls in the bathrooms. The bartender could be spiking the bottles, drugging the women and dragging them off to be shipped and sold, and not a fucking soul would notice.

  Only the weak-minded need things like this to feel alive—parties, and drugs, and drink after drink after drink.

  Anything could happen, because they aren’t paying any fucking attention or staying aware of their surroundings. Because they think this world is safe and that nothing will ever happen to them.

  That was Morales’ problem. He thought he was invincible. He never took me seriously. He never paid any fucking attention to what I was actually saying, even when my threats were perfectly clear.

  Even when he’s witnessed my wrath, he still betrayed me. He celebrated before he even found out if was I still alive.

  He was weak, and being involved with the weak has never fucking suited me.

  22

  GIANNA

  My heart is pounding, my lungs filled with the cold, night air as Clark and I jog through the woods, shoving branches and thick pines out of the way.

  “Remind me why we couldn’t take one of the cars,” I huff, trying to catch up to him.

  “Traceable,” he pants. “He has trackers on them, and the guards keep watch of them, just in case one is ever stolen or if we’re running a deal. An alarm goes off at our station when one is in use. It’ll wake them up, and the first person they’ll alert is my dad.”

  “Of course.” I keep jogging by his side until a clearing opens up ahead. Streetlights filter through the thick pines, and Clark picks up his pace, trooping ahead.

  We step onto asphalt, and he comes to a halt, looking to the left, where a black Subaru is parked on the side of the road. He pulls out a set of keys and unlocks it, yanking the door open and hopping into the driver’s seat.

  I load myself into the passenger seat, the scent of stale cigarettes and expensive cologne closing me in.

  “Let me guess?
” I say, catching my breath. “Your getaway car?”

  “Only way he can’t figure out where I am all the time.” He starts the car up and puts the transmission in gear, gripping the stick and pulling off with a loud purr from the exhaust.

  “Why does he want to know where you are all the time?” I ask him. “Does he not trust you?”

  He shrugs, switching lanes and changing gears again. “He has his reasons not to trust me.”

  “And what are they?”

  He side-eyes me briefly before focusing on the road, the streetlamps flashing on his face. “A year ago, I killed someone he thought he could trust.”

  My eyebrows draw together. “Who?”

  “His best friend.” He pauses for a second, most likely debating whether he should continue with the story. I’m glad he does. It helps distract me from the fact that I’m walking away from ultimate bliss and right back into the fire and chaos.

  “His name was Louis,” Clark continues. “He was mine and Jen’s godfather. We thought we could trust him. He’d always told me that if I ever needed to get away, to come hang with him at his place. I always did. He never bothered me, and I never bothered him or got in his way. But one day while I was at his place, I eavesdropped. I’m nosy as fuck, and I don’t care to admit it. I want to know everything.” He shrugs like he’s trying to prove a point. “I heard him talking to someone on the phone, saying how he was going to bring Big Jack with him to some warehouse and that ‘it’ could happen there. I couldn’t figure out what the fuck ‘it’ was until I came home and heard my dad on the phone ordering some of our men to pack the trucks with guns that had just been shipped in.

  “I did what any nosy-as-fuck mafia son would do. I followed him—in this car—to the warehouse. Saw Louis with some man and instantly got a bad vibe. The man was trying to bargain or cut a deal, but Big Jack wasn’t having it. He wanted all the money upfront, since this man was a new buyer. So the man pulled a gun on him. And then Louis pulled a gun on him, too. His own best friend.” He smiles, like he’s remembering something. He makes a right turn, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter now.

  “But as it happened, an idea struck me. I had my gun on me. Two guns, actually. He didn’t like guns in the house, so I always kept them in this car. I came out of my hiding spot and shot both of them in the head. I’ve always had a good aim. Big Jack didn’t see it coming. He was stupid for going alone, thinking Louis could be trusted. Thinking anyone could be trusted.”

  “Wow,” I murmur.

  “He was pissed,” he chuckles. “He shouted at me all the way home, saying how it was going to be a mess to clean up and that he was disappointed in me for following, but I think he was really disappointed in himself for falling victim to Louis’ bullshit. And I also think he was proud of what I’d done.” He runs a hand over his hair. “The thing about Big Jack Nicotera is that he thinks he can be what his brother was, but he can’t. He thinks he can go to meets and deals alone like Lion could—because Lion was respected enough—but he can’t. Because he’s not Lion. He wants to live up to what Lion was, but he never will, because he trusts too easily and his gut isn’t hard enough. That’s why we’re here—in the middle of fucking nowhere. Because the threats are everywhere, and unlike Lion, who knew how to handle his threats, my father is never bold enough. Or maybe he’s just fucking lazy now. Whatever the reason is, he lays low. Only comes out when he has to. Hired more men. More bodies. Stopped dealing with supplying drugs altogether. It’s just guns now.”

  “Having a soft gut doesn’t necessarily make you weak,” I say.

  “In our world, it fucking does. I learned young,” he tells me, voice harder now. “I was fucked over one time, and I swore to never let that shit happen to me again.” His jaw flexes, brows furrowing.

  I inhale and then exhale deeply, looking out of the window. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ve killed someone too.”

  He doesn’t even look at me. “I know you have. That cold look in your eyes is very familiar to me.”

  I look over at him, about to question what he means, but the car slows down, pulling onto a rocky path. He shuts off his headlights and parks in front of a small brick house.

  There is a garage off to the left, the lights on inside it. He hops out in a matter of seconds. Before I get out, I fetch my gun and then push the door open, following him to the garage.

  He presses a button and it opens automatically.

  First I see the athletic shoes, and then the jeans, and then rope around a striped blue shirt. When the gate is fully open, Clark steps forward with a crooked smile, and the man jerks in his chair.

  “Here he is. The pilot,” Clark announces with way too much pride.

  I frown at him. “What the hell, Clark? Why is he tied up?” I hiss. “I thought you said he was home!”

  “When I said home, I really meant that I took him from his house, brought him to a private garage of mine, and roped his ass in a fucking chair.” He looks at me, and I throw my hands out, utterly confused. “What? He wouldn’t fucking cooperate, so I dragged his ass here. Be glad that I did it. That motherfucker was heavy.” He turns his back, and I sigh, twisting around and facing the pilot. I take my gun out and then place my bag down.

  Walking up to him, I slowly peel the tape off of his mouth. He scowls up at me, breathing fast, eyes full of panic.

  “Please,” he begs. “Don’t kill me, please. I swear, I didn’t do anything. I’ve only been doing my job!”

  I stand up straight. “What’s your name?”

  “Travis.”

  “Well, I only need your cooperation, Travis. That’s it. We take you to the jet, you get it running for us, and get me to Mexico. When you get me there, this will all be over, and you can go back to doing your job.”

  “Mexico.” He blows a breath. “I—I would have to make a pit stop for gas, and I can’t do that without checking in. He told me I can’t check in anywhere!” His eyes dart over to Clark.

  I glance back at Clark, who rolls his eyes.

  I bend over, pressing my palms into the tops of my thighs. “Listen, I don’t care if you check in. By the time anyone catches on, we’ll be too far ahead for them to do anything about it. Yeah, they may come after us, and yeah they might catch you, but if Uncle Jack asks, just tell him Gia Nicotera wanted to get back to Mexico, and she forced Clark to come along with her. Tell them I had guns to both your heads, if that’ll help. You’ll be in the clear and so will Clark.” I walk behind him, pulling at one of the knots in the rope.

  “Why would I lie for him after what he did to me?” he demands, glaring at Clark. “He took me during the middle of the night, while my family was sleeping. They could have seen what happened. My wife is pregnant!”

  “Uh, I think if you want to keep your fucking job, Travey boy, then you’ll say exactly what the fuck she told you to say, and go along with it. Your kids won’t be feeding themselves, right? Your family relies on the money we give to you.”

  “Oh, don’t you dare bring my kids into this,” Travis seethes.

  “Oh my God. Seriously?” I roll my eyes. “Just shut the hell up and help me untie him. You two can argue later.”

  Clark turns with a ghostly sneer. He pulls a pocketknife out of his front pocket and pushes a button on the side of it, slinging the blade out. Travis freezes up as Clark walks toward him with the knife. He grabs the top of the rope and slices through it, staring down at Travis the whole time.

  Once the rope is undone, I step back, and Travis stands up, still wary.

  “Better not give us any trouble, Travey boy. I’ve got my eyes on you.”

  “If I get fired—”

  “If Big Jack fires you, then I will make sure you get enough money so that you never have to work for anyone ever again.” They both look back at me. Clark’s eyes scream his doubt, and Travis is flat-out stunned. I wave a hand. “I have a soft spot for kids. Can we go now?”

  Clark walks past me, to the exit. I point at
Travis with my gun, motioning with it for him to move along. He gives me a nervous glance before walking out.

  When we’re outside, Travis says, “I try to stay out of the loop on these things—what goes on in the mafia family—but you must be her. The girl they all kept talking about. The one who was abducted and then set free by some kingpin in Mexico. Now you’re trying to go back there?”

  I really am getting sick of everyone wondering why I want to go back. Maybe when they see Draco and me together, they’ll understand. Until then, I’ll keep my mouth shut and let his actions speak for themselves.

  We meet up to Clark’s car, and I open the back door for Travis. “Get in,” I order, ignoring his statement.

  He climbs in without hesitation, and I slam the door behind him.

  “Hey, take it easy on the doors, Tomb Raider,” Clark snaps as he starts the car up.

  “Just drive.” I shut the passenger door and place my gun on my lap. “How long to get to the private strip?”

  “About twenty-five minutes,” Clark answers.

  “Is the plane fueled?” I ask, looking over my shoulder at Travis.

  “Yes. There is a full tank and it was already checked, inside and out, by a mechanic.”

  “And we’ll only need to make one stop to fill up?”

  “Yes,” he answers.

  “Good.”

  Travis slouches back in the seat, and Clark puts the car in motion. We ride mostly in silence, but my mind is screaming. I have no idea what the hell I’m doing. This is a suicide mission, for sure.

  For all I know, as soon as I cross that border, someone will recognize me and inform Yessica, and she’ll come for me again. I’m praying the opposite happens, and they inform Draco instead.

  Clark parks in an abandoned lot, leading us to the private runway on foot. I can see the jet. It’s white, with a thick black line across the middle. It’s not as big as Draco’s, but it’s nice. Simple. Just like Uncle Jack and his family—well, all of them but Clark.

  There is no one around, to my surprise. There is a booth a couple yards away, but it doesn’t look like anyone is in it.