Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(54)

“Find some f*cking duct tape or something,” Lorenzo says, turning, storming past me. “Fucking incompetence.”

He makes his way back to the library, the door slamming so hard I flinch.

The men stream out of the room, moving past me, all of them except for Seven, who stands near the window in silence. It doesn’t take half a dozen guys to find duct tape, but I’m guessing none of them want to be the one who ignore an order.

I head to the library to check on Lorenzo, my hand grasping the knob when Seven’s voice calls out, “Don’t do it.”

I stall, glancing back, seeing he followed me out, his expression serious.

“If the door opens, he’s liable to shoot,” he says. “He probably won’t even look to see who it is.”

I slowly pull my hand away from the knob, casting the door a sidelong look, as the men filter back through the hallway, one of them carrying a roll of silver duct tape.

“Come on,” Seven says, motioning to the living room where the men congregate. “Join us.”

I hesitate before going back that way, giving the library door one more look. The guy with the darkest features layers duct tape over the hole before dropping the roll onto the coffee table in front of him. They all go back to hanging out, like nothing had happened, barely missing a beat as they pick up liquor bottles, someone rolling a blunt.

I don’t know what they did with the body.

Someone took him out the back door before returning, empty-handed.

“Scarlet, right?” Seven asks, lingering by the door.

“That’s what he calls me,” I say, pausing beside him. “My name’s actually Morgan.”

Seven smiles, holding his hand out. “Pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Seven.”

I shake his hand. “Do you have a real name?”

“Bruno,” he says, “but you can just call me Seven. It makes things easier around here.”

“Seven,” I repeat. “It doesn’t bother you that he refuses to call you by your name?”

“Why, does it bother you?”

“No,” I say. “Not really.”

I’m surprised by my own answer. It’s true, it doesn’t bother me that he doesn’t call me Morgan, although the first time he called me Scarlet, it hit a nerve. Holding my arm up, I shove my hoodie sleeve up, glancing at the tattoo on my wrist. My Scarlet Letter, he calls it. If only he knew how close that was to reality...

“Is he okay?” I ask, dropping my arm again. “Lorenzo?”

“He’ll be fine,” Seven says. “He just loses his cool every now and then. When the door’s closed, leave him alone. When he feels better, he’ll come back out. His library is off limits so don’t go in without permission. If the door’s open and he’s in there, consider whether or not you really need him, because he’s just as liable to shoot you as he is to say ‘come in’.”

I blink at him. “I feel like I should be taking notes.”

“Probably ought to,” someone else says with a laugh. I glance over at the other guys. They’re all looking at me, but it was the blond that spoke. “He’s Natural Selection, live and in the flesh. If you want to make it, adapt, because it’s survival of the fittest around here. He weeds out the weak.”

Hence the missing numbers, I’m guessing, but I don’t say that. I don’t say anything.

Reintroductions are made by Seven. He calls me Morgan, giving the others the courtesy of their real names. Three, the blond guy, turns out to be Declan Jackson, while Five, the one with dark features, is named Frank Romano. The others, they all blend together, and I’m not trying to be an * about that, but they’re just Italian guys with Americanized names. There’s a Joey, a Johnny, something else... whatever.

There aren’t any more chairs, so I end up sitting on the coffee table, ignoring the alcohol, passing on smoking, trying to keep a clear head, but I get a contact high pretty quickly. They’re all nice, I guess… nicer than I’m used to. Time fades away as they kid around, and I laugh a bit at their antics. They’re almost like young boys, telling fart jokes.

I never hear the door reopen, but eventually, he’s just there. Frank’s telling a story, I’m barely paying attention, when he suddenly says, “Ain’t that right, boss?”

“You know it.”

Lorenzo’s voice is quiet, calling out from the doorway, looking like he might’ve been lurking awhile. His eyes are fixed on me, his expression unreadable. It’s like the man is an open book but whatever his story is just happens to be written in a different language.

One I can’t read at all.

It’s there, but what does it mean?

“Why don’t you fellas take off for the night?” he suggests, although it’s pretty clear that’s really an order, since they all immediately get to their feet, swiping the liquor bottles and carrying them along as they shuffle toward the front door. Mumbled goodbyes are cast my way from a few of them, but for the most part they just nod to Lorenzo before disappearing.

After the front door closes behind them, Lorenzo strolls my direction, stepping past me to survey the thick duct tape patch over the hole on the couch. “Which one of those jackasses…?”

“Frank,” I say, earning a peculiar look from him, his brow creasing with confusion. I roll my eyes. Of course. Does he even know their names? “Five, I guess you call him. His real name’s Frank.”