Their Queenpin (The Ridge MC #6)

Chapter 35Sas

Chapter Thirty-Five

Sas

I barely got the words out before Pip yanked the limo to the curb. The tires squealed against the pavement, but I didn’t wait for the car to stop before throwing the door open and leaping out.

My eyes locked on the SUV idling outside the Parisi Hotel. Through the cracked tinted back window, I caught a glimpse of Miguel lounging in the backseat. He’d cleaned up since his time in the cell, but the cartel fucker had a large forehead I would recognize anywhere.

Glancing out at me, Miguel grinned, as smug as ever. Every muscle in my body tightened, the memory of that bastard tormenting me in jail still fresh, burning through my veins.

Up front, in the driver’s seat, Ghost sat stiffly, trying to look inconspicuous, but the rat couldn’t hide. He was no longer a prospect—he was Miguel’s puppet. In fucking bed with the cartel.

A traitor.

And damn if he didn’t look familiar in a different way now that he’d cut his hair and shaved his beard. I’d worry about that later, once I’d slaughtered him with my bare hands.

I moved, shoving past a barrier in my way—something meant to keep the public at bay—but it barely slowed me down. My thigh slammed against it, the impact sending a sharp burn through my muscles, but I regrouped.

Pushing myself, feeding off the anger coursing through me, I leaped over the concrete barrier. Metal scraped against the pavement as I forced it aside, my pulse pounding in my ears. All I saw was them.

Miguel.

Ghost.

The bastards responsible for ruining my wife’s wedding day. The ones who’d put everything about the MC at risk.

Mo-ther. Fuckers.

Now that I was free, nothing would stop me.

I clenched my fists, racing forward. This would end, right here, right now. Under the Vegas sun.

“Sas, wait!” Adelina’s voice followed me, but I was already halfway across the sidewalk.

Miguel stepped out of the SUV, casual, like he wasn’t a walking dead man.

His lips curled into that arrogant grin. “Sas, amigo, glad you came. We need to talk.”

He glanced around like the Vegas strip was his damn street. Like he owned the towering Parisi Hotel behind him.

“You want to talk?” I growled, my hand instinctively moving toward my waistband—where I normally kept a gun. But my fingers landed on nothing. Fucking cops had taken everything.

I gritted my teeth, scanning the area until my eyes landed on Pip, who was standing by the limo, a few yards away.

“Pip!” I called, my voice low but sharp. “You got anything?”

Pip caught my eye, nodded, and in one swift move, pulled a blade from his jacket.

“Heads up!” He tossed it through the air.

I caught it mid-flight, the weight of the handle settling into my hand and the blade glinting in the sun. It wasn’t the comfort of a gun, but it would do. My grip tightened around the handle as I turned back toward them.

Ghost climbed out of the driver’s seat, trying to stay behind Miguel, but I saw him. He wouldn’t get a free pass. Not after what he did.

Rafe was right behind me, his suit pants back in place, but the blood pounding in my ears drowned out everything. I surged forward, ready to rip Ghost apart with my bare hands if I had to. I lunged at him, but out of nowhere, an arm hooked around my chest, dragging me back.

“Easy!” Rafe barked.

I struggled against him, eyes locked on Ghost, who was recoiling like the coward he was.

“Let me go!” I gritted out to Rafe.

Before I wrestled free, another figure appeared—Alessio, one of Massimo’s men. Big, brutal, and cold as ice, his hand gripped my shoulder hard, keeping me in place.

“You need to calm down, Sas,” Alessio said, his voice calm but commanding. “This isn’t the time or place for a scene.”

“Fuck your timing!” I spat, trying to shake him off, but Rafe gripped my arm again, harder this time.

“Look,” Rafe pointed, nodding toward a cop car slowly driving past. The officer glanced our way, his eyes narrowing as he took in the commotion.

I froze. My knuckles were white from how tight I was clenching the hilt of the blade. Rage thrummed through my veins.

As much as I hated it, Rafe was right. We needed to get out of the open. Here on the street, in the middle of the Vegas strip, this was a supremely bad idea.

Alessio’s grip didn’t ease. “Take it upstairs, boys. Forty-third floor,” he said, still calm, like he had everything under control. His dark eyes flicked toward Miguel and Ghost. “This is closed-door business.”

Rafe nodded and looked back at Adelina, who’d gotten back into her pants and hugged her jacket around her torso.

“I’ll text the Prez,” said Rafe, whipping out his phone. “Tell him to meet us there.”

Alessio stepped aside, speaking into his headset, probably relaying the same message to his crew. Meanwhile, another one of Massimo’s men—suited, but scarred on one side of his face and wearing an eyepatch—moved up beside Miguel and Ghost. He shot me a one-eyed dark look, one that told me he wasn’t playing games either.

Scars shoved Ghost toward the hotel entrance, glancing over his shoulder. “We’ll meet you up there,” he said, eyes locking with mine as he dragged Miguel through the revolving doors.

I moved to follow, but Scars threw an arm out, blocking me from getting inside. “Not you. Yet.”

I stared at him, my teeth grinding and pulling against the men holding me.

Rafe yanked me back. “Let it go.”

Alessio added, “We’ll see them up there.”

A small hand slipped into mine, and I snatched it away.

Until I realized it was Adelina. I finally exhaled, releasing some of the tension. I needed to focus. To be smart. Miguel wasn’t getting away. Neither was Ghost. Not this time.

We traipsed through the marble-floored corridor, past the reception desk, and straight for the elevator bank, arriving as the first doors closed the smirking cartel asshole inside.

The second elevator dinged, and the four of us—me, Adelina, Rafe, and Alessio—stepped inside. The ride up felt longer than it was, the tension thickening the air like fog. Adelina squeezed my hand, grounding me.

For now.

When we finally reached the forty-third floor, the elevator doors slid open to reveal a long, dimly lit hallway. Standing in the foyer were two men I didn’t recognize, both of them watching us like they’d been waiting.

“Who the fuck are you?” I barked, stepping out of the elevator, my shoulders tense.

Adelina’s hand landed on my upper arm before I could take another step. “Sergio and Gio. Papa’s cleaners.”

I shot her a downward glance, then sized up the two men.

Cleaners. Right.

They didn’t say a word but nodded at us and gestured down the hall.

We walked in silence, the hall seeming to narrow as we trekked toward the end. The brushing of boots along the plush carpet grated my nerves, the sound amplified in the otherwise empty space. The faint hum of the air conditioner droned overhead, but barely drowned out my pulse still pounding in my ears.

I glanced back to see Sergio and Gio on our heels.

Adelina’s hand brushed mine as we approached the double carved-wood doors.

Inside, the room—clearly a conference room with the AV equipment on the wall—looked bare, stripped of furniture. The faint scent of cleaning chemicals lingered.

As soon as I entered, my sights locked in on Ghost, and I lurched forward.

The coward tried to duck behind Massimo’s enforcer, Alessio.

Rafe stepped in front of me, his hand at the center of my chest, and I threw a punch.

He ducked, but I didn’t miss that he glanced over at the Don before pinning me with his gaze again. “Calm down,” our Marine said in a low voice.

“Sas!” Prez barked from the side. “Rafe’s right. Simmer the fuck down.”

The Prez stood on the opposite side of the room, Graff, Angel, and Lanie waiting beside him with grim expressions.

We weren’t alone. Massimo Parisi stood near the windows, his back turned as he looked out at the city skyline. Next to him, his enforcer Alessio stood with his hands behind his back. The man Scars had his arms crossed over his chest and swayed to one side then the other as if he needed to burn something to the ground.

Still, the cartel fucker and the treasonous prospect standing between the two Mafia men kept my attention.

“That’s Boomer,” Adelina whispered to me about the one rocking.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass who he is.” I pointed two fingers, gun-style, at the traitors. “I want their blood.”

Ghost wouldn’t look at me, his eyes glued to the floor.

“Father?” Adelina moved slightly in front of me, and I didn’t miss how she’d stopped calling him that cute little name. Her gaze swept over the room. “Those men belong to the MC to do with what they will.”

Massimo finally turned, his expression calm, but there was a glint in his eyes—like he was enjoying the spectacle. “Indeed. It seems we have some things to discuss.”

My hand tightened again around the hilt of Pip’s knife, and I was ready to gut anyone who stood in my path.