walked by two more armed guards and dancing women, up to the sofa.
Rodrigo rose. “Welcome.” He ushered Dutch into the seating area and backed away as if to give them privacy.
Dutch nodded to him and strode closer to the man he came to see. “Mr. Vargas, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He put his helmet and drink on the coffee table and held out his hand. “I’m—”
“Horatio Haas.” Vargas shook his hand, and Dutch could tell the mob boss was assessing everything—Dutch’s clothing, facial expression, exposed tattoos, the firmness of the handshake—and motioned for him to sit in the leather club chair on the other side of a round glass coffee table.
“Everyone calls me Dutch.” He sat, not sure what he hated more, being called Horatio or having his back to the iron railing that overlooked the dance floor. At least he had a clear line of sight of the stairs and all the guards, and the other VIP tables were vacant and not a concern.
Dutch gave the appearance of relaxing in the plush chair while staying ready to spring into action, his senses dialed into the environment. All the women threw him easy smiles, from the ones lounging on the sofa to others dancing. They were beautiful. Blonde, brunette, redhead, curvaceous, slim, you name it and that type was there.
The women gyrating to the music and shaking their assets were a shiny lure, meant to bait him. To test him.
“Call me Emilio,” Isabel’s uncle said. “What are you drinking?”
Under normal circumstances, Dutch would’ve gotten a beer, but he had to set the right tone for the conversation. “Scotch. Macallan.”
Surprise lit Vargas’s cold, shrewd eyes. “I’m a Scotch man myself.”
Dutch was aware.
To get her uncle’s attention and keep it, Dutch had to defy expectations.
“Do you know why I asked to see you without my niece present?” Vargas asked.
How would the typical dude answer? Act as if he didn’t know and perhaps, he wouldn’t. Or soften the response to avoid coming across as brash.
Dutch decided to speak his mind. Unfiltered. “To size me up without the distraction of Isabel’s interest in me, and if you deemed me unworthy, then try to scare me off.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. Dutch was certain that was the reason.
Vargas stilled, his gaze not faltering for a second from Dutch’s. “Try? You don’t think I’d do an adequate job of scaring you.” His tone was teasing.
Her uncle wasn’t what Dutch had imagined. Without a doubt, he was vile filth, but the cultured packaging, the detached, refined demeanor, the imposing air about him was impressive. Now Dutch understood how Isabel could’ve failed to see through his charismatic thrall.
“I don’t scare easily.” Dutch took his first swig of the Scotch. Peaty, hot, not bad at all. He noticed Max speaking into his mic and covering his ear as if trying to listen.
Max pivoted and hustled to Rodrigo. “There’s a problem with the delivery.”
Delivery being drugs. Every business that Vargas owned or paid for, including Isabel’s art gallery, was used to either deal drugs or launder money.
“I’ll go handle it,” Rodrigo said. “But I want you to come with me.” He waved the other two guards over. “You come with us.” He pointed to the taller, stocky one. “Stay here and keep an eye on things.”
The trio hurried down the stairs while the stout guard went to the landing and stood as sentry in Max’s place.
“My niece tells me that you’re between jobs right now,” Vargas said, crossing his legs.
“Actually, I’m on terminal leave from the army. So, if you’re wondering whether I collect a paycheck, the answer is yes.”
“For how much longer? A week? Two?”
“Three, sir.”
“What are your plans when that runs out?”
“I’ve been working since I was sixteen and I’ve always had a steady stream of income. Plus, I’ve got a decent amount saved. But I won’t need to dip into it. Once my background check is completed, I’ll start a position at a private security company.” Dutch finished his drink and noticed Vargas’s glass was empty. “Why don’t I get us another round?”
“I’ll have Macallan as well, but since you’re buying, make it the twenty-five-year-old.”
Dutch got up, thankful for the reprieve and time to think. He headed to the bar against the far wall in the area and ordered. “Macallan 25. Two.”
The waitress poured a generous amount of liquor into the tumblers. “That’ll be four hundred dollars.”
Dutch coughed, choking on the price. The most he’d ever spent on booze was for