Crimson Ties

Chapter 29: Chapter 29: Let's Make A Deal



Vince's voice broke the silence sharply, like the crack of a whip. "Are you listening to me?" His tone was steely, his eyes locked on the gang leader who seemed lost in thought.

Dante blinked, his jaw tightening as he was dragged back to reality. He inhaled sharply, shaking off the haunting images of the past. His gaze found Vince, cool and guarded, as he leaned back against the edge of his desk. "Yeah, yeah," Dante grunted, his voice rough but steady. "But you're talkin' like you know how this game works. It ain't that simple, Detective. There are too many hands in the pot—big ones. The kinda hands that don't give a shit about your rules."

Vince took a step forward, his eyes narrowing like a predator closing in. "I don't care about those hands. What I care about is you not crossing the line. Consider this a warning." His tone was calm, unnervingly so, but there was no mistaking the edge in his voice.

Dante smirked faintly, though it was more out of reflex than amusement. "A warning? Cute. But you think this is all on me? This whole shitshow's got more moving parts than you realize. I'm just one piece on the board."

"Maybe," Vince said coldly, "but if this piece starts flipping tables, I'll make sure it's the first one to go. Are we clear?"

Dante's smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, his fingers curling into the edge of the desk behind him. His jaw clenched, but he pushed the frustration down, his voice steady, though the bitterness seeped through. "Crystal. But let's cut the bullshit. That why you came here? To play the tough guy, wag your finger at me like I'm some misbehaving kid?"

Vince leaned back slightly, crossing his arms. "Actually, no. I came here because I need information."

Dante tilted his head, a smile flickering across his face. "Information, huh? What kind of information?"

"An old man," Vince said, his tone deliberate. "Snake tattoo on his neck. Probably showed up in your territory recently. Know anything?"

Dante's smirk returned, this time slower, calculated. He rubbed his chin, feigning thought as he studied Vince. "Snake tattoo, huh? Yeah, I might've seen someone like that. Problem is, shit's never free, Detective. You know how this works."

Vince's eyes narrowed, his posture stiffening. "What's the catch?"

Dante chuckled dryly, pushing off the desk and taking a step closer, his body language shifting, testing. "Catch is, you help me with a little problem of my own. You know the Marlins have been pushin' us hard, right? Their numbers are too big, and my boys are stretched thin. You wanna know about Snake Neck? I need you to even the odds."

Vince's brows knit together in disbelief. "Even the odds? What does that mean, Dante? You want me to start killing people for you? I'm a detective, not your goddamn assassin."

Dante shrugged, his smirk widening into a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Hey, I had to shoot my shot, right? But fine. If spilling blood's too much for your delicate sensibilities, how about somethin' less… permanent?" He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping, almost conspiratorial. "You cause a little ruckus. A distraction, something to pull their eyes off us long enough for my guys to catch their breath."

Vince's lips pressed into a thin line. "A distraction? And what exactly does that look like, Dante? What's your big plan?"

Dante waved a hand lazily, like he was brushing away a fly. "That's the beauty of it. I don't care how you do it. Raise some hell your way. Just make it loud enough to get those Marlin bastards to back off for a bit."

Vince paced the room, his boots scraping against the worn floor as he mulled it over. The tension between them was palpable, a silent tug-of-war that neither seemed willing to lose. Finally, Vince stopped and looked back at Dante, his voice low but firm. "And this information… it better be worth it. No bullshit."

Dante's grin widened, his eyes glinting with something dangerous. "Scout's honor, your highness. You do this for me, and I'll spill everything I know. Hell, I'll even throw in a thank-you card."

Vince stared at him for a long moment, the air between them crackling with unspoken tension. Finally, he exhaled sharply, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. "Fine. I'll do it. But don't think for a second that this means I owe you anything."

Dante chuckled, stepping back toward his desk and leaning against it once more. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of it. You're too noble for that, right?" His grin lingered as Vince turned on his heel and walked out, the door slamming shut behind him.

Through the dimly lit corridors of the Fangs' hideout, Vince's mind churning with the weight of Dante's words. The sound of his boots reverberated faintly against the concrete floor, but his focus was elsewhere, piecing together the implications of this new "deal."

Suddenly, a hand shot out from the shadows and yanked him into a narrow, pitch-black alcove. Instinct kicked in before thought; Vince spun, gripping the wrist of the attacker and twisting it behind their back in one fluid motion. He shoved the figure hard against the wall, pinning them with practiced precision.

"Ah, shit—chill, chill! I just wanna talk!" The man's voice was high-pitched, strained with pain, and tinged with panic.

Vince didn't release him immediately. Instead, he leaned in closer, narrowing his eyes to study the man's face in the dim light filtering through a crack above. Tousled blond hair, a lazy smirk even through the pain, and a set of piercing blue eyes that somehow managed to look charmingly apologetic even now.

Vince exhaled sharply through his nose and released him with a slight shove. "Next time, try raising your voice first."

The man winced, rubbing his arm with an exaggerated pout. "Alright, alright, Detective Muscle Reflex. No need to break my damn arm." He stepped back, shaking his shoulders like a ruffled bird trying to regain its poise.

"You've got a name, or are you just some idiot who likes getting tossed into walls?" Vince muttered, his gaze still sharp.

"Zach," the man replied, brushing off his jacket like it had somehow gotten dirtier in the tussle. "Zach Wheeler. And you've got quite the grip there, Detective."

Zach had a carefree air about him, his lanky frame carrying a swagger that seemed utterly out of place in the dangerous halls of the Fangs' den. His clothes were sharp but rumpled, like he cared just enough to make an impression but not enough to iron. A perpetual smirk danced on his lips, like he knew a secret no one else did, and his posture screamed both confidence and a maddening lack of concern.

Vince's eyes flicked over him, his tone flat. "You don't exactly look like you belong here, Wheeler."

Zach shrugged nonchalantly, his grin widening. "Maybe not, but I've got a knack for being in places I shouldn't be. Comes in handy when you need to know things, you know?" He tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially.

Vince sighed, already regretting letting the man talk. "Get to the point. Why'd you drag me into this corner?"

Zach leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Let say I've got something you might want to hear. And trust me, Detective, it's worth your time."

Zach glanced around the dim hallway, then leaned closer, lowering his voice even further. "Not here, big guy. These walls've got ears, and I like my head attached to my neck. Follow me."

Before Vince could object, Zach turned on his heel and strode off, his steps light and deliberate, a stark contrast to Vince's heavy boots trailing behind. They passed through the maze of corridors until they reached the yard outside. Zach led Vince toward an unassuming container tucked away from the main traffic of the hideout.

The container creaked loudly as Zach shoved open the heavy metal door, revealing a makeshift living space within. The scent of oil and rust clung to the air, mixed with a faint hint of cheap cologne. A single, battered sleeping bag lay sprawled across the floor, its edges frayed. A flickering desk lamp rested atop an overturned crate, casting a dim yellow glow over the cramped interior. Scattered across the floor were loose notes and notebooks, their pages covered in scribbled writing and crude diagrams.

The walls of the container were covered in graffiti—some of it the Iron Fangs gang symbols, others just random scrawls. In one corner, a crumpled pack of cigarettes and an empty bottle of beer lay discarded. Despite its roughness, the space felt oddly lived-in, like Zach had carved out his own little pocket of chaos in the Fangs' world.

"Welcome to Casa Wheeler," Zach said with a theatrical wave of his arm, stepping inside and flopping onto the sleeping bag with a grin. "Not much, but it's homey, yeah?"

Vince didn't reply, his eyes scanning the scattered notes. "This is all Fang stuff," he said, his tone suspicious.

Zach smirked, sitting up and crossing his legs. "Yeah, well, gotta keep tabs on the lovely folks I call colleagues, don't I? Occupational hazard."

Vince's gaze hardened. "How'd you know I'm a detective?"

Zach chuckled, leaning back and folding his hands behind his head. "Oh, I've got my sources." He wagged a finger playfully, his grin widening. "But let's be honest—you weren't exactly subtle with your grand entrance. Barge into the hideout like a pissed-off bull, crack a dude's nose with the door. Honestly, it was fabulous. You made quite the impression."

He threw his hands up dramatically, mimicking Vince's supposed "madman" energy. "Oh, and that 'Joe Mama' bit? Chef's kiss."

Vince raised an eyebrow, his expression unimpressed. "You're full of it, Wheeler."

Zach gasped, placing a hand over his heart in mock offense. "Detective, you wound me! I'm just saying, you've got a flair for the dramatic, and I respect that."

Vince crossed his arms, his gaze narrowing. "If you're done performing, start talking. Why'd you drag me here?"

Zach grinned slyly, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Patience. I was just getting to the good part."


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