Adventures of Quigley & McFinleyyy Chapter 4 – Back to Inferno

 

Adventures of Quigley & McFinleyyy

Chapter 4 – Back to Inferno

Club Inferno still reeked of last week’s carnage. Blood in the floorboards, lime juice on the walls, and cocaine dust clinging to the neon lights like ghost confetti. Miami had a way of pretending nothing ever happened, but Inferno wore its scars proudly.

Quigley stood at the bar, cigarette burning a thin halo in the dark. McFinleyyy sat two stools down, nursing a whiskey and glaring at the margarita machine like it had insulted his mother. The blondes from the pier were nowhere to be seen—vanished into the night with the pale man and his black Mercedes.

“Feels like déjà vu,” McFinleyyy muttered.
Quigley exhaled smoke. “Feels like a setup.”

And then she appeared—the brunette. Same cruel laugh, same eyes that promised both ecstasy and knives. She floated across the dance floor like she owned it, draped in sequins sharp enough to cut.

“Miss me, boys?” she purred, sliding between them at the bar. She stole Quigley’s cigarette, took a drag, then stubbed it out in his drink.
Quigley raised an eyebrow. “I was enjoying that.”
She smirked. “You don’t know enjoyment until you’ve lost something first.”

McFinleyyy grumbled. “I already lost my damn shirt thanks to you.”
“You lost more than that, sweetheart,” she shot back, eyes flicking toward the faint scar across his jaw.

Before Quigley could reply, the music died. Lights cut out. The room fell silent, save for the hum of neon signs outside. Then, from the balcony, a spotlight snapped on, blinding them all.

The Cuban stepped into the light, cream suit glowing like an apparition. He clapped slowly, theatrically. “Ladies and gentlemen… my favorite demolition men.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. The blonde twins reappeared on either side of him, champagne glasses in hand, eyes glinting like sharks.

Quigley leaned back, expression unreadable. “Round two?”
McFinleyyy cracked his knuckles. “I didn’t even finish round one.”

The Cuban spread his arms. “You delivered my bricks. Beautiful work. You survived my bridge. Excellent. Now—” He gestured toward the dance floor. “Build me something. Or destroy it. Show me who you really are.”

The crowd parted, revealing tables stacked with bottles, crates of liquor, and, absurdly, a fresh pyramid of cocaine standing taller than before. It sparkled under the spotlight like a dare.

The brunette leaned in close to Quigley, her breath hot against his ear. “You’re the bricks, sugar. Don’t you see? He’s building his empire on your backs.”

Quigley smirked, stealing her drink. “Then let’s see how sturdy we are.”

Without warning, McFinleyyy flipped his stool and hurled it through the cocaine pyramid. Powder exploded across the room in a blizzard of white. The crowd roared in laughter, screams, and cheers.

Quigley lit another cigarette through the haze. “Happy now?”
The Cuban’s smile faltered. Just a fraction. “You’re reckless.”
Quigley blew smoke rings. “You hired us.”

Gunshots cracked. Not from the Cuban’s men—this time, it was the cops. Inferno’s doors burst open, SWAT swarming in, shouting commands that no one in Miami had ever followed.

The crowd scattered, women in neon heels sprinting for the exits, men in suits diving behind tables. The brunette vanished into the chaos. The blondes slipped through the balcony like ghosts.

McFinleyyy grabbed a bottle of tequila, swung it like a club, and dropped the first cop in a shower of glass. Quigley ducked behind the bar, snatched up the bartender’s shotgun, and pumped it once for effect.

“This escalated quickly,” he muttered.
McFinleyyy grinned, swinging the tequila bottle again. “Just how I like it.”

They fought their way through the chaos, neon lights strobing with every muzzle flash. Cops, criminals, civilians—everyone blended into the same screaming mess. Quigley’s suit tore at the shoulder, McFinleyyy’s knuckles bled, the floor was slick with booze and blood.

And then, through the haze, Quigley saw him: the Cuban, retreating through a side door with the blondes. Calm, untouched, as if the entire massacre were just another Tuesday.

Quigley fired, but the shotgun clicked empty. The Cuban slipped away.

McFinleyyy stumbled up beside him, panting, face smeared with coke dust and blood. “We chasing him?”
Quigley lit his last cigarette, eyes on the glowing exit sign. “We’re not chasing. We’re building.”
“Building what?”
“A reason to kill him.”

Inferno burned behind them as they staggered out into the night, sirens still screaming. Miami glowed across the water, hungry for more.

The night was young. Too young.

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