Summary:
Conall Morrissey’s life is pretty bloody easy. He helps his brother take care of the whores at The Exotic Virtue, an exclusive high-end brothel owned by The Killough Company. They might not be earning as much as the other brothels, but if they make ends meet, the Morrisey brothers can get by fine. Until they get a visit from the boss of the mob who owns it, Sloan Killough.
Sloan Killough means business. He’s brash, violent, and tough. He’s the boss for a reason and he doesn’t deal in excuses or exceptions. He visits The Exotic Virtue for a taste of his product, and when he sees Conall, he knows he must have him as his pet. When Sloan demands Conall on his knees, Conall’s horrified. He may be bisexual, but he’s not the guy who takes it. When his brother sells him like one of their whores, Conall has no choice but to submit to their boss if he and his brother wants to live.
Being a whore to a mob boss isn’t what Conall expects. He fights Sloan’s orders at every chance he gets, but the boss seems to enjoy the fights, and has no problem in teaching Conall his place. Conall promises himself he won’t give in, but with each touch and taste, he finds himself addicted to the dark, dangerous man who could rip out his throat the very moment he gets bored of him.
Trigger Warnings: This book is a dark romance. It contains triggering scenes which includes public humiliation, ownership, and violence. If you're unsure whether you wish to read this book, feel free to contact the author for more detailed warnings.
Summary:
Rourke Tormey lived and breathed for the Killough Mob. After his father doomed their family by betrayal, the only thing that kept them alive was Sloan’s leniency and trust. Rourke made it his mission to prove to the boss that he would always do the right thing. When Sloan asked him to run the Exotic Virtue, he worked his ass off to raise its standards and bring in more influential clientele. Falling in love with the Virtue’s highest earning professional isn’t part of his plan.
Forrest Brassard grew up in a foster home. He knew what it felt like to not belong, and joining the Virtue as a professional gave him what he always searched for—love, even if it was only by the hour. When Rourke took over, it was lust at first sight for Forrest. He wanted the Irish soldier.
Their romance is forbidden. Between Rourke’s resistance and Forrest’s determination, the struggle of falling in love is one that both may lose. To make matters worse, a certain detective is out to bring the Killough Company crashing to the ground. They must work together with Sloan and Conall to make sure it’s her career that goes up in flames, instead of the Virtue.
Warnings: This story's trigger warnings include physical abuse, and dark themes such as murder and organized crime. One of the main characters is a sex professional and thus, there are mentions of him having sex with other men. However, this is not shown in detail and is only mentioned throughout the story.
Gabriel Mancini represents everything Ardan Murphy hates.
He’s disloyal.
Money hungry.
‘Honor’ isn’t a word he knows.
He is also too damn handsome for his own good.
When mob boss Sloan Killough finally gives Ardan permission to find and kill Mancini, the job isn’t as straightforward as he expects. Ardan’s never had a target quite like Mancini, and the ex-CIA agent always seems to be one step ahead of him.
When their game of cat and mouse turns into something more, their heated connection changes in ways neither expects, and their history becomes irrelevant. When enemies close in from both sides, Ardan and Gabriel must choose between their budding romance and the promises made to very dangerous men…
The Assassin is part of The Killough Company series. It’s best to read this book as part of this series to understand this story fully. Please read the trigger warnings before beginning The Assassin as this book is a dark romance.
The Boss #1
Chapter One
“Did you fucking hear a word I said?”
Conall shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun and glanced at his brother, who towered over his reclined position. He currently lay on one of the lounges near the pool, shirtless and drying from his recent dip. He grinned, cocking his head.
“You said something about the boss coming. Which whore is he currently coming inside of?”
“Jesus Christ, Conall. Get the fuck up, you lazy bastard.” The angrier Terrance got, the thicker his Irish accent became, the word “fuck” sounding more like “fook.” His brother’s pale face flushed an ugly red, almost as crimson as the hair on his head, and his emerald gaze grew angry.
“Why?” Conall shrugged, dragging his sunglasses down his nose with his forefinger so he could look at his brother over the top of them. “What’s that got to do with me anyway?”
“Are you fucking stupid? When I say boss, I’m not talking about O’Riley. I’m talking about the big boss. Killough.”
The name penetrated Conall’s sun-soaked brain and he shot off the lounge to his feet. “Wait. Sloan Killough? The fucking mob boss?”
“Why do you think I need you off your arse? He’ll be here in the hour.” He grabbed Conall’s towel and threw it at his chest. “Get showered and dressed. Make sure the whores are presentable. He’s coming for one of two reasons—for a hole or our heads.”
“Why the hell would he come for our heads?”
“Because, dumbarse, this establishment hasn’t been making as much money as Hell’s Kitchen. They’ve been makin’ a killin’. Leenock told me how much he’s been earning the boss and it’s nearly triple. We’re in trouble, Conall.”
It was the first time since taking over the whorehouse that Conall saw his brother anxious. Terrance’s cool attitude was what got them the Exotic Virtue in the first place, and working with the mob came with problems, but Terrance handled them while Conall did what he was good at: living in luxury. He hadn’t seen his brother this concerned until now.
“If they had an issue with money, Rafferty would have brought it up before,” Conall said, though his voice wavered with uncertainty.
“Rafferty’s just a pawn. He’s not even a general.” Terrance shook his head, running his hands through his bright hair. “I asked him why the boss was heading here, he didn’t know. Just said he got a call from one of the higher-ups.”
“Then why the fuck are we standing here talking? What do you need me to do?”
“Get dressed. Preferably in a suit, all right? Warn the whores and tell them to get ready. I don’t give a flying fuck if they have a client. We’ll compensate them. I want all the whores in the foyer to greet him. If the boss wants a hole, he gets any choice he desires.” Terrance glared at him. “Don’t be a smartarse to him, all right?”
“Me, a smartarse?” Conall grinned. “When am I ever a smartarse?”
“When are you not?” He waved his hand. “Get.”
Conall slapped his brother on the arm and threw the towel over his shoulder. He sauntered into the building and headed toward his room. The hallways of the Exotic Virtue were long and luxurious, with high ceilings and elegant gold chandeliers that hung from white paneling. The lush carpet floors were a rich red, lined with gold trimmings, and they matched the dark beige walls. It was a home away from home for most of their clients, but for Conall and Terrance, it was their home. Terrance was the provocateur of the brothel, with Conall as his partner in crime. But while they ran it, it belonged to the Killough Company, also known as the Killough mob.
He stopped Alice as she ambled past with a client. With a smile to the older white-haired gentleman beside her—an affluential politician, if he remembered correctly—he tugged the whore closer and whispered in her ear, “If he’s done, send him on his way. We have a high player heading to the Virtue and we need everyone at the entrance to greet him.”
“What about the other clients?” she asked with a roll of her eyes. “Tim pays a lot of money for me and he’s not done. He wants to take a dip in the pool.”
“I wouldn’t give a shit if he was the Pope. Get rid of him. Offer him a free hour next time he comes.” Conall’s lips twisted in a sardonic smile. “No pun intended.”
Alice’s eyes narrowed and she huffed, spinning on her high heels and storming toward her client, who had stopped halfway down the hall. She said something to him, and his narrow face twisted in annoyance. He glanced at Conall, glaring.
Conall knew when he needed to douse a fire, so he smiled charmingly at the politician. The last thing they needed was to be on this man’s bad side. He strode closer, still shirtless and in his swimming trunks, and held out his hand.
“I don’t think we’ve been introduced. I’m Conall Morrissey, co-provocateur of the Exotic Virtue. You don’t need to tell me your name. I’ll call you John.” He let his hand fall when the politician glared at it. “I do apologize for your session with Alice being cut short, but we have a VIP heading our way.”
“And I’m not VIP?” ‘John’ snapped. He wrapped his arm around Alice’s wrist and tugged her closer, hand on her hip. His hold must have been tight, because she flinched.
“You are in your own right.” Conall crossed his arms and nodded to his hand. “Please remove your grip from my property or we’ll remove you from these premises.”
John blinked, his gaze shooting to his own hand, and he released her. He straightened, his lips pursed. His dark gray hair looked slimy with product under the soft lights of the hallway, and he had used so much of it that the acidy scent burned Conall’s nose, even with the distance between them. He wasn’t a handsome man, but a smarmy-looking bug that someone would want to squish beneath their shoe. A lot of politicians like John came in and used their whores.
“Thank you. As I was saying, John, this VIP is the owner of our…business, and he expects every employee to be there. He very rarely visits, and we need our workers to greet him.” Conall smiled politely, fighting back the urge to glare at him. “You will be compensated with an hour free with Alice—”
“Two,” John growled, holding up two bony fingers in Conall’s face. “I want two hours free.”
Conall gritted his teeth but breathed through his nose to force himself to keep a smile. “Don’t push it, John. You forget what sort of information we have on you. Does your wife know you come to the Virtue?”
The color drained from John’s face and his glare deepened.
“A free hour is fine, isn’t it, John? Or should I call you Tim?”
John nodded sharply.
“Good. Well, you know the way to the exit. Make sure you visit Sam on the way out. He’ll make note of your free hour.” Conall held out his hand, but the politician looked at it in disgust then spun on his heel, storming down the hallway. Conall shrugged. “Alice, round up the others, even if you have to walk in on a session. Offer the clients the free time. I need all of you at the entrance immediately. No excuses from anyone, especially not from Forrest. I don’t care what he has to say, he will be there as well.”
“My client won’t come back,” Alice hissed.
Conall sighed. He knew the argument was coming. Alice wouldn’t be herself if she didn’t argue with him. “He’s a man who likes you and what you offer him. He’s obsessed with your cunt. He’ll be back. Get the others. Now.”
She looked like she was about to argue further, but she kept her mouth shut and spun on her ridiculously high heels and stormed down the hallway.
He rolled his eyes and headed to his room. It was on the third floor, which meant he had to take the stairs at the far end of the corridor. The stairs were as glamorous as the rest of the mansion, with intricate patterns carved into the stone handrails. They were wide, the steps made of marble with beautiful patterns poured into them.
When he got to his room, Conall grabbed some clothes out of his wardrobe, laying them on the bed, and went straight to the en suite bathroom. He took off his clothes and stepped into the dual-headed shower. The water was hot on his sore muscles, just the way he liked it. It slid over his shoulders and down his back, warming his sun-flushed skin.
He wrapped his hand around his cock, tugging on it gently at first while tweaking his nipples. He leaned against the shower’s tiled wall, using it as leverage as he jacked off. With closed eyes, he imagined fucking Forrest like he had last night. He’d held the whore down by the back of his neck as he pumped into him, his cock drilling his arsehole until Forrest came, screaming his name.
“Fuck!” Conall threw his head back against the wall, his balls drawn tight to his body. Two more strokes and he came, his seed splattering across the glass that surrounded the shower. His shoulders trembled as the remnants of his release shot through him, making his knees weak. When he’d gained enough strength to stand properly, he grabbed one of the showerheads and aimed it at the streaks of cum, watching it slide down the glass and swirl into the drainpipe.
Conall washed himself quickly before he turned off the water and stepped out. He dried himself and wrapped the towel around his waist, moving back into his room, then paused at the doorway.
Forrest’s long, lean, and very naked body stretched across his bed, his knees wide apart and his bubbly arse exposed to Conall’s hungry gaze. He rested on his belly, his arms folded under his cheek as he peered at Conall seductively.
“Hi.”
Conall swallowed, his cock already twitching beneath his towel. His stare slid over the dip of the whore’s smooth back, over the fleshy arsecheeks, and down his long legs, the same legs that had wrapped around his waist last night.
“What are you doing here? Didn’t Alice tell you to go to the foyer?”
Forrest smirked and slipped off the bed. He glided closer to Conall, laying his palm on Conall’s chest. He slid it over his nipples and along his ribs. “I thought we could have a little fun first. My last client didn’t satisfy me.”
Conall snorted. Most assumed that whores hated sex after having it so frequently, but Forrest was insatiable. He craved it every minute of the day, or at least he wanted Conall’s cock whenever he could have it.
He swiped Forrest’s creeping hand as it headed toward the edge of the towel. “Not today. The big boss is coming.”
“Big boss?” Forrest’s blond eyebrows rose. “Which one?”
“Killough.”
“The mob boss?” He stepped back, arms crossed over his slim chest. “Since when does he visit us?”
“He can visit us whenever the fuck he wants.” Conall adjusted himself through the towel. He was human, after all, and Forrest was one of the hottest whores they had. He was young, tall, and had a body that bent to a client’s will. He had long limbs that seemed to wind around Conall, and his face was as perfect as the rest of him with high cheekbones, fuckable plump lips, and pretty dark forest-green eyes. He could have been a model, but he claimed he loved sex and money too much.
“And what? He’s going to choose a whore?” Forrest huffed. “This is the only free hour I get. I want you to fuck me.”
“Too bad. Get dressed…” Conall raised an eyebrow at Forrest’s bare body. “Unless you think that will win you some favors.”
“Is he hot?” He smirked at Conall and cocked his hip challengingly.
Conall shrugged. Forrest’s mistake was believing that he was something more to him other than a fuck. His body might have been magnificent, but Conall wasn’t seeking anything more. He’d done the relationship thing before and wasn’t looking for another one. They sucked, and not in the way he preferred.
“Get your hot arse downstairs. Now.”
“It’s ass, not arse. I hate it when you say that.”
“Irish,” Conall said, like it explained everything. It did.
Forrest sighed and poked him in the chest. “I bet he’s a better fuck than you anyway.”
“If you win his favor, you might find out. Now get the fuck out.”
Forrest huffed and stalked from the room, his bubbly arse jiggling as he slammed the door behind him. Conall snorted, chuckling as he grabbed the clothes he’d laid out on the opposite side of the bed. He’d quickly come to learn that whores were dramatic. When they started earning cash, they thought they were irreplaceable. What they forgot was there was always another arse out in the streets, and it was fun to remind them how much power he and Terrance had over them.
He dressed in the one suit he owned. It was dark blue, custom made for his dad’s funeral. It was tighter than he remembered, but that could have been because the funeral was three years ago, and Conall had packed on some muscle since then.
He styled his light brown hair, giving it a messy look, and when he was satisfied, he headed downstairs. Terrance was already pacing the foyer, looking elegant in the black suit he kept for occasions like this. Except if he paced like that, he’d end up wearing a hole in his dress shoes.
Conall rolled his eyes when he came to a stop near the line of whores. They ranged in height, weight, and skin and hair colors. The Virtue had something for everyone—whether the clients preferred the same sex or the opposite, they had it all.
“Terrance, you’re ruining the floor,” Conall snapped.
His brother spun on him, eyes narrowed and furious. “Do you remember the last time he visited, brother?”
He shrugged. “He’s never visited.”
“Precisely. There’s a reason he’s coming.” Terrance’s glare moved to the whores. “Impress him. If he wants you to do some weird shit, you do it. We want to keep him happy, do you hear me?”
They nodded obediently, although Alice had some attitude with hers. She could get away with it, though. Conall supposed that’s what happened when you fucked the provocateur. Terrance enjoyed her pussy too much to call her out.
A knock echoed through the foyer and Terrance exhaled deeply. He tugged at the lapels of his suit and shot the gathering another glare, before he opened the door. He did a weird bow as two burly men entered. They reminded Conall of something out of a Men in Black movie, with their pitch-black suits and sunglasses, except they had the size too. They towered over Terrance, which said something because he was six two.
One of the men spoke into something in his hand. “It’s clear. Send the boss in.”
Conall raised his brows and bit his lip to stop himself from saying something smart about a big, tough mob boss needing security. Terrance would kill him.
A group of men moved through the double doorway. They were big too, some more than the others, and had guns strapped to their body under their suits. A few familiar faces appeared, including O’Riley. Conall called him their handler, but O’Riley hated that term, so Conall made sure to call him that whenever he could.
O’Riley was a tall man with a dark bushy beard. He was at least a decade older than Terrance and had the wrinkles around his eyes to prove it. He had a scar that ran around the base of his neck—according to O’Riley, he’d been bombarded by the Italians, and they slit his throat and left him there, expecting he’d bleed out. He didn’t.
Conall didn’t believe the story, but the women ate it up and practically jumped on his cock. Conall didn’t know if they were gullible or wanted a reason to fuck someone in the mob.
Another man walked through the doors, and the room fell to silence. No one had to guess who Killough was. His presence dominated the room, not only because of his handsome face and wide shoulders, but because of the way he stood and stared. He demanded compliance, and anyone who still had their senses would fall on their knees to please him.
He wasn’t what Conall imagined, though. He’d expected an old, fat guy with weathered skin and a strong Irish accent—the kind Conall’s dad had. Sloan Killough definitely wasn’t fat or old. He looked no older than thirty-five, with a square jaw and bright eyes the color of the sea off Hawaii, or at least what Conall imagined it would look like. He had never seen eyes like that before; there wasn’t anything fake about them, they weren’t contacts. Killough was tall, too, probably as tall as his security, and he had a large scar running over his left eye, which ended at the bottom of his cheek, just above his beard growth.
Conall could almost hear the whore’s panties get wet. The wide eyes and sighs certainly weren’t unexpected. Even Forrest licked his lips, eyes darkening with lust as his gaze trailed over the boss’s body.
Conall rolled his eyes. Predictable. But he didn’t blame them, either. His own body took notice, and his stomach made a weird flipping movement he wasn’t used to. He blamed it on being left horny after Forrest’s short visit.
Terrance floundered, nearly tripping over his feet as he shuffled closer, bowing. “Sir! It’s a pleasure to have you here.”
Killough’s eyes swept around the room, running over each of the whores like he was assessing a piece of art. He didn’t bother to give Terrance so much as a nod. It was almost as though Terrance wasn’t there to begin with.
His gaze stopped on Conall, that deep turquoise stare trailing from the top of his head to his feet, causing a tingling sensation under Conall’s skin, and he balled up his fists, ready to put an end to the ridiculous reaction.
“Sir?” Terrance shifted closer, but an arm from one of the guards shot out, stopping him.
Killough glanced at him. “Who are you?” He didn’t have the Irish accent either, which probably meant he was born in America, unlike Terrance and Conall. The difference was that Conall had been raised in New York since he was only a month old, whereas Terrance was seven when they moved, so he still had traces of the accent.
“I’m Terrance Morrissey, sir. The provocateur of the Exotic Virtue.” Terrance bowed again.
Conall wanted to cringe in embarrassment. His brother was coming on too strong, and he could see the backlash brewing because of it. Conall needed to stop this before Terrance made a bigger fool of their establishment.
He stepped forward, earning Killough’s attention again. “Sir, I’m Conall Morrissey, Terrance’s brother.” He bowed, but it was a shallow bend of his back, nothing as dramatic as Terrance’s. “Welcome to the Exotic Virtue. If you’re here to test your product, we’ve made certain that you have a wide range of selection.” He waved toward the whores.
Conall smiled proudly when they lowered their eyelashes, looking at their boss seductively, exactly how they’d been trained to do.
“Whatever you fancy, you can have.”
“Whatever I fancy?” Killough stepped forward and the security guards parted for him. “Did you know the Virtue is making less profit than Hell’s Kitchen?”
Terrance shoved himself between the boss and Conall, palms held up. “I can explain that, sir.”
“Did I ask you to?” His stare narrowed on Terrance, jaw tight in warning. “Move.”
Terrance swallowed and obediently stepped aside, head bowed.
“We are aware of that, sir,” Conall said. He didn’t know shit about the profit because he’d never cared about that aspect of the business. His life involved making sure the whores did what they were told to, and that the clients they did have were happy. Terrance took care of the money.
“How do you explain that?” Killough raised an eyebrow in a way Conall had always wanted to master. It was a mocking quirk that made him feel reprimanded, and he hated being treated like a child.
His arms went from resting at his sides to folded over his chest. “Shit happens.”
Terrance’s eyes widened behind Killough’s back, and he made a throat slicing movement at Conall. Cut it out, his brother’s wild, angry gaze told him.
“Shit happens?” Killough repeated slowly.
The men around him shifted their weight between their feet, some of them stiffening. One or two reached inside their jacket, touching their hidden guns.
Fear lodged in the back of Conall’s throat, but it was too late now. He had to roll with it, get himself out of the trouble his mouth had put him in. That meant keeping cool and calm. He shrugged. “We’ve had a few downfalls over the last few months. Some of our whores overdosed and we’ve lost property we weren’t allowed to replace.”
“Really?” Killough blinked slowly at him and twisted to look over his shoulder. “O’Riley, is this true?”
O’Riley nodded furiously. “We’ve had a few ODs, sir.”
“And why weren’t they replaced?” His deep voice demanded answers.
O’Riley cleared his throat. “We needed to cut costs with the Virtue, sir.”
“On whose orders?”
Sweat beaded on O’Riley’s forehead. He wiped at it nervously and clasped his hands in front of him. “McKinnon’s orders, sir.”
Killough nodded sharply then returned his attention to Conall. His mouth curved into a sinister smile. “I’ll make sure this situation is rectified.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Killough clapped and rubbed his hands together. “Now, I did come here for a taste of my product.”
Conall grinned. Selling the whores was what he excelled in. He strode in front of them, arms held wide. “As I said, we have a wide selection. What’s your taste for the night?”
“Night?” Killough shook his head. “No, I’m thinking long-term, someone to warm my bed every night.”
“Really?” His brows shot up and he glanced at their products. A selfish part of him decided he’d forgo introducing Forrest. His arse belonged to Conall and he wasn’t giving him up long-term. Killough probably wasn’t into men anyway.
Conall strode over to Natalia, a petite blonde Russian with amazing tits and a narrow waist. “This is Natalia, she’s a foreigner, nice tight pussy. The clients love her.”
Natalia’s plump lips curved up and she bowed low, her tits nearly falling out of her dress at the movement. “Sir.”
Killough shook his head. “A male.”
The comment caught Conall by surprise. He’d suggested that Forrest try to win Killough’s favor, but he never actually thought the boss would be into guys. Pausing, he glanced at the boss. “A male?”
“Did I stutter?”
The men behind him laughed, a redhead with brighter hair than Terrance nudging another guy and pointing at Conall.
Conall’s jaw tightened, but he forced the smile back on his lips. He nudged Natalia back into line. “A male it is.” He stepped closer to Angel, one of the whores who’d been at the Virtue the longest. He’d been there when Conall’s dad still ran the place, and Conall suspected he may have even warmed his father’s bed occasionally. He’d been barely eighteen at the time. Conall even suspected he might have been underage. “This is—”
“Enough.” Killough rolled his eyes and stepped closer. He towered over Conall, and his powerful stance left Conall feeling inferior. There was no doubt who had more strength between them. Killough flicked his wrist at Angel. “I’m not interested in him.”
“May I be of service?” Forrest’s lullaby voice made Conall’s back tense. No. Fuck no. He wasn’t giving up the best fuck in the manor.
Killough peered around Conall at him, eyes appreciative. “You’re adorable, but I don’t want a china doll. You wouldn’t be able to handle my cock if you tried.”
“I assure you, sir, I could handle your monster cock just fine. Ask Conall,” Forrest purred.
Conall spun toward him and glared. “Forrest is one of our top earners. Taking him away from the Virtue would be a mistake, sir.”
Killough hummed and turned his back to them. He gripped his hands behind himself, gazing at the other whores in front of him. Conall took the chance to shove a finger in Forrest’s direction, but Forrest, the imp, fluttered his fingers at him in a wave.
“Would you miss me?” he mouthed silently.
Conall clenched his teeth and whispered, “Shut up.”
“Am I interrupting something?” Killough raised his brow at them. Conall hadn’t realized he’d turned back.
Terrance glared at him from his spot near the boss’s men. Conall could already imagine his brother chewing him out over this later.
“No, sir.”
Killough made a noise, lips pursed, as his gaze slid over the length of Conall’s body. “You know what? You’ll do.”
“Excuse me?” Conall gaped at him, shock numbing his limbs. He couldn’t do much else but stare at the boss. “Did you mean Forrest?”
Killough smirked, the upturn at the corner of his lip making lines crease in his cheek. He reached out and ran a palm over Conall’s chest.
Conall dropped his stare to the hand, his heart thumping against his ribs, his lungs paralyzed under the touch, leaving him breathless.
“You can be my pet.”
He shook his head furiously. “I’m not a whore.”
Killough laughed, causing the men behind to mimic him. “You are now. My whore.”
Conall shot a look at Terrance, begging his brother to help him, but Terrance appeared as shocked as he felt. “Sir—”
The boss cupped his jaw, his thumb tracing his cheekbone. “Your profits are a third of Hell’s Kitchen. I could easily overlook that.” His gaze darkened, fury burning in his pretty eyes. His hand dropped to his side. “Or I could find someone to take the blame for it.” As if to make a point, he glanced at Terrance.
Terrance made a strangled noise and smiled. “Conall will be happy to be your pet, sir.”
“What?” Conall glared at the traitor. “Fuck no. I’m not going to bend over and take his cock so you don’t have—”
Terrance rushed over to him and slammed his hand across Conall’s mouth, then laughed nervously. “Please give us a minute, sir.” He dragged Conall out of the foyer and toward the small room he called an office. He shut the door behind them, hard.
Conall swung at him as soon as Terrance turned, his fist smashing into his brother’s cheek. Terrance tumbled back against his desk, his palm pressed against his face where Conall’s fist connected.
“Fuck, Con. What the hell?” He moved his bottom jaw, touching it gingerly with his fingers. “That hurt.”
“You’re selling me off like one of the whores?” Conall shouted, pacing the small room in angry steps. He had his arms folded over his chest, the anger simmering beneath his skin. He wanted to rage, to attack his brother again, but he held himself back. “I run this place with you, I don’t spread my legs!”
“What does it matter?” Terrance leaned against his desk. “You sleep with guys, too.”
“I fuck them, not get fucked by them.” He stalked closer. “I won’t let that fucker near me.”
“He’s our boss. The mob boss.”
“I don’t care if he’s a fucking Irish god. I won’t do it.” Conall dropped his arms, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He didn’t know whether he was more angry or scared. He’d never bottomed, but he’d rather go to hell before he did.
“According to some folks, he is an Irish god in bed.” Terrance smiled, but ducked when Conall raised his fist again. He held up his hands. “Wait. Stop. It won’t be for long.”
Conall snorted. “Not for long still means I have to let him fuck me.”
“Does it matter?”
“Clearly you’ve never fucked a guy, let alone been fucked by one, you tool.”
Terrance sighed, and it made Conall want to slam his fist against his cheek again. “This is for us. If you don’t do this, he’ll cut our throats. He’s not the kind of man you mess with, Conall. We’re not making a huge profit, and he could kill us for it.”
“No, he’d kill you for it,” he sneered.
“Do you think he won’t punish you for denying him? Sloan Killough gets what he wants, and what he wants is your arse.” Terrance shoved himself up and grabbed Conall’s shoulders tightly. He squeezed them. “You need to do this. For us. For your brother. I did things for you, don’t you remember that?”
“Killing Dad is different from being fucked by a mob boss,” Conall muttered angrily.
“Please, Conall. For us.”
He poked Terrance in the chest, eyes narrowed. “If it lasts more than a few weeks, I’m coming back to chop off your dick.”
Terrance laughed and tugged him into a hug, thumping him on the back.
The Professional #2
Chapter One
What do you get when you cross a handsome, Irish mobster and an all-American whore? A bad love story, that’s what. Forrest didn’t have a chance in hell with Rourke Tormey, but that didn’t stop him from staring at the man longer than he should have. Being that good-looking should have been illegal, or at the very least, frowned upon. Rourke had a sharp jaw; delectable to lick, thick eyebrows that dipped low; and a short beard Forrest wanted to run his fingers along, with brown hair buzzed into a fade around his ears. Everything about him made Forrest’s mouth water. Even the tense shoulders, held stiffly like the rest of his body. Rourke always held himself at attention and his posture reminded Forrest of a solider.
“Stop staring.” Angel nudged Forrest with a roll of his black-lined eyes. “He’s not Conall. He’s not going to fuck you.” He lounged beside him in his usual black leather pants, his chest bare. The ring through Angel’s nipple ring taunted Forrest. He’d wanted one for years, but Terrance and Conall had forbidden it. (“You’re our golden boy. People think you’re innocent. Nipple piercings aren’t innocent, Forrest,” Terrance had said, shrugging his shoulders). Funny, considering Conall got one recently.
“Who says Rourke won’t fuck me?” He sent Angel a wicked grin. “I’m the highest earner for a reason. I make men crave more.”
Angel snorted at him and swiped at his shoulder-length, light brunet hair, brushing it out of his eyes. Forrest didn’t know Angel’s age, but he’d been around the longest. Whispered rumors said he used to warm the bed of Conall’s and Terrance’s father, but the only time Forrest had worked up the nerve to ask him about it, Angel gave him a nonchalant look before striding away.
Angel leaned against the wide banister that bracketed the staircase leading up to the second-floor rooms, the lines of his body sleek and slimmer than Forrest’s. The leather pants that clung like a second skin did wonders for his ass. Forrest had a better ass, of course, but Angel’s wasn’t completely terrible.
“He’s not a desperate client.” Angel stretched, the expanse of his oiled, golden skin glimmering under the dim lights of the foyer. Soft, romantic music lulled the room, enticing their clients with the sultriness.
He reminded Forrest of the tortoiseshell cat that sometimes hung around the Virtue. No one knew where she came from, but she worked the building as though she knew the ins and outs and all the secret passageways of the thirties architecture. She got from one part of the small mansion to the other in the blink of an eye. Angel was the same—his nimbleness made him stealthy and his intelligence made him quick-witted. The cat liked him too and that fact made Forrest think they’d known each other longer than they let on. Angel went so far as to name her Honey.
“No one can resist me.” Forrest canted a hip and grinned.
Angel sent him an unimpressed stare before he slipped upstairs without another word.
Forrest would have followed him and continued the discussion, but the front doors to the Virtue opened and two men the size of mountains stormed inside. Terrance straightened eagerly, his red hair glinting and cheeks flushed over his freckles. He said “hello” to them, like he always did, but they ignored him as they surveyed the foyer, and then the first and second floor for threats. Seven months ago, Forrest might have laughed, but that was before Italians shot up his home to send a message to Sloan Killough, the mob boss and owner of the brothel. Forrest lost people he knew that afternoon. Not good friends, but acquaintances he didn’t hate enough to make their lives hell.
If the destruction of a good building wasn’t stupid enough, the Italians had kidnapped the boss’s pet, Forrest’s ex-lover. Terrance had been worried sick about Conall, but Rourke gave him strict orders not to leave the Virtue. It’d been Sloan Killough’s job to get Conall back, and he did it with style, or so the gossip said.
Forrest had seen Conall once since the kidnapping happened, and he’d asked him about it, but his ex had merely shrugged his shoulders, smirked wickedly, and changed the topic. Forrest supposed it was retaliation for keeping his mouth shut to Conall when he asked about the rule changing Rourke did around the Virtue all those months ago.
The mountains seemed satisfied with the safety of the newly refurbished Virtue, so they spoke into the earpieces they wore and a few seconds later the door opened again. Sloan Killough walked in, his presence powerful and domineering in the large, golden foyer that sang elegance. He outdid any sophistication the Virtue had though, with his designer suit, large build, and handsome face. Forrest felt almost jealous of Conall. No, not almost, at one point he’d been jealous of both Killough and Conall. He had thought he was in love with his ex, and when Killough took Conall as his pet, Forrest experienced what he had assumed was a broken heart.
Then Killough sent Rourke and everything changed. He’d wanted him. Badly.
Conall followed after Killough, his face no longer as bruised as the last time Forrest saw him, but it’d been at least six months since the boss saved his ass, so it shouldn’t be. Conall stared around the foyer, taking in the golden wall lights, black-and-white marble floors, stone pillars painted the same color as the freshly plastered walls, and the new tan couches Rourke had bought to spice up the waiting area. With everything brand-new, Forrest never thought the Virtue could look any prettier than before, but he’d been wrong.
Finally, Conall’s attention landed on Forrest and his lips curved into a smile. He leaned up and whispered something to Killough, whose own eyes found Forrest, before he nodded at whatever Conall had said.
Forrest stepped forward when Conall strode toward him in those fine leather pants that clung to his slim legs. He never thought he’d see the day that Conall wore leather, but it looked surprisingly good on him, and Forrest mentally commended Killough on his choices. He never expected to see Conall in a shirt because Killough usually preferred his pet without one. The black button-up shirt still looked worth more than everything Forrest owned.
When Conall reached him, he dragged Forrest into a hug, and Forrest returned the squeeze as gently as he could. Terrance told him about that Italian bastard cutting up Conall’s chest, even if Conall never admitted that it had happened the last time they talked.
“Stop it.” Conall snorted when he released Forrest. “I’m not fragile.”
“You must be because you hugged me. You never hug anyone.” He folded his arms over his chest, one eyebrow raised. “I heard you got hit on the head, but I didn’t realize it was that hard.”
Conall laughed low in his throat and glanced over his shoulder. Killough approached Rourke and Terrance where they stood at the reception desk on the right side of the room, and Rourke gestured to the marble floor, clearly chatting about the redesign. “Maybe I like making my master jealous.” He turned back toward Forrest, mouth twisting into a saucy grin. “He spanks me really good when I touch other men.”
Forrest couldn’t help but chuckle. “I never saw you as someone who enjoyed spanking.”
He shrugged. “Sometimes Sloan surprises me.”
Forrest turned serious and touched Conall’s arm. “How are you, though? I’ve heard a lot of rumors, and Terrance has been a mess since he heard you were taken. He’s carrying a gun now, and he convinced Rourke to hire more guards. I wish you’d talk to me.”
Conall cringed and glanced at Terrance. His brother’s attention was focused on Killough, but neither of them missed the way Terrance’s gaze flicked over to Conall, or how he grimaced.
“Have you talked to him since you were taken?”
“Yeah.” Conall sighed and carded his fingers through his long, dark hair. He turned back to Forrest, shoulders taut and jaw tight. “A few times. He came to Miami with us for Christmas.”
“How’d that go?” Forrest leaned against the banister of the new set of stairs they’d put in. It ended on the opposite side of the second floor from where the original set had. The old stairs still existed, but the new ones came directly from the foyer rather than from the back of the first floor, which made a shorter trip for the important clients who wanted to get down and dirty with their chosen sex professional.
“Not great. He mentioned me coming back to the Virtue. He said he’d convince Sloan to let me go.”
“That won’t work.”
“Nope, but I don’t want to, either. I like Sloan, he’s not bad.”
Forrest snorted with laughter. “Not bad? You seem to more than like him.”
The twitch of Conall’s lips told him that he agreed. The doors opened again and a familiar face popped in. He cleared his throat. “Are you open?”
It was a silly question with people lingering around the foyer, but Adrian Honor did everything hesitantly, as though afraid he’d insult someone. Terrance went into businessman mode. Buttoning up his trim, well-fitted suit, he strode over to the new person, opening the door farther for him, and waved his hand. “Please, come in! Welcome back to the Virtue, Mr. Honor.”
Forrest exhaled and stood, straightening his back. He smiled tentatively at Conall. “We’ll need to pick this conversation up later. You should come around more often, we miss you here.”
“He yours?” Conall gestured at Adrian Honor with a tilt of his head.
Forrest almost said unfortunately. Adrian wasn’t a bad man, but the only word Forrest could use to describe him was vanilla. He’d grown up as a politician’s son, which meant he didn’t have the experiences other men usually did by his age. The first time he came to Forrest, he lost his virginity. He lasted about three minutes inside of Forrest before he exploded. He’d been coming to the Virtue twice a month for two years now, and each time was as boring as the first, but he had money. Forrest couldn’t pass up any client, no matter how inexperienced and plain they were.
“Yeah. You remember Adrian?” Forrest sighed.
“Ah. Right. Average Adrian.” Conall grinned and waggled his eyebrows, making Forrest groan. He shouldn’t have said a word to him about Adrian. Poor guy didn’t really deserve nicknames. At least he hadn’t raised a hand to Forrest. “You’ll see me around more. I’m going to spend a week here, catch up with friends, and…I’m taking over for McKinnon.”
“Shit. Really?” Forrest shuffled closer, excitement surging in his gut. Even though he didn’t feel that way for Conall anymore, he still missed his company. Conall made him laugh and treated him like something other than a sex worker. “What happened to McKinnon?”
“Don’t know. Not sure if I want to, either. Sloan hasn’t told me a thing, and I haven’t seen him around.”
The thought made Forrest shudder. Killough was known for setting a high bar, and anyone who didn’t meet his standards usually ended up six feet under. “I have work to do. Not all of us can live in luxury with a mob boss boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Conall protested.
Forrest laughed and reached up to tug at the red collar strapped to Conall’s neck. “This says otherwise, sweetheart.”
Conall batted his hands away. “Shut up.”
“I’ll be seeing you around then.” Forrest waggled his eyebrows as best he could before he fluttered his fingers at Conall in a wave. Then, he made his way over to Adrian, who Terrance led to the reception desk for payment. He had two hours to do what he wanted with Forrest, which he already knew would mostly be foreplay and one round of sex, before Adrian spent the rest of the time talking about his life as a politician’s son. As long as Forrest got paid, he didn’t care.
Rourke watched Forrest the entire trek over to Adrian, and a thrill shot through him. He added a shake of his hips and went as far as to wink. Rourke didn’t react, though. He’d never been the kind of man who showed any outward emotion, and disappointment settled inside Forrest when Rourke returned his attention to Sloan. No matter how much Forrest hoped he’d see a subtle reaction from Rourke, it never happened.
“Hey, cutie.” Forrest leaned against the mahogany reception desk and stretched, his thin green T-shirt inching higher to reveal the bare skin of his stomach. His jeans hung low on his hips, giving Adrian a show.
Adrian flushed, the pale skin on his cheeks glowing red, and he smiled. “Hey, Forrest.” He took back the change Sam handed him and slid the cash into his wallet before he turned to Forrest. “I’m not interrupting something, am I?”
Forrest noticed the way his eyes strayed over to Killough, and recognition flashed in them. Of course he knew Killough. His father’s political career started in deals with the Italians, who in turn had a truce with the Irish. At least that’s what Adrian told him after the first orgasm he’d had inside Forrest. The guy didn’t know how to keep secrets, and getting off made men’s mouths move a lot more than what they usually would. His innocence made Forrest’s heart ache.
Forrest stroked his shoulder and examined his tall, strong body leisurely. Adrian may be vanilla in bed, but beneath that blue cotton, buttoned-up shirt were mouth-watering muscles. If one thing could be said about him, it was that he kept in good shape, which always made Forrest wonder why he couldn’t find someone who wasn’t a professional. His looks were the kind that made the knees weak too, with wavy chestnut hair cut short to the sides of his head, and brown eyes dark as coffee beans. With a strong jaw, full lips, and a high brow, he could have chosen modeling as his career instead of following in his father’s political footsteps.
“You’d never interrupt.” Forrest glanced at Rourke out of the corner of his eyes and leaned a little closer to Adrian so their lips were inches apart. “I’ll always make time for one of my favorites.”
Adrian’s blush deepened and he ducked his head, laughing. “Thanks.”
The guards came over and patted Adrian down for drugs. It was a regulation that every client went through. Since Rourke started, the Virtue was run with rules to avoid any overdoses and a client pat down was part of the entry conditions. It was usually done before the professional collected their client, but Killough and Conall’s appearance had changed their routine.
“Come with me.” Forrest slid his hand into Adrian’s after the guards were done and tugged him gently. They shifted toward the stairs, Rourke’s gaze on them until they were at the top and heading toward Forrest’s room. Either Adrian chose to ignore the look they got, or he’d been oblivious to it, and if Forrest was a betting man, he’d go with the latter. Adrian’s sweetness made him unique in this cruel world.
They strode down the long hallway of lush, royal blue carpets, dark wooden walls, and rustic sconce lamps. Most of panels of the walls had been taken out, with new sheets reinstalled, but Forrest could still see the bullet holes in them, with blood and brains splattered on the dark timber, as though they were still there. He still saw Clint lying on the ground, body twisted in awkward angles, a deep hole in his temple.
Forrest’s chest stuttered, panic squeezing at his heart. He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed like Angel had taught him. Having a panic attack was the last thing he wanted to do in that moment.
Finally, they reached the room Forrest earned after years of hard work and high paying clients. He owned the biggest room belonging to a worker, and he deserved it. Forrest opened the door and gestured to it, winking as Adrian nervously shuffled past him as though this was the first time rather than the forty-eighth.
Glass blown pendant lights hung from the room’s high ceilings. Dark red carpet contrasted with a deep gray color scheme, highlighted by a feature wall made of leather squares behind the king-sized bed. There were three other doors, one leading into the luxurious private bathroom, another to a huge walk-in closet, and the third hid what Forrest affectionately called his ‘toy room.’ It held all the sex toys a professional could dream of.
“It’s our two-year anniversary,” Adrian whispered, shifting closer to the bed before he sat. He touched the soft covers, his fingers dancing over the cashmere blankets Rourke bought for Forrest a week after he took over the Virtue. He claimed the highest earner deserved the best, but Forrest still wondered if there’d been more to the story, especially considering he’d have to explain the expense to Killough’s men who managed that sort of stuff.
“Is it?” Forrest smiled and slid his tongue over his bottom lip. He purposely dipped his gaze to Adrian’s crotch. “What present do I get today?”
Adrian’s mouth parted and he glanced away. Forrest knew all his nervous ticks by now and they only made him sweeter, but Forrest would bet that’s not how he wanted people to think about him. “I… actually have news for you.”
Forrest fell onto the bed next to him and laid his hand on Adrian’s thigh, squeezing. He leaned a little closer, inhaled Adrian’s peppery cologne, and licked the shell of his ear in the way that always made Adrian tremble. “What news?”
A shiver made its way through Adrian’s body. “News about my dad.”
“Hm? I thought we always talked about your family after you screwed me into the bed.” Forrest’s hand inched higher until his fingers grazed over Adrian’s growing bulge. At least his size and width satisfied him.
“I know, but this is important.” Adrian seized his hand and held it tightly.
Forrest frowned and sat back. “Why? You do realize you pay to fuck me, right?”
“I know, but I care about you.”
Forrest cringed. Ah. Here it is, the dreaded feelings talk. He knew it would come eventually; it always did. Men who stayed around longer than six months always thought they felt something, and it had taken Adrian a lot longer to get there than Forrest expected it would. “Adrian, you’re a good guy—”
“What?” Adrian shook his head. “I don’t want to date you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I know how this works.”
Tension in Forrest’s shoulders released. “Oh, thank fuck. I didn’t want this to get awkward.”
Adrian sighed, brushing a hand over the longer strands of hair on top of his head, then grinned. “I care for you because you gave me something no one else could. You gave me a safe place without judgement, and I want to return the favor.”
Forrest forced down the urge to wince. He hadn’t really been judgmental on Adrian’s boring sex escapades, but he’d mentioned them to Conall and a few of the other professionals, which meant there had been teasing. “All right. So what’s the favor?”
Adrian shifted uncomfortably and squeezed the back of his own neck. “I said it’s about my dad. He got a visitor the other night. A cop.”
Forrest folded his legs under himself and waved his hand in a continue gesture. “I’m listening.”
“Well, not really a cop. More like a detective, I think. Her name’s Diaz.”
Diaz. The name sounded familiar, but it wasn’t anyone Forrest knew. There were plenty of Diazes around New York City.
“She came to him asking for his help. I didn’t hear much, but I heard her mention Killough’s name. She’s after him, I think, and she said she wants to destroy the Virtue. Said it belongs to Killough, and to take him down, she needs to start with his money making ventures.”
It felt like Forrest’s heart stopped completely in his chest, or maybe it jumped somewhere low in his throat, because a lump formed there, and breathing grew difficult. He swallowed around the urge to vomit in concern. “You said her name’s Diaz?”
“Yeah.” Adrian touched the back of Forrest’s hand. “This place has become my safety net. I won’t let her take it down.”
Forrest forced a smile and cupped Adrian’s jaw, laying a gentle kiss across his mouth. “You don’t have to worry. Sloan Killough isn’t someone to mess with, and neither is our provocateur. Rourke won’t let anything happen, but I need to know everything.”
Adrian inhaled deeply. “Okay.”
The Assassin #3
Chapter One
Sloan Killough hated late people, which was why Ardan made sure he was on time, every time. He stood in front of Sloan’s oak desk, the thick wood gleaming under the sharp lights in the ceiling. Hands interlaced in front of him, Ardan kept his shoulders squared and his face impassive, the perfect soldier. Or in Ardan’s case, assassin.
“Do you want a drink? I’ll just ask Aileen—” Sloan broke off as he rose from his leather office chair when the door opened, Aileen sneaking through with a glass of whiskey in one hand and a Coke in the other. She smiled sweetly when she handed Ardan the soda, before doing the same to Sloan.
“Thank you, Aileen.” Sloan took a sip of his alcohol, eyes slipping closed for a moment to appreciate the taste like he always did when he had a smooth, expensive drink. “Perfect, as usual.”
Aileen bowed, blond ringlets cascading over her shoulders and black dress fluttering around her knees as she straightened and left again.
The scent of essential oils filled the room, something vanilla that Ardan hadn’t smelled in Sloan’s office before. It was subtle, but almost calming.
As if reading his mind, Sloan smirked. “My pet.”
“Ah.” Ardan kept a straight face, forcing back the amused smile that threatened to appear on his lips. “It’s lovely.”
“I’ll be sure to let my pet know you approve.” Sloan’s dark eyebrows rose and he returned to his seat, leaning back with his legs crossed at the knees and his tumbler settled on the desk in front of him. The suit he wore was a dark charcoal today, with a navy tie and his usual shiny black dress shoes. Ardan knew enough about suit brands to guess it was one of the new Dior lines. He preferred Armani himself, but the boss knew style when it came to suits. It certainly fitted him perfectly and the tie contrasted nicely with the lightness of his ocean-blue eyes.
“He’s making quite the changes around here,” Ardan said, keeping his tone neutral. What Conall Morrissey did around the Killough Company wasn’t any of his business. Sloan’s leadership never faltered and every decision he made catapulted their company to greater heights, and if the boss trusted his pet to start making decisions, then so did Ardan. Others didn’t agree, but they were intelligent enough not to voice it. They didn’t have a death wish.
Sloan didn’t acknowledge the comment. He stared at Ardan carefully. “It’s been over six months since you began chasing Mancini, Ardan, and I’ve seen no results. Care to explain?”
Ardan knew the question was coming. He’d never had these kinds of disappointing outcomes when chasing a mark before. Their death usually came quick—a bullet to the head or a jab of liquidized strychnine—but Mancini was different. He had state of the art training and the closer Ardan homed in on him, the faster the hitman moved. Mancini knew he was there and took flight like a bird frightened from a gunshot. Ardan didn’t have a chance to even think about firing a bullet from his silencer before his target disappeared again though.
Sloan’s eyebrows hiked higher. “Well? I expected a dead hitman by now. You’re my best.”
Ardan dropped his head in respect. “I apologize, boss. Mancini seems to be one step ahead of me the entire time. I’ve chased him across fifteen states and every time I locate him, he disappears again.”
“How does that happen?” Sloan asked, his tone deep with subtle annoyance. Ardan resisted the urge to shiver under the cold fear that slid down his spine. He wasn’t afraid of many men, but Sloan was on the top of that list. No one knew how dangerous he truly was better than Ardan. He’d seen him cut men into pieces while they were still alive, feed enemies to stressed rats looking for an escape, and take pleasure in trying out Viking torture contraptions. Sloan Killough was a cold blooded killer, no matter how sophisticated he acted. He had a lot of people fooled into thinking his men did all the work for him.
They were wrong.
Dead wrong.
“I can’t answer that, sir, because I don’t know.” Ardan kept his chin raised, refusing to look away from the sharp gaze of his boss. He wouldn’t disrespect Sloan with that sign of weakness.
“Tell me about him.” Sloan took another slow sip from his tumbler. “How do you know Mancini?”
Ardan inhaled deeply. Mancini. A fucking name that had plagued him for years and no matter what, he couldn’t seem to escape the bastard. “We met on a hit, sir.”
“A hit I sent you on?”
Ardan tilted his head forward in acknowledgement. “You sent me to take out Roberts.”
Sloan stroked his chin. “The double crossing drug dealer that stole from our warehouse.”
“Yes, sir. Apparently, he thought it wise to steal from the Italians as well, so Folliero’s brother paid Mancini to deal with him too. Mancini had been working as Leo’s hitman for six years by then.” Ardan forced down the hot anger that threatened to explode in his veins. Control. That’s what George had taught him above all else. Without control, a man was vulnerable to his emotions.
Sloan waved his hand in a continue gesture.
“We made an agreement to work together and we took him out.”
“So, what happened?” Sloan asked.
Ardan kept his stare levelled with Sloan and gritted his teeth. “We worked together in a few other hits after that, but then Mancini betrayed Leo which got Leo killed.”
“You’ve said that before. Why do you care about Leo’s death?”
“It’s not his death, boss, but rather Mancini’s loyalty. We have codes to live by in the Society and he broke them. Mancini was paid off by one of Leo’s enemies to give up his location so they could take him out. That’s a code no assassin or hitman should break.” Just the thought of that piece of shit had Ardan’s usual tight façade crumbling and it took every ounce of strength he had not to let his mask slip in front of Sloan.
“Are you sure Mancini did it?” Sloan sounded surprised, and a little bit impressed, and Ardan felt a tick begin in his jaw. “For money? Like I’ve said to you before, Mancini didn’t take my money when I offered him a job. If the man cared that much for it that he’d betray the mobster who kept him on retainer, why wouldn’t he take mine?”
“Because he knows betraying you would mean death.” Ardan inhaled and stepped closer to the desk. “Boss, I’m asking you to give me another month.”
“Why should I?” Sloan drained his whiskey and slammed the empty glass down, before glancing at the Coke which Ardan hadn’t taken a sip of, but had set on the other side of the desk. “I didn’t poison you.”
Ardan shot a look of surprise at the drink. “I never thought you did, boss.” To make a point, he grabbed it and took a large gulp, grimacing. He hated Coke and all the other types of fizzy drinks too, but they helped control the urge to reach for something stronger which would get him into trouble. Sloan knew all about his past. “I can catch Mancini. I just need more time.”
Sloan tsked. “You’ve had six months. I have more important jobs for you.”
“Mancini is important, boss. This won’t be the last we see of him. If he took on a job for Toscani, who else would he get paid from to destroy our business?” Ardan kept his tone even, unthreatening. The stupidest thing he could do was raise his voice to Sloan.
“Why do you have a hard on for him, Ardan?” Sloan stood, strolling around his desk with leisured steps. His suit moved perfectly with his strong body and wide shoulders. He stopped right in front of him, fingers dancing over the surface of the desk in a wandering gesture that made Ardan nervous. “What’s he done to you?”
“Nothing.” He swallowed. “He’s the epitome of disloyalty. You know how much I hate cowards and rats, boss.”
Sloan stood close enough to Ardan’s side that he could feel his warmth, his height making him tower over Ardan. “Is taking him out really that important to you?”
“Yes, boss,” Ardan answered immediately. “I’d die happy knowing Mancini wasn’t on this Earth.”
Sloan laughed and slapped Ardan on the shoulder. “If that’s how you feel, fine. You have my blessing to continue hunting him, but you only have a month and then I want you back here.”
Ardan bowed his head. “Yes, boss.”
“Ardan, don’t disappoint me. You know I hate being made to look like a fool.”
“I understand. It won’t happen again.”
“Good.” Sloan gestured to the door. “We have business to attend to before you leave. Come with me.”
Sloan led him through the door into the corridor. They walked the narrow hallways to the very end, where Ardan knew from experience held a door that hid a set of stairs behind it. When you opened the door, it looked like a small cupboard for cleaning supplies, but behind a hanging mop was a hidden console and the press of a few buttons resulted in the back wall sliding open to reveal the stairs.
Ardan followed Sloan down the steps and into a basement style room, where four guards and Daire already waited for them. Hanging by rope from a wooden beam was another man, wearing nothing but his underwear. His chest had lash marks that welled with blood, and a large gash sliced the skin just below his belly button. He hung his head, his stringy hair falling in front of his face so Ardan couldn’t see who he was.
The ropes tied his wrists together above his head and his groans were the only noise in the room. As soon as they entered, the guards stepped back, heads bowed in respect to Sloan.
“What do we have here?” Sloan’s voice held a sharp edge of warning and a sliver of fear slid down his spine. Ardan knew that tone anywhere, he’d heard him use it more than once before he tortured someone. “Daniel Hansfield.”
The name rang familiar in Ardan’s mind and it took a minute for him to piece together where he knew it from. Hansfield and his brother ran drugs in New York City like the Killough Company, but unlike most of the other cartels, the Hansfields had Sloan’s permission, as long as they paid twenty percent to the Killough Company for letting them sell on their turf. They sold stronger shit, a hallucinogenic that the company wouldn’t touch, but Sloan still wanted his share of the profits.
Sloan turned a cruel smile on Ardan, his gaze calm yet dangerous. “You remember Daniel, don’t you?”
Ardan nodded. “I do, sir.”
“Daniel and his brother decided to expand without telling me.” Sloan nodded at one of the guards and they spun on their heel, heading for a cabinet against the wall.
The room’s walls were soundproof, made of a heavy brick that didn’t let much escape. The torture house, as it was called playfully by soldiers, was dug into the ground below the mansion, away from prying eyes. It needed to be with what happened in there. Plans were also put into place in case Sloan was ever raided by the police or feds. A failsafe that would cause it to cave in, destroying the stairs and any evidence of the room existing.
Ardan rolled his shoulders, aware of what was about to happen. “More drug supplies?”
Sloan shook his head and patted Daniel on the forehead, making the man groan and raise his head. He looked like the walking dead, his cheeks sallow and drawn, his skin pale and eyes nearly falling inside his skull. He’d probably been here for weeks, maybe longer. “No. That might have been forgivable if they’d paid back what they owed me. The boys decided to expand into trafficking underage sex slaves.”
Ardan sucked in a deep breath. Fuck. The Killough Company did a lot of unsavory business. They didn’t care who they killed with drugs or whose families they ruined with whores. But underage girls and boys? That was a line they didn’t cross. The company, and Sloan, expected the same of all business partners too.
“Yes, they did.” Sloan held out his hand to the guard, who’d returned and passed him a set of pliers. “And now this little snake won’t tell me where to find his brother who went into hiding like the rat he is. Any other time, I might have been impressed with how long he’s held out to the torture while not telling us a thing, but right now, I’m anything but.”
Ardan stepped closer, a stirring excitement settling low in his gut to see what Sloan was about to do. Heat filled his body and his lips twitched as he forced back a smirk when Sloan turned to Daniel, flashing the pliers to him.
“Tell me where your brother is and we’ll make your death pain free.”
Daniel moaned, his head lolling forward and then back up again so he could stare at Sloan. “Go fuck yourself, you Irish pig.”
Sloan made an irritated sound in his throat. “Very well. How loud can you scream?”
Two of the guards moved, grasping Daniel’s face as he struggled against their hold. They managed to get his jaw open and Sloan shifted forward, jamming the pliers in his mouth and snapping them down on one of Daniel’s front teeth. Daniel wiggled harder, but between the brute force of the two men, he had no chance. Sloan yanked at the tooth and Daniel’s screams filled the room, high and full of agony.
Daire moved forward with an open lunchbox in his hands, looking as put together as usual, with his dark hair brushed back and suit impeccable. He didn’t flinch at the screams or blood that spurted from Daniel’s mouth, or when Sloan dropped the tooth he’d yanked into the lunchbox.
Daniel’s yells finally turned into whimpers and his head drooped forward again.
“Tell me what I want to know and this will all stop. We’ll put a bullet in your head and you’ll meet your maker.” Sloan waved the pliers in Daniel’s face. “Don’t tell me and we’ll keep pulling every one of your teeth until you have none left.”
“Fuck you.”
Ardan smirked and Sloan let out a heavy sigh.
“Fine.” This time when he yanked a tooth, the screams lasted longer and Daniel started trembling. Three, then four teeth followed after that, but much to Ardan’s surprise, Daniel didn’t tell Sloan what he wanted to know. Ardan might have been impressed if Sloan wasn’t becoming so frustrated. No one wanted their boss to be that way, it led to even more bloodshed and bodies to make disappear.
Sloan slipped off his suit jacket which was now covered in blood, but his shirt underneath looked worse. Even though the jacket caught most of the bodily fluids, Sloan’s white dress shirt still had splatters and it appeared more vibrant on the light-colored cotton.
“Look what you’re making me do.” Sloan tutted. “I’m ruining my favorite clothes.”
Daniel spat toward him, but the glob of bloody spit landed beside Sloan’s shiny shoe. “Fuck off. I’ll never tell you a thing.”
Sloan’s grin was downright feral. “We haven’t even begun, Daniel.” Then he turned to Ardan. “This might take a while. When I get this information from him, I’ll need some good men to run the brother down.”
Ardan bent his head forward. “I know a few men, and a woman, that can help if needed, boss.”
“Good.” Sloan waved his hand toward the stairs. “Kill Mancini if you must, but make it quick. You have a month. You can leave.”
Ardan dipped his head again and turned on his heel, striding up the stairs and out the dark wooden door into the long hallway that led past the set of grand staircases. He didn’t make it to the front door before he heard his name being called from a familiar voice that had him halting immediately.
Conall Morrissey, Sloan’s pet and lover, came rushing from the direction of dining room to the right, his face flushed and a rare grin on his face. Since he’d taken over the position as the manager of the whorehouses, Ardan had never seen him smile so much. The energy and happiness lit up his entire face, making him look younger.
Ardan bowed his head. “Sir.”
“I’m glad I caught you.” Conall stopped right in front of him, his dark hair twisted up into a small manbun at the back of his head. The bright red collar around his neck contrasted with his tanned skin, but he never took it off outside of the bedroom. Inside his room, Ardan didn’t know what he did with it. “Did you know it’s Sloan’s birthday next month?”
Ardan’s eyes didn’t widen in alarm, but it was a close call. His lips twitched as he forced down the amused smile. “Yes, sir, I did.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me?” Conall folded his arms over his chest. “Do you know how much digging I had to do to figure it out? And then to find out it’s next month! That doesn’t give me much time to plan.”
“Plan?”
“His birthday party.”
Ardan winced. “Sir, I don’t think that’s wise. The boss runs a high profile company and he has a bigger list of enemies than what he does friends. Arranging a birthday party would put him in unnecessary danger.”
“I know.” Conall smiled. “That’s why I’m talking to you, to arrange protection for him.”
“The boss doesn’t like surprises, sir.” Ardan knew his attempts would be in vain. Once the boss’s pet had something in his head, it was hard to persuade him otherwise.
“He’ll like this one.” Conall raised his eyebrows, daring Ardan to argue. Ardan wasn’t that brave. While he knew the boss’s pet would never run to Sloan and complain, he also didn’t trust Sloan from having someone listening to every conversation happening. The boss liked having ears everywhere in the house and disrespect to Conall would result in a punishment that Ardan didn’t want first-hand experience in.
“I’m sure he will, sir.”
Conall pouted. “You’re no fun.”
Ardan’s mouth twitched. “I’m sorry to disappoint, but please contact me when you’ve made arrangements. I’m still on a task, however, I’ll see what I can organize for the time you need me.”
“Thanks, Ardan, I appreciate it. Maybe I’ll talk to Sloan about giving you a pay rise.” He winked.
Ardan laughed. “I’m already the best paid assassin in the States.”
“Really?”
“Most of the Killough Company men are, sir. It’s one of the reasons why we’re expected to have loyalty to Sloan. He cares about his soldiers, as long as they do their job.” Ardan glanced at his watch.
Conall chuckled. “I’ll let you go. Can I trust you’ll answer me when I call then?”
“Always, sir. You and the boss are my number one priority.”
A weird look passed over Conall’s face, like he wasn’t quite used to being so important, and he nodded. Ardan bowed his head and spun on his heel, his shoes squeaking on the freshly polished marbled floor as he headed toward the thick wooden front door. Mr. Hopper was already there when he reached it and had it opened for him. Ardan tilted his head in thanks and walked out into the fresh air.
Removing his sunglasses from inside his suit jacket, he slipped them on against the blinding sun. A wind fluttered lazily from the direction of the beach and he glanced that way, taking in the distant sand dunes that led down onto a wide beach and the roll of soft waves on the shore. He’d been down there more than once and it was a beautiful place to hone his breathing which Ardan sometimes needed to do to get into the right mind frame.
The boss had prime real estate in the Hamptons and he shared the peace and tranquility with his men, if they deserved it. Ardan, quite often, deserved it. Right now, though, he felt like a failure. He’d never been on a mission for as long as this, even though going in, he’d known Mancini was never going to be an easy target.
One of the guards near the door glanced at him and Ardan nodded, short and brief. Duffy’s wide shoulders strained at the solid black suit he wore and his sunglasses glinted in the light. His sandy blond hair was cut in a military style fade close to his head which made his ears look too big where they sat. While he was a lot shorter than the other guards, he was the only man that Ardan knew and trusted to fully protect Sloan and Conall with his life. He excelled in the shooting course Ardan had set up for the guards, and was the best competition Ardan had fought in hand to hand combat classes. More than once, he’d proven his loyalty as well.
“Sir.” Duffy tilted his head and straightened again, turning to stare straight ahead.
“I’m heading out again for a month or so, Duffy.” Ardan stepped closer to the bulky guard and kept his voice low. “You know the drill. Report to me if anything suspicious happens.”
“And who am I watching, sir?” Duffy asked quietly.
“Anyone and everyone. Someone was talking to Detective Diaz and we need to sniff out our rat.”
“Affirmative, sir. We’ll find the rat and drown him.”
Ardan patted him on the shoulder. “Make it so. Report to me if anything happens. I want to know what you do. If the boss has visitors, I want to know everything about them. Who they are, what they do, even when they take a shit in this house, am I clear?”
Duffy quirked a grin, then canted his head forward. “Yes, sir.”
“Good man.”
Ardan walked toward his car, a sleek BMW parked and waiting for him near the fountain of the round driveway. He hit the fob, watching the lights flash, before he opened the door and slid in. The smell of leather assaulted his nose and he breathed in the new car smell. Sloan had recently updated their vehicles as he did every year, to keep up to date with the top quality gear while keeping their enemies guessing.
His phone buzzed before the call ringtone sounded in the car. Ardan tugged it out of the inside pocket of his suit and accepted the call when he saw Franco’s name. “Tell me you know where he is.”
“You know I wouldn’t have called you otherwise.” The sound of him typing on the other end of the phone had Ardan rolling his eyes, but when Franco slurped from whatever soda he was drinking, Ardan cringed. Franco, who never appeared to sleep, ran on high speed, aided by caffeine. He was as techie as they came, a hacker and tracker for hire. A lot of the hitmen and assassins in the Society used him.
“Well? I’m waiting.” Ardan started the engine causing the call to slip through to bluetooth, so he put his phone in the cup holder and shifted the car into drive, heading out of Sloan’s long driveway and out into the street of massive mansions that belonged to criminals and celebrities.
“Pleasant Beach. He’s in Pleasant Beach.”
“How do you know? Mancini knows about you too, Franco. He changes burner phones every time he leaves a location.” Ardan’s hands squeezed around the leather of the steering wheel, the texture under his palms a calming feel.
Franco snorted, and the tapping grew faster. “He’s there, trust me. I’ve got some scouts in the area too, and they gave me confirmation. They saw him there. He’s been there for about four or five days.” He paused long enough to breathe deeply through the line. “That’s Norse Lords territory. Are you sure you want to go near it?”
“I know a Lord,” I said, sighing. “Santiago and I go way back.”
“Ah. Your ex?”
“Yes.” Ardan pressed his foot harder on the accelerator and the BMW shot forward onto the motorway. Weaving his way through cars, he hurried toward the private airport Sloan often used.
“Would he let you into Pleasant Beach for business?”
“It’s not his choice. He’s not the president of his club.”
“Are you going to ask for permission then?” Franco’s voice wavered.
“No. I’ll be in and out before they’d even know I was there.” At least Ardan hoped so. He’d only met the president of the Norse Lords MC once and it’d been brief, but Santi had said he was a hard ass. He ran the city of Pleasant Beach like a business, and everyone who lived there knew who was in charge. Even the Society made it clear going into Pleasant Beach for business meant they needed the man they called Odin’s permission, and forgoing it could end with death. Ardan didn’t have time for that though. As soon as Mancini knew Ardan was in town, he’d run again. Ardan needed to go in hard and fast. He had no other choice with the hitman. He could beg for forgiveness later.
“Give me the hotel address, Franco. I’m at the airport.”
Franco grunted. “Your funeral.”
The phone buzzed and Ardan grabbed it, opening the message to an address in Pleasant Beach. “Thank you,” he said, before ending the call.
Saturday Series Spotlight
Blood. Gore. Criminals. Romance.
M.D. Gregory loves it all. She believes everyone deserves to find love, even those characters with questionable motives. M.D. Gregory writes bloodier romances with more violence, kink, and bad boys. Her characters are not good guys. They live for danger and thrive on pain and retribution. But even those sorts of men fall in love, right?
She writes in various genres, from contemporary to fantasy, so no matter what your dark taste craves, you'll find it here.
The Professional #2
The Assassin #3
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