The Devil of Downtown

by Joanna Shupe

  Goddamn it. “Did you try and grab him?”

  Brady nodded. “Put Maeve in Big Stevie’s place,” he said, referring to one of Jack’s poolrooms. “Then I ran after him. He was fast, though, and dodged me somewhere around McGurk’s Saloon.”

  “You’d never find him in that hellhole, if he did go inside. Shit!” He smacked his palm on the desk. “First he follows Katie, now Maeve. And he’s not scared off by you? How stupid is this bastard?”

  “I couldn’t say, but this rules out that it’s an old beau of Katie’s. This guy is either working up his nerve or trying to scare them.”

  “I don’t like either of those possibilities.” Jack drummed his fingers on the desk. “Take more men. I want him caught if he shows his face again. If Maeve gives you any trouble, then tell her the girls can all sleep here instead.”

  “Will do. Do you think he’s one of O’Shaughnessy’s men?”

  “Hard to say. Catch him next time, though, and I fucking guarantee we’ll find out.”

  The door opened and Cooper stuck his head in the room. “A visitor.”

  Christ almighty. He was not in the mood for this tonight. Couldn’t he work in peace? “Who?”

  Cooper’s lips twitched like he was fighting a smile. “The do-gooder.”

  Jack straightened in his chair. Justine was here. Downtown. At this hour? “Send her up.”

  Cooper left, and Brady came to his feet. “I’ll let you know if we see anything else.”

  “No matter how small, Brady. Even if it seems insignificant. I won’t have my people intimidated. We need to catch him.”

  After a nod, Brady departed. Jack downed the rest of his beer and opened another bottle. He hadn’t changed out of his evening clothes, though he’d removed his coat. The ends of his bowtie hung loose around his neck, his collar unpinned. A gentleman would redress in the presence of a lady.

  Jack was no goddamn gentleman.

  Anticipation swirled in his gut, an unsettled feeling. Edgy. He couldn’t imagine what she wanted, seeing as how their association had ended several hours ago.

  You look very dashing tonight.

  The compliment, given almost reluctantly, shyly, had been no false praise or flattery. Justine didn’t have a dishonest bone in her body. There had been something in her eyes when she’d first watched him approach on the walk, an appreciation. Feminine interest. Just the hint of a flame waiting for the right match.

  And God help him, because he was a terrible man, the worst man, he’d love nothing more than to watch her burn.

  The door swung inward and his muscles tightened in readiness. Justine appeared, wrapped in a long black cloak. She stepped in and he could see she still wore her evening gown from the fundraiser. He hadn’t been lying when he said she was lovely. The silver gown gave her a regal air, like an ethereal princess. Delicate—though he knew she was the complete opposite.

  No, this girl was stronger than the bedrock holding up the island of Manhattan.

  He was walking across the room before he even realized it. Kept going until the tips of his shoes brushed the hem of her skirts and the scent of her, flowery and clean, filled his lungs. It was the best thing he’d ever smelled.

  He could see the light smattering of freckles on her nose, the sweep of her dark lashes. The gentle bow of her upper lip. Had he once thought her eyes boring? Now they blazed up at him, gold flecks dancing in the gaslight.

  To keep from touching her, he thrust his hands in his trouser pockets. He had no intention of making it easy for her. Merely stood and waited. They both knew she had no good reason to be here at this hour, and he wanted her to own it.

  The tip of her tongue emerged and she dragged it across her lips. Jack felt that caress in his cock. Does she have any idea of the dirty, depraved things I wish to do to her?

  “I apologize for interrupting,” she said. “You left abruptly and I did not have a chance to thank you.”

  That diverted his attention away from her mouth. “Thank me?”

  “Yes, for your speech.” Another sweep of her pink tongue. “Mamie said they had a record number of donations. The highest amount they’ve ever received at a fundraiser.”

  Good. His not-so-subtle nudging of a few particular gentlemen must’ve paid off. Those bastards could well afford it. “And?”

  “And no one shunned me. In fact, I was quite the hero for bringing you to speak.”

  “I meant what did you think of the speech?”

  “It was tremendous.” The compliment came out in a breathy rush. “I hadn’t guessed you’d do anything like that, so it caught me off guard. But you were . . . quite impressive.”

  Dashing and impressive?

  He was starting to think she wanted him just as much as he wanted her.

  Impossible.

  Pitching his voice low, he asked, “Why are you really here this evening?”

  Her eyes went wide. The question had startled her. Good. “I told you. I had to thank you.”

  “That is what letters and telegrams are for. Tell me honestly. Why did you come all the way downtown to my club?”

  She blinked a few times but didn’t drop her gaze. “You want me to say it was to see you once more in person. Is that it?”

  “I hardly think it’s a lie.”

  “Then you have grossly misinterpreted the situation.”

  “Have I?” Without touching her, he leaned in and brought his mouth right to her ear. Near enough that she would feel his warm breath on her skin. “I think I’ve interpreted the situation correctly. You want to be here. With me.”

  Her breath caught, goose bumps breaking out on her exposed skin. He was inches away, so close he could see the pulse pounding in her throat. The proof of her excitement only heightened his, and he longed to sink his teeth into the soft skin where her neck met her shoulder. It had been weeks since he’d fucked a woman and Justine would be just as good as anyone else.

  Liar.

  She would be better. She was so fierce and pure, so decent. A bold angel he didn’t deserve. He wanted to charm and seduce her. To pleasure her beyond reason. To absolutely wreck her.

  He didn’t move and she didn’t pull away. The overhead gasolier hissed and faint noises drifted up from the club below them. Her shoulders rose and fell with the force of her rapid breaths and his cock thickened, lengthened in his trousers. He was half-hard and hadn’t even kissed her yet.

  “You said I wasn’t your type.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

  “I lied. Shall I prove it to you?”

  Chapter Nine

  Justine swallowed. Hard. Mulligan was potent, heat rolling off his large body like waves from a furnace. He wore no coat, his collar unfastened to reveal the strong column of his throat. She couldn’t seem to move. Frozen by whatever was happening in this room.

  Why was she here? There was no good answer for that question. She’d gone home with Mamie after the fundraiser and then snuck out of the house with one destination in mind. To see Jack.

  A hum had started under her skin the second he’d descended from his carriage at the curb. It had only worsened when he walked off the opera house stage. She’d been possessed by an undeniable impulse to talk to him, to see him. But it couldn’t mean anything more. Could it?

  She licked her dry lips again and Jack’s eyes flashed as he watched her mouth. It was as if an electric current ran between the two of them, a dark need she could almost taste. She’d never experienced it before, this urgent craving, as if her body belonged to someone else. Something else. An animal in heat, one incapable of higher reasoning. A creature of flesh and blood and wanting.

  And he’d taunted her. Shall I prove it to you?

  Oh, yes. She’d like nothing more right now. To attack and be attacked. To finally feel what the poets and storytellers meant when they talked about passion. To feel alive.

  Her life had been about others for so long that she forgot what it felt like to live just for herself. To take instead of giv
ing, giving, giving all the time. The idea of being wicked and selfish was a thrill just waiting there, beckoning in the sizzle of his gaze as he stared down at her.

  Danger. You’re in danger, Justine.

  He wouldn’t hurt her, not in the physical sense. However, no one would ever believe that Mulligan could be good for her. He was worldly and charming. Cunning. A man who dressed like a duke but traded in violence and crime. An elegant sword dipped in poison.

  So why had she come here tonight?

  “Stay,” he whispered and inched closer, and she held her breath. “Stay and I’ll make all your darkest dreams come true.”

  Lust tore through her, a pulse of fire and need that centered between her legs. A battle waged inside her like two sides of a coin. Heads was sin and debauchery, the wicked man in front of her. Tails was life beyond these walls, the real world in which she lived with responsibilities and conventions. In this moment she wasn’t sure which side she favored.

  Hot breath hit her skin an instant before she felt the rough, wet tip of his tongue press to the sensitive spot behind her ear. She gasped and stumbled backward, shocked.

  Sweet Lord. He’d licked her. Her gaze locked with his, and she expected to see a smug arrogance reflected there.

  Instead, she found raw, naked desire.

  Fumbling behind her, she clutched the knob and turned. Then she hurried into the hall, nearly running to the stairs. A man stood at the landing but she didn’t acknowledge him. She merely lifted her skirts and flew down the steps. Toward the street. Toward safety. She didn’t care if anyone followed. Her only thought was to escape.

  But you liked it. Go back so he may continue.

  No, she told her inner voice. That was impossible. Justine didn’t belong with Mulligan. It was like Little Red Riding Hood choosing the wolf over her grandmother. It made no sense. They made no sense.

  A boxing match was in full swing as she darted through the club’s main room. Thankfully, no one paid her any attention. Once out the front door, she tried to dodge the two young men on the stoop.

  “Ho!” One of them caught her arm.

  “Let me go.”

  He instantly released her but the other guard stepped in front of her, blocking her path. “Beg your pardon, Miss Greene, but you can’t be runnin’ the streets of the neighborhood at this hour.”

  “I will hire a hack. I’ll be fine.”

  The first boy jerked his thumb at the brougham parked up the street. “We’ll have Rye take you wherever you need to go.”

  “That’s not necessary—”

  “Miss, if we let you tear out of here, alone, Mulligan’ll string us up by our toenails. Please, take the carriage.”

  They both looked young and sincere, and Justine didn’t wish to cause them trouble with their employer. “Fine.”

  Satisfied, one of the guards ran inside, presumably to find Mr. Rye. Justine tried not to fidget as they waited. She watched the boxing match through the glass panes at the front of the club. The flurry of fists and feet was dizzying, a battle so primitive it was beautiful. The fighters’ bare chests, one light and one dark, dripped with sweat, their attention focused solely on each other. Spectators surrounded the ring, cheering and shouting, some even shoving one another. This was Mulligan’s world, where men battled for dominance with their fists.

  What was she doing here? And why in God’s name was she so fascinated by it?

  “Hello, miss.” Rye came up alongside her. “Just give me your address and we’ll get you home all nice, safe and sound.”

  Safe and sound. In another word, boring.

  Was that how everyone saw her? Was that how he saw her?

  She blinked up at the brightly lit windows on the second floor. Mulligan stood there, expressionless, leaning against the window, a glass of beer in his hand as he watched her below. He made no effort to look away.

  How long had he been standing there?

  He hadn’t seemed surprised when she’d fled the club. Hadn’t come after her, either. Perhaps the touch of his tongue had been meant to scare her. To prove she wasn’t strong enough to handle what was between them.

  If so, he underestimated her.

  Justine was much stronger than she appeared. He’d caught her off guard, was all.

  And while he may be a wolf in fancy clothing, she was no innocent lamb looking to get slaughtered. She could take care of herself. That meant staying away from Great Jones Street and Mulligan.

  She gave him a jaunty salute then started for the brougham. Good luck, wolf. Find another lamb to play with.

  Broome Street Hall was a classic Bowery dive. It had a plain storefront with two big windows on either side of a double door. A large sign proclaimed Lager Beer along the front, though many patrons here preferred a punch that contained cocaine sweepings, benzene, camphor, hot rum and whiskey. Jack had seen what it did to patrons; if they were lucky, they might only have a day or two of useless oblivion. The unlucky ones never woke up.

  He glanced over at Cooper. “He’s here?”

  “Yes, confirmed. Up front in the saloon.”

  Last night, one of Jack’s policy shops had been robbed. The particular location happened to border O’Shaughnessy’s territory to the east. Though no one had been caught, it did not take a genius to figure out who had been behind the holdup.

  Jack meant to send a message. One that would not be misinterpreted.

  He had two of his men with him. Thirty men would’ve made it seem like Jack was scared of O’Shaughnessy, which was laughable. Ten men would have been smart, merely to ensure nothing happened. Two was an insult, one meant to get under O’Shaughnessy’s skin.

  Jack wasn’t worried. O’Shaughnessy wouldn’t dare hurt him. To do so would bring fire and brimstone to the Lower East Side and everything Trevor had worked for destroyed. Just like years ago, when gang warfare used to be the normal state of affairs downtown. When hundreds of innocent lives were lost.

  That reminded Jack of his little do-gooder. Perhaps he’d scared her off for good after the fundraiser the other night. She’d run from the club as if rabid hounds were chasing her—or one very aroused male.

  Christ, how he’d wanted her.

  But he’d purposely pushed, testing her. His words and touch had frightened her, proving he couldn’t be what she needed, a gentle man who fucked with the lights off every other Saturday night. That wasn’t Jack. Though he wore bespoke suits and oiled his hair, he had been raised in a brothel as well as on the streets. Justine might have a strong will, but so did he—with the blood on his hands to prove it.

  He would only horrify her. No, she was better off.

  Pushing that away, he focused on the task at hand. “Let’s go.”

  He crossed Broome and started for the doors. Night had fallen hours ago, the gaslights casting yellow gloom on the dirt, piss and animal excrement in the street. Cooper opened the door and Jack stepped inside—and all conversation ceased. Even the piano player in the corner froze, the notes hanging in midair until they dissipated.

  Good.

  The place was packed with men, young and old, gathered around small wooden tables on the scuffed tile floor. A table with food had been set up in the corner, flanking the long wooden bar along the far wall.

  At the bar stood Trevor O’Shaughnessy.

  He wore a black cap pulled low, but Jack could still see the hatred in Trevor’s gaze reflected in the mirror behind the bar as he watched Jack’s approach.

  Removing his derby, Jack went toward the bar. He ignored the patrons gawking at him. Two men at tables closest to the bar shot to their feet, but Cooper and Rye, who flanked Jack like foot soldiers, blocked them.

  When he reached the bar, Jack stepped directly between O’Shaughnessy and another man. “A beer,” he told the bartender.

  The bartender shot a glance toward O’Shaughnessy, who discreetly nodded his head. A few seconds later a beer appeared in front of Jack. He went to dig a coin out of his pocket, but the bartender
waved him off. “It’s on the house,” the man said.

  Jack lifted the glass in thanks and took a long sip. It was terrible, nothing but watered-down piss. Cradling the glass in his hand, he turned, put his back against the bar and studied the crowd. Roughnecks and thugs stared at him, a room full of men who had no ambition or drive. Their hands were dirty and their clothing tattered. No thought to distinguish themselves from the butchers and hooligans of the past. A shame, really. Not forward thinkers, this crew.

  He made no effort to speak. Just took up space while he drank the beer. Years of experience had taught him that employing silence was often the most threatening thing a man could do.

  O’Shaughnessy was short and stocky. He had black hair, a thick neck and misshapen ears from years of boxing. By all accounts, he had a hair-trigger temper.

  Sure enough, Jack didn’t have to wait long.

  “What the fuck do you want, Mulligan?”

  So, O’Shaughnessy could speak, after all.

  Jack didn’t turn. “You should know why I’m here, Trevor.”

  “I don’t. Why don’t you spell it out and then leave?”

  “Such hospitality,” Jack drawled sarcastically. “Careful, or I might think I’m not wanted around here.”

  Trevor put his glass down with a thump. “Get to the point. I don’t have time for you or your games.”

  Spinning, Jack hurled his beer glass at the mirror behind the bar. The mirror exploded in an unholy crash, shards raining down to the floor along with discarded beer. O’Shaughnessy stiffened and chairs scraped behind them.

  Jack leaned in and kept his voice low. “Have time for me fucking now?”

  A muscle clenched in O’Shaughnessy’s jaw but he didn’t move.

  “Nothing to say?” Jack taunted. “Fine. I’ll speak enough for both of us.” He straightened and pulled on his cuffs, smoothed his vest. Style mattered in situations such as this.

  “I know you are responsible for what happened to my policy shop last night. Whether it was under orders from you or some of your men gone rogue, I don’t care. I expect you to make restitution. I want every dollar, every penny stolen from me returned by the end of the week.”