by A. C. Bextor
Killian’s expression grows pensive. I know his take on the sale of flesh and had hoped by him seeing what I actually do with said flesh that he’d gain a better understanding of how my family cares for these women. We’re not in the business of peddling humans overall; we’re out to make a profit just the same as the professional whores who use their bodies.
“What’s on your mind, Killian?” I ask, cutting through the silence. “Why did you ask to meet?”
“He’s up to something,” Killian voices, his tone low and full of unmasked concern.
“How do you know? I thought the two of you didn’t speak?”
“We don’t. However, there’s a man inside who, unlike Ciro, understands family is more important than anything else in this world. Business or not.”
“Your grandson,” Abram guesses. “Liam.”
Killian gives no indication if Abram’s hit the mark or not. Abram’s guess would make sense; Liam is the obvious choice. That young man is the only link that ties both families together.
“There was a woman of yours,” Killian addresses with disgust. “Katrina.”
“Marx,” Abram finishes. “Katrina Marx ran one of our houses. But she’s no longer employed by our organization.”
“Right,” Killian returns. “Now she’s part of Ciro’s.”
Giving Killian information of what I already know could be dangerous. Trusting a man connected to Ciro could potentially cause more harm to everyone involved, including him. However, after having Josef coming to claim what he said was his and doing it with Ciro’s backing, I don’t have a choice but to share.
“I know enough about Katrina to believe she’s harmless.”
“You’re so sure of this?” Killian questions.
“I’d be more sure if you’d agree to rally against Ciro with me. Together, we’d have no problem putting him where he belongs.”
Killian’s face falls to worry. “If I were to do this, Liam could potentially suffer.”
“Liam is an adult, my friend. He’s starting his own life. Do you not want him away from the hands of that madman?”
Sternly, Killian advises, “I can’t get involved yet.”
“You’re already involved,” Abram puts in. “By coming here, you’re already choosing sides. And it’s the right side.”
Killian lifts his hand toward Abram to accept the photograph I asked Abram to bring. It’s the picture of the contents Josef had with him the night we found him near the house, each item more grotesque than the one before.
Killian studies the photo. The ashen color of the old man’s face turns red.
“He was going to hurt Klara,” Abram states. “And you can see by the items in that picture that he was going to make her suffer by his hand or by giving her over to the Palleshis.”
“Dear God in heaven. Ciro, what have you done?” Killian whispers to himself.
Sitting up in my seat, I place my drink down on the table and rest my elbows on my knees. I watch as Killian fingers the edge of the picture as he thinks.
“What if Josef were planning this for your wife? Your child? Would you be willing to walk away then?”
“No,” he replies, but doesn’t look up. “But in a way, Liam is my child. And if you all were to destroy Ciro, Liam could get caught in the middle. I can’t let that happen, no more than you can let Ciro walk away for this attempt against your family.”
“My woman,” I hiss. “Klara Koslief is mine. Katrina knows this.”
“As does Ciro now, I’m sure,” Killian assumes.
“Yes.”
“Give me time to think,” Killian requests.
“The time for thinking has passed,” Abram retorts. “If your answer is no, we have nothing else to discuss.”
“You don’t know if Ciro is planning anything beyond the help Josef had asked him for.”
“No, I don’t.”
“I’ll ask this of you, then,” Killian asserts. “Give me time. Enough to try and talk to Liam. If I can get to him—”
“His loyalty is to the Palleshi name, not Dawson.”
“He’s loyal to no one. He’s young, but he understands more than you’d believe.”
“Time, then,” I reluctantly agree. “But if Ciro breathes a breath in my direction, Killian, I’ll ruin him for good. And it’ll be too late to worry about your Liam as I do.”
“Are you planning to ignore me all night?” Klara’s voice pulls my attention from work.
When I lift my head and find her standing in the doorway, she smiles. Her arms are wrapped around her waist. She’s holding something tightly between them. She’s also wearing the nightgown I insisted she buy during our last shopping trip in the city. Klara said it was too much, swearing her small frame couldn’t do the gown justice, but looking at her now, she couldn’t have been more wrong.
My beautiful girl makes the gown beautiful.
“Ignore you? How would that be possible?” Klara smiles wider, knowing my return is true. “It’s late. Can’t you sleep?”
Pulling her shoulder from the doorjamb, she takes a step closer. “I could, but I’d be doing it alone. I missed you.”
“What do you have?” I inquire, pointing to her hand.
Rolling my chair back two feet from my desk, I open my arms to Klara as she steps in close.
“Maag insists you need this for your desk. She gave it to you as a gift but said you wouldn’t accept, so she gave it to me so you would have to take it.”
Accepting the frame, I look down to find why Maag is so insistent.
The picture is of Klara standing with Veni as Abram’s daughter, Aline, plays in an open area of sand at a park I don’t recognize.
Klara’s wearing a pair of too-short denim shorts and a yellow State of Arizona tee shirt. My son is wearing his usual tattered jeans and faded tee. Klara’s smiling down at Aline as she tosses sand in the air. Veni’s not smiling at all.
“Ah, so Maag thought the gift should be in here,” I jab. “Not you at all?”
Shaking her head, Klara folds herself into my lap, her back to my front. Her bare legs tangle with mine as she sits up to find a place on the desk for the gift. Moving things around, she places it near the lamp and directly in my view.
“I thought since you spend more time in here than in bed sleeping with me or doing other stuff to me that I agreed with Maag. This is where the picture should be. You know, just so you remember.”
Sitting back, Klara rests the back of her head against my shoulder, then emits a contented sigh. Her hands find mine and she pulls my arms across her stomach where she clutches them tightly to her.
“It’s late, Vlad. Come to bed,” she nags.
“I have work,” I return. “I won’t be much longer.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“Yes, I’ve said many things before. You don’t listen to many of them.”
“You know, we could all take a trip,” she pushes. “To, say, New York, to visit your family. I’ve never been there. I’d like to meet the cousins Veni’s always talking about.”
Since we’ve been together, I’ve been careful to keep Klara as far away from my family as I’ve been able. My father is still bitter, completely against my relationship to a woman who carries a traitor’s blood within her veins. He’d think that, given the way Klara and I started.
My uncle, on the other hand, is merely concerned that my focus has slipped, and that I’ve moved on with more interest in building a family of my own versus garnering and caring for this one’s growth and prosperity.
None of their thoughts or feelings matter. Since the blessing I asked from each of them never came, Klara won’t be exposed to their blatant disinterest in her. And when I make the decision to marry the woman I’ve come to care about, they won’t be asked to make an appearance there, either.
“So, you miss me.” I kiss the soft skin of Klara’s neck and feel her softly shudder. “And that’s why you came down here at this hour?”
�
�Yes,” she confirms, dropping her hands to cover mine. Her back arches when my thumb caresses her skin in small circles, slowly making my way between her thighs.
“Should you show me how much you miss me in my office?” I offer. “Or in our bed?”
Twisting her neck, Klara kisses me softly. Her tongue darts out to taste my bottom lip.
“You’re playing with fire, my beautiful girl,” I remind her.
Spreading her thighs wide, Klara braces the pads of her feet on the floor. From over her shoulder, I look down and take heated pleasure in the contours of her chest. Her nipples, tight from excitement, brush against the material of her nightgown.
“Touch me, Vlad,” she quietly demands.
My fingers dig into her flesh, a warning for her to brace. When she grasps my thighs at either side, I start my approach and my body rocks as my finger makes contact with her bare pussy.
Klara’s intention in coming to me was this and only this.
“You’re playing me,” I hiss, my fingers spreading her before finding purchase against her already swollen clit.
Rolling over it slowly, her body grows tight and her neck tilts against my shoulder. Her eyes close, and she takes in a breath.
“So fucking beautiful.”
Tilting her hips, she attempts to take away my control, setting the pace for herself. I pull my hand from beneath her gown. She huffs in protest.
“Stand up, turn around, and face me,” I instruct.
While she does as I’ve told her, I free myself from my pants. Klara grasps the edge of the desk as she spreads her thighs, opening herself in front of me. The smell of her arousal penetrates. My cock pulsates with every breath.
“Lie back on the desk and offer yourself to me,” I demand.
Once she climbs up, I grab her foot and place it on the edge of my chair. The other follows without my direction. Her bare cunt glistens for my view.
Sitting back, I run one finger from behind her knees, up her thighs, again and again, until they begin to tremble.
“Tell me why you came in here.”
After clearing the desk behind her, Klara lies back, stretching her arms above her head. Her body grows more taut as my finger explores her wet and silky core. In and out, I watch her intense reaction to my touch.
“Vlad,” she breathes. “Please.”
“Tell me why you walked in here like this. Dressed in this.”
“Oh, God,” she murmurs, balling her hands to fists as I circle her clit and then position my finger at her entrance.
With my other hand, I stroke my shaft up and down, again and again. Surrounded by all that’s her, my own touch is threatening.
“Say it, beautiful girl. Tell me what you want.”
“I want you to fuck me, Vlad,” she demands, twisting and writhing against my palm.
In her frantic attempt to find a steady anchor to the desk, the picture frame falls, landing on its front with a clink.
Standing, I run my hand over her taut stomach. Between her breasts, I press down to keep her position and, without warning, I give her exactly what she came to get—my cock.
“This is what you want,” I accuse, pulling out quickly, then thrusting into her as deep as I can get.
“Yes.” She wraps her legs around my waist, her heels digging into my back.
Her neck strains as her head tilts back against the desk. The veins protrude in protest. Her mouth is open, gasping for breath, and I drive into her without mercy.
Her insides tighten, grasping my cock with more greed than before. She’s close.
“Beg me to let you come.”
Klara’s head comes up, her chin meeting her chest as her narrow eyes meet mine. Her most always stubborn dispositions would be amusing if I weren’t so close to coming undone.
“No,” she whispers. “I won’t beg.”
“You will,” I promise, bending to tear her gown and expose her chest. My mouth latches to her breast and I suck it in fast and hard. My finger rolls over her clit, my cock pulsating with impatience inside her.
Standing again, I look down. Her eyes are no longer narrowed but reflective. Seeing her spread out, willing to do whatever I ask, I stop. I’ve been too rough. I’m treating her like a whore.
Klara’s eyebrows furrow. “Vlad?”
“Come here,” I call, holding my hand out to help her up while at the same time sliding out of her.
Once she’s standing, I walk her back to my chair. She follows closely behind.
Sitting down, I twist the chair to face her. Her eyes widen when I sit, pants open but not off, cock out but not satisfied. Grabbing her hand, I bring her to me.
“Ride me, Klara. Slow and sweet.”
With careful consideration, Klara brings herself to my lap. With slow, sweet, absolute fucking torture, she finds her unhurried rhythm, holding my body tightly to hers.
“I love you,” she whispers in my ear. “And you don’t have to tell me you love me right now. I already know you do.”
“Cillian Dawson was found dead outside a no-name bar downtown. His body was lying next to a dumpster.” Abram’s voice is unrecognizably wounded as he voices the grave news over the phone. “Single gunshot to the head, Vlad. He’d been on his knees. This wasn’t a random homicide. This was an execution.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“He had everything with him. Keys, wallet, driver’s license, and money.”
“No,” I vehemently deny his words. “Cillian was—”
“Cillian was young. That’s what he was,” he burns further. “No blood on his hands, no signs of struggle around him. Just one shiny bullet to the brain.”
“God in heaven, Abram.”
“I’m not wrong with this. Someone had been looking for him. This was a hit.”
“A professional hit,” I convey. “Who would be stupid enough to carry out a hit on Cillian Dawson?”
“I have no idea.”
Weeks have passed since I met with Killian at Tempra. I haven’t spoken to him since that last meeting where I encouraged him to align with my organization to get rid of Ciro once and for all.
“Does anyone have proof who could’ve done this?”
Not that it truly matters anymore.
A man is dead.
A life’s been taken.
A family is in mourning.
At this very moment, Killian is most likely holding his broken wife in his arms and begging God to somehow give his last but now lost son back.
“Not yet,” Abram answers. “But from the way it sounds, as fucked-up as it sounds, all of this could blow Palleshi’s way.”
“They’re family,” I remind him. “Surely, Ciro wouldn’t be so stupid as to kill a Dawson.”
“To get what he wants from Killian?” Abram abruptly returns. “He would. What better way to position to take over what Killian still controls than to expose a weakness heartrending enough to keep him busy for a good long while.”
Abram’s right.
The strongest weakness of any man is found at the heart of his family, and Killian Dawson of all people holds his wife and son closest above all else.
Striking against a man by murdering his own blood can certainly make him weak. This malicious act of cruelty then invites others to pull apart whatever they can and as fast as they can do it.
“We’ll proceed with caution from here, Vlad,” Abram strongly advises. “The women—Faina, Klara, even Maag—shouldn’t go out alone. They’ll hate the fact they’re being tailed, but I know you agree it’s best.”
“Yes.”
I do agree, to both the protection and the resistance it’ll undoubtedly be met with.
“Too long of nothing. Not a word has been heard from Ciro after Josef was taken down,” he comments quietly. “All of this has been torn to shreds with a bullet to the brain. Whoever it was, Ciro or not, they weren’t messing around.”
“I need you to do something for me,” I request. “Add the families of my men to the list o
f those to be watched. Whatever is needed. Luci and Aline are as much my family as you are. You know this.”
“I’ll get on the boys when I’m off here. Everyone will be covered by tonight.”
“At any cost.”
“Any cost,” he returns. “Are you already thinking on whether or not you should attend the funeral?”
I hadn’t thought that far ahead; however, Abram has a fair point.
“I should go and pay my respects.”
“I’ll find out when the services are. Irish or not, Killian is a respected acquaintance.”
“Yes,” I acknowledge.
“Bets are Palleshi will be there.”
Fuck Ciro Palleshi.
Even a man of his disgrace, a man who could have had Cillian killed, will be respectful enough to offer familial peace in a time of mourning. If I’m wrong, I’ll hope his being able to gloat in the face of a mourning family will keep him from bragging about his intended gesture in ruining them.
Besides, with Killian’s entire liege of men armed with weapons, angry at the loss of one of their own, Ciro would be an even bigger fool to think he’d win a battle against wolves waiting to drink the blood of their enemy.
“You should take Klara,” Abram suggests. “Won’t hurt if she meets Erlina. Even while she’s grieving, Klara’s sure to be a balm to some of that hurt just by being the woman she is.”
“I’ll ask. If she’d rather not, I won’t push.”
Smiling through his words, Abram returns, “If she’d rather not? Are you being funny? When does Klara not want to be anywhere you are?”
“Abram,” I exasperate. “Enough.”
“If Luci followed me as much as Klara follows you, nothing would ever get done.”
“This is true.”
Off subject, Abram questions, “How’s Klara doing, anyway?”
I smile, something I’ve done a lot more of over these last couple months. “She’s good.”
“Glad to know she’s still putting up with you,” he jabs.
I don’t fold to his goading, but repeat, “She’s good, Abram. Enough.”