by Zara Cox
His face tightens with affront. Shit. I swallow and regroup, choosing not to feel annoyed that my request to deal with the head of the Russian mob was answered with a meeting with a low-level lackey.
The lieutenant looks around my office then stares at a couple of monitors showing a packed club. “You run lots of nightclubs, successfully by the look of it. What do you want with guns, anyway?”
I choose my words carefully. “I have a lot of assets to protect. You help me protect them, and I’ll make sure none of the mess lands on your doorstep.”
He watches me for a moment before his gaze swings back to the monitors. I follow his gaze and see my three brothers stroll into XYNYC.
Fuck.
The lieutenant nods at them. “We talked about your father. What about your brothers? That one, Ronan, has quite the temperament. If Bratva decides to do business with you, how do you plan to keep him in line?”
It’s a problem I’m well aware of. Ronan grew up expecting to inherit the very empire I’m actively dismantling. I know he’s been going behind my back trying to talk Petrosyan and the Albanians out of dealing with me. So far, the lure of better profit has thwarted his efforts. But he won’t take defeat lying down. I grit my jaw at the thought of going toe-to-toe with my oldest brother. “You don’t need to worry. He won’t be a problem.”
The Russian shakes his head. “Before we even think about switching sides, we need better assurances.”
“What would satisfy you?”
He doesn’t immediately respond. He stands and buttons his jacket. “You will hear from us.”
“When?”
“When you hear from us,” he replies.
I exhale my irritation and stand to shake his hand. When he leaves, I sit back down and watch my brothers on the screen.
As instructed, they’re seated in my VIP booth and are being given premium service by my most trusted hostess.
Ronan, wearing a smirk, struts around like he owns the place, tossing back shot after shot of Balvenie whisky. He wears his thirty-eight years well, although a little wear and tear shows in the slight paunch clinging to his belly and the brackets framing his mouth.
Bolton sits brooding, thumbing his nose every other minute, his dark gray gaze darting after shadows that aren’t there.
Troy, ever the ladies’ man, is sweet-talking two girls on the edge of the dance floor. I watch him beckon the hostess. A minute later, he’s offering champagne to the girls. Phone numbers are exchanged, and I’m fairly certain one or both of them will grace my brother’s bed before the night is over.
I turn off the monitors and leave my office.
Bolton is the first to spot me. He surges to his feet, catching the attention of Ronan, who barks at Troy before his gaze swings to meet mine.
I struggle to remember a time when I felt any warmth or kinship toward my oldest brother. If there were such a thing as born enemies, we would be it. I have no inkling of the exact moment it began or the events that triggered it. All I know is he’s hated me for as long as I can remember. And the feeling is mutual.
My gaze tracks left to Bolton. He nods stiffly, although his gaze is less cold.
Troy steps forward, and our eyes meet. If I had a heart worth salvaging, I would mourn the hardness I see in his eyes. With two older brothers forged in Finnan’s image, Troy, the brother closest to my age, never stood a chance.
As if he senses my pity, his square jaw clenches, his eyes throwing challenges I have no intention of accepting.
“You wanted to meet. We’re here. Tell us what this is about so I can get on with my night,” Ronan says.
I shake my head. “I’m not discussing this here. I have an apartment upstairs. We’ll talk there. I only brought you into the nightclub because my meeting was running late.”
Troy snorts. “Yeah, right. It had nothing to do with you wanting to rub your shady little operation in our faces or anything, right?”
“No, but you’re free to think what you want. While you enjoy that premium champagne, of course.”
He raises his glass to me in a mock salute. “Thanks. I will. And if this cheap little show bankrupts you, what with the economy being in the toilet and all, then all the better for teaching you to be a little humble.”
I can tell him that with thirty-seven nightclubs situated around the globe, all turning a healthy profit, I’d sooner go bald overnight then go bankrupt.
I can also inform him that he’ll need more fingers than he possesses to count the zeros of my net worth. But I don’t have the time or inclination. I need them out of my way as quickly as possible.
“Let’s get this over with,” Bolton mutters, setting down his empty glass and thumbing his nose once more.
The tension in the elevator on the way up is thick. Bolton’s incessant twitching tells me he’s suffering the worst. By the time we exit, I’m certain my brother, contrary to his vigorous assertion otherwise, is still snorting shit up his nose.
I mentally shrug. As far bearing crosses goes, his is one that might eventually kill him. Some of us are already dead.
In my apartment, they spread out on various seats in the living room.
“Drink?”
Bolton shakes his head. Ronan requests another whisky. Troy shrugs a nonanswer. I head to the bar and pour three whiskies. As I turn, I can’t stop my mind from imagining Cleo here, instead of my brothers. My gaze tracks the room, conjuring up the many places I would fuck her. The couch. Up against the glass wall.
The floor, definitely. Maybe not the first time. Or the second. But her tight, little body will be pounded into that floor before I was done with her.
I hand the drinks out and retreat to the suspended fireplace at the farthest wall. “I’ll keep this short. I know Finnan wants me to butt out of his dealings with the Eastern Europeans.”
“And? You’re gonna finally show this family some respect and do the right thing?” Ronan snarls.
I allow myself a stiff smile. “I am doing the right thing. I’m giving Finnan exactly what he deserves.”
“Fuck you, Axel. What you’re doing is giving Pa the finger, you useless piece of—”
“I’m not going to debate this matter with you, Ronan. I owed it to you to give you a heads-up. I’m telling you now that what’s happening need not involve you three—”
“Wrong. You take him on, you take all of us on,” Troy inserts.
I sigh. “Take off your fucking blinkers for a damn minute, Troy. I don’t want to fight you…any of you. None of what’s about to go down need touch any of you.”
“You want us to believe you’re protecting us?” Troy laughs. “We don’t need—”
“My protection. I know. But neither do you need to be caught in the crossfire that’s none of your business.”
Ronan discards his drink and stands. “You stealing deals from right under our noses is our business.”
I swirl my drink for a moment before I meet his gaze. “The Eastern Europeans aren’t the main reason Ronan wants to see me. I’m not going to give you the details. You can ask him, but if he hasn’t told you yet, I guarantee you he’ll lie. When this is all over, if you want to know the truth, maybe I’ll tell you. For now, stay the hell out of my way.” I harden my voice so there’s no mistake that I’m being anything less than succinct.
“You have some fucking nerve—”
“This isn’t up for discussion, Troy. Take my advice. Or don’t.”
Ronan’s head snaps back as if he’s just had an epiphany. “Fuck, you still have a stick up your ass about being sent to West Point, don’t you?”
I struggle not to grit my teeth, any notion I had of warning him off the Bratva shelved. For now. “I’ve said what I wanted to say. Feel free to leave—”
“You’re still salty because we didn’t hold your hand while you ran around after that little slut?”
I stare Troy in the face, my fingers tingling with an inhuman itch. “I dare you to call her that one more time.”
>
Troy loses a shade of color but the sneer doesn’t leave his face. Ronan stares at me, a speculative light in his eyes.
Bolton scrambles to his feet. “Okay. You said your piece. We’ll…uh, discuss it. Let you know how what we decide.”
“You don’t need to let me know,” I reply, my eyes still on Ronan. “When the time comes, you’ll either be in my way or you won’t.”
Chapter Seven
FIRST CONTACT
An hour after they leave, I head to the Punishment Club. Now that I’ve accepted that having Cleo again is the only thing what will appease the prowling beast inside me, my madness has throttled down a notch.
It’s not a state that will remain stable for any appreciable time, even in the short term.
I haven’t fucked in weeks. After watching Cleo come, and being unable to think of anything else other experiencing that heady sight again, the hand jobs are losing their appeal.
Yesterday, I contemplated accepting a blowjob from one of the many submissives in the Punishment Club. I discarded the idea a pathetic minute later, knowing that no one but Cleo would pierce the layer of sexual inertia blanketing me.
Until I have a firm commitment from the Bratva, I can’t confront Finnan. Compared to Petrosyan and the Albanians, the Russians hold the upper hand in New York and New Jersey. As long as Finnan has their loyalty, he has a fair amount of security. Until that security is taken away, I can’t make my move with Cleo. Anticipation has its right place in the right circumstances. My ultimate plans for Cleo, for example, keep my blood thrumming. Prolonged anticipation, however, shifts my mood in the wrong direction. As does silence from the source who should’ve delivered news by now.
I stop in a deserted hallway and pull my phone from my pocket. The email I’m expecting isn’t in my inbox.
Growling under my breath, I head to the bar. B is walking the floor, all-black getup in place, her game face on as she chats with clients. With unwanted time on my hands, I take a moment to wonder what her deal is. Finding out will be as easy as making a single phone call. So far I haven’t been tempted to.
She reaches me, sees my near-empty glass, and nods to the bartender. “Have another drink. And stop glowering. You’re agitating my customers. Those who like that sort of thing are getting a free show. Those who don’t might leave. Either way, it’s not good for business.”
I accept the drink without responding and take a sip. The liquor trails a fiery path down my throat but fails to warm me or come anywhere close to offering oblivion.
“Are you heading up?” she eventually asks.
“No.”
She nods, and her gaze falls to my wrists. I’m aware she’s brimming with more questions, but she remains silent.
After a few minutes, she leaves to make another circuit of the room, pausing to talk to a diminutive priest holding chains attached to a seven-foot giant’s steel collar. I watch them, idly wondering which one of them is seeking salvation. Whether they will find it.
“Walk with me.” B has returned to my side.
I swirl the golden liquid in my glass. “Why?”
One sleek eyebrow rises. “Because you need the exercise?”
“Is this another half-assed therapy session? Because I’ll be less receptive than I was last time,” I warn.
“It’s…something. Not sure yet. But I get the feeling you’ll be interested.”
The need to tell her not to waste her time or mine hovers on my lips. But it’s only eleven p.m. Sleep isn’t anywhere on my horizon and hasn’t been since the last time I saw Cleo. I could return to my apartment and spend the next twelve hours in my personal gym. Or I can burn five minutes pandering to whatever the fuck B has up her sleeve.
Time is an endlessly fucked-up labyrinth right now so I shrug.
She heads for the elevators at the far side of the reception area. The stunning black girl behind the desk eyes me with thinly veiled interest. She’s tall, shapely with a superbly toned body. I try to imagine her red-painted lips wrapped around my cock.
All I get is gray static.
“What is this all about?” I growl as I step into the elevator.
B presses the button for the second floor. The newbie floor. My barely awakened interest drops to zero.
“Our latest member has been here three nights in a row.”
I shove my hands into my pockets, admitting that postponing a session with my punching bag probably wasn’t my best idea. “That’s unusual because?”
She notes my disinterested tone and holds up a manicured hand. “Bear with me. You trust my radar to be pretty accurate. But this one…I’m not so sure about. She either has serious mental issues I didn’t pick up on or she’s paying a hell of a lot of money to use our suite as a hotel room.”
My jaw bunches. “We have clients who pay to sit in a white padded cell without food or water for twenty-four hours at a stretch. What’s different about this one?”
“You’ll see.”
The elevator pings open. I suppress my rising irritation and follow her down the hall. Unlike the Gothic-bent decor on the upper floors, the doors and hallway are painted in lighter colors, with some rooms offering viewing windows for those with exhibitionist tendencies.
She leads me to a door that has a TV screen attached to the wall next to it. It’s accessed by a special code known only to senior staff so newbies can be monitored. By definition, the Punishment Club is a place of extremes, but those new clients still need monitoring during the first three months after joining despite the waivers they’re required to sign.
She enters the code. The screen flickers to life.
The woman is sitting on the rumpled bed, her head on her drawn-up knees, arms wrapped around her legs. Her long, dark hair is obscuring her face but there are no visibly unsettling signs of distress. She’s either sleeping. Or meditating. Or crying. My gaze moves from her to the room.
The large picture of the lone surfer at sunrise on the wall above the bed is the first strum on my wary senses. The bed frame and headboard also look familiar. The gray and white sheets. The red headphones draped over the studded armchair. The chair itself.
The distinct purple-foiled stack of condoms on the dresser.
My breath expels from my lungs in a harsh rush as I whirl to face B.
“Who is she?” The question is redundant because I already know the answer.
“I told you, she’s our latest client. I tried to tell you about her when I came to your place—”
“What is her name?”
“Cleopatra McC—”
“What the fuck is she doing here?” My whole body clenches, her name a cattle prod direct to my core. I swing back around to stare at the screen.
B inhales sharply. “Wait a second. You know her?”
Yes.
No.
I slam my open fist against the door. On the screen, Cleo’s head snaps up, her brows furrowing. The confirmation starts a throbbing in my chest.
Jesus.
“Hello?” She eyes the locked door, her face wary.
“Open the door,” I growl at B. “And I asked you what the fuck she was doing here.”
She frowns. “Pretty much the same reason everyone in this building is here.”
Rage fires up my spine. “Be careful, B, don’t fuck with me. Or the next button you push might just reap the results you least expect.”
“I’m a big girl. I can handle it. I can also handle some answers right about now. So?”
“Open. The. Fucking. Door.” I can access the door code from my laptop in my office downstairs. Or I can find an assistant to get it for me. Doing either will take too long.
My gaze flicks to the screen. She’s risen up on her knees and crawled to the edge of the bed, her gaze still fixed on the door. “Hello?” Her voice is huskier than usual. As if she’s been crying.
My gaze slices back to B. Her lips press together in a mutinous line.
“I’ll open it. As soon as I get some assur
ances—”
“Fuck your fucking assurances. Give me the code to the fucking door, B. Right now. Or I’ll find someone who will.”
She stands her ground, her gaze implacable. “Tell me you’re not going to do something…unwise, and I will.”
I’ve fired people for less than the insubordination being displayed right now. But I need the door opened before my head explodes. I take a breath. “I know her. She’s…” Mine. “I fucking know her, alright? Open the door.”
She nods, skirts around me, and punches the code into the door panel. The door clicks. I grab the handle immediately, almost alarmed it might lock again before I can get in.
“I want the code to that screen disabled in the next ten seconds. No one watches her. No-fucking-one. Is that understood?”
“It’s understood.”
I nod. Inhale. I start to push the door open. A thought stops me dead cold. “Has anyone else been here? With her?” The words fly like bullets from my throat, even though I’m not sure how I’ll handle anything other than a no.
“No.”
A tsunami of relief shakes through me.
“Wait. Before you go in.”
My grip on the door tightens. “Yes?”
“You should know…When she checked in three days ago, I brought her a complimentary drink. I won’t go into too much detail but…like I said, she seemed a little off.”
Hellfire licks a path through my chest. “Why? What’s wrong with her?”
“Hey, I asked. She didn’t feel like sharing. I didn’t push. But that’s the reason I’ve been keeping a close eye on her. All I’m saying is tread carefully—”
“You’re overstepping. Again. Leave, B. Now.” I’ve wasted more than enough time talking to her.
She obeys.
I step into the room.
A room that is an exact replica of the bedroom in my pool house ten years ago.
Of all the things she could’ve chosen as her penance, she chose a replica of my room?
Why?
A few million other questions pepper my brain, but Cleo’s gaze is locked on me. Mine on her. Once upon a time, when my addled state didn’t know better, I stupidly believed the phenomenon of our gazes connecting had the power to stop the world from spinning. That view has altered significantly. But the sensation lingers in the tunnel vision that makes me only see the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Her lack of surprise at my presence. The calm acceptance of what’s to come.