Copyright © 2021 by Billie Lustig
Franklin Copyright © 2021 by Billie Lustig
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This novel is entirely a work of fiction, all names, characters, places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locations is entirely coincidental.
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First Edition.
Cover Design: © The Pretty Little Design Co.
Editor: Kim BookJunkie
Formatting and Proofread: Katie Salt at KLS Publishing
Contents
Author’s Note
1. Franklin
2. Kendall
3. Franklin
4. Kendall
5. Franklin
6. Kendall
7. Kendall
8. Franklin
9. Kendall
10. Franklin
11. Kendall
12. Franklin
13. Kendall
14. Franklin
15. Kendall
16. Kendall
17. Franklin
18. Franklin
19. Kendall
20. Franklin
21. Franklin
22. Kendall
23. Franklin
24. Kendall
25. Kendall
26. Franklin
27. Kendall
28. Franklin
29. Kendall
30. Franklin
31. Kendall
32. Franklin
33. Kendall
34. Kendall
35. Franklin
36. Kendall
37. Franklin
38. Kendall
39. Franklin
40. Kendall
Connor
About the Author
Also by Billie Lustig
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
I don’t want to ruin the experience, but I also don’t want a claim up my ass because you went in unprepared.
Even though I don’t consider this very dark, I feel obliged to tell you: they fuck, they say ‘fuck’, they shoot, and there is blood.
If your reaction to those things isn’t: yes, fuck yes, yes please, and hell yes?
Then this ain’t for you.
Abort mission, or read at your own risk.
I’m dedicating this one to me. That’s right, you heard me. This one's for me. Because I’m fucking proud of myself for publishing my third book in the last six months.
I hope you are ready for more, because like Franklin Wolfe—there is no stopping me.
One
Franklin
I lean against the doorpost of his office, my hands in the pocket of my coats, examining him while he’s hovering above some papers with a pen in his hand. His greasy, gray hair flops in front of his face when he draws the occasional line through the words in front of him.
There was a time I respected this man. He helped me get us Wolfes where we are now, but I guess somewhere along the road he decided we weren’t good enough anymore.
Shame.
“Good evening, David.”
He looks up with a slight frown before leaning back in his desk chair, his lips shaped into a friendly grin.
“Franky! Social call?” He beams, referring to the nights I used to crash his office and we would talk about the best ways to do business. I think back to those nights, when moments of weakness crept in, making me believe that he was my friend. When I thought trust wasn’t solely a thing I could expect from my brothers. When I thought I could form connections with people I don’t share blood with.
Silly me.
I match his smile, amused by his oblivion, clearly unaware that I’m not alone. I saunter into the room, my leather shoes tapping sinisterly against the hardwood floor with every step I make. He holds my gaze in anticipation until he notices my brothers walking through the door behind me. His face falls when he sees they are followed by two more of our men, placing themselves in the corners of his office while Reign and Killian take the chairs in front of his desk. Connor closes the door behind him, placing himself against the door as a barrier while I walk towards the window. I close the curtain before turning around, leaning my back against the window frame, then folding my arms in front of my body.
“W-what’s up, guys?” David’s eyes move back and forth between the four of us, nervousness marring his chubby face, while his stutter makes me smile on the inside. They say I’m ruthless and severe. That I have no mercy for those who piss me off.
It’s true.
But what everyone fails to see is what happens before I reach that point of no return. I take care of the people around me, the people who deliver good work for my companies and therefore are good for my brothers and me. It’s when they decide to no longer return the unspoken courtesy, the loyalty I demand, that reason is no longer in my vocabulary and they are no longer a priority.
They become a liability.
“Oh, you know,” Reign starts with his famous, boyish grin, running a hand through his honey brown hair, “just doing the rounds. Seeing who’s paying, who’s doing their job, who’s running their mouth.” He casually shrugs his shoulders, holding David’s gaze, which is getting more tense by the second.
“Got any info from the street, David?” Killian pitches in, cocking his head a little in a mocking way. Killian and Reign are the most easygoing of us Wolfe brothers, but a lethal team when put together.
“N-no, all good. You know, no one dares to talk shit about the Boston Wolfes.” He starts to fumble with the pen in his hand, tapping it against the armrest of his chair. The gesture is noticed by Killian, and a pleased look appears on his face.
“Are you nervous, David?” He nods at the tapping of the pen, making David abruptly stop the movement, suddenly completely aware of his stance.
“I think he is,” Reign states with a slight chuckle.
He has the biggest heart out of the four of us, always wanting to have proof before any retaliation is executed. Though Killian’s extensive knowledge of body language makes him judgmental in general, both of them are pretty forgiving people. Connor and me? We are unforgiving. We don’t give second chances. We don’t listen to excuses when people fuck up. Simply because we won’t allow fuck ups to mess with our family. If there is even a slight chance someone’s a threat to my brothers and me, we will eliminate them without question. I look at Connor, who meets my eyes, waiting for a signal for how we will proceed.
To be honest, I haven’t decided yet. In any other situation, I would’ve let Connor have his way and be done with it. But you see, David made this personal.
>
He messed with my favorite girl.
He crossed a line he can’t come back from.
A line I can’t pretend wasn’t there.
He knows this. You don’t mess with my girl.
I watch him, swallowing hard while a drip of sweat runs down his neck.
Literally sweating like a pig with his beer belly being hugged by his tight dress shirt.
“I don’t know, David. I’ve been hearing some wicked confusing rumors running around.” Killian gets up, heading to the liquor cart in the left corner while David’s eyes follow his movement.
“You want one?” he asks, holding up a bottle of scotch. “I think you should have one.” Without waiting for any response, Killian pours the contents of the bottle into two tumblers before handing one over to David.
He reaches out his now slightly shaking hand before bringing the rim of the glass to his mouth.
“You wanna know what I’ve been hearing lately?” Killian asks while he takes a seat on the corner of David’s desk, his glass resting on his dark jeans.
David takes another sip of his drink before lifting his chin, looking like he’s pushing out his last ounce of bravery.
“Sure.” His voice squeals a little, with audible fear.
“I heard Emerson got a new accountant. You know Emerson, right? Emerson Jones? Short hair, ugly face, sounds like a redneck?”
“I’ve heard of him,” David admits hesitantly, then wipes his forehead with one of his sleeves.
“I sure hope you do, because your name seems to occur in the same sentences as Emerson’s a lot.”
“I-I d-don’t—“ David stammers before being silenced by Killian slamming his glass against the side of his head, the sound of glass falling echoing through the room as the shards fall to the ground. David cries out in pain, clutching his head while the liquor drips down his disgusting face.
“This is not the part where you say you don’t know what we are talking about, Dave.” Reign lets out a sigh, obviously bored with the conversation. “I have proof. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here. You know this. Just like you knew we would find out.”
“But you got greedy, didn’t you? How much did he promise you?” Killian hisses, hovering above David’s face, his hands resting on the armrests.
“I-I’m s-s-sorry,” he pleads, bringing his arms together as if he’s praying for a way out.
Connor growls from the other side of the room. He’s always impatient, so he’s probably eager to make David shut up, but I lift a finger, telling him to not make a move. My eyes meet Killian’s. He assesses my gaze, then turns the chair, forcing David to look at me.
As soon as his eyes lock with mine, noticing the fury in my eyes, his face pales, the blood draining from his skin.
“Please, Franklin. Please, you have to listen.”
“I would’ve listened if you’d come to me telling me you weren’t happy with the way we’re running our businesses,” I reply, clearing my throat before continuing with the same calmness in my voice. “I would’ve listened if you’d told me you wanted a raise.”
“Franklin. Please.” He starts to sob, his body shaking as tears stream down his fat cheeks.
“But you chose to talk to Emerson Jones, giving me no chance to listen to you. Sorry, Dave. It’s too late for me to listen now. You made your choice. Now I’ve made mine.”
His eyes widen at my words. Then, without hesitation, I reach into the holster on my side and take out my gun, ignoring the frantic pleas of the man I’d once thought was my friend. I pull the silencer out of my pocket before I screw it on unhurriedly, looking into David’s bloodshot eyes as I slowly close the distance between us. A pleading look runs through them, desperation dripping from his face.
“What will you tell Marie?” he asks, his voice breaking more with every word. “And Tyler?”
He gives me a hopeful look, knowing it’s useless for him to pray for another outcome yet desperate to know what will happen to his family.
“That, David,” I drawl, “you’ll never know.”
Without giving him a chance to react, I bring up my gun with rapid speed and pull the trigger, running a bullet through his head. Instantly, it jerks back, a perfectly round circle in the middle of his forehead as his entire body goes limp.
“For fuck’s sake, Franklin,” Connor booms through the room, “I wanted to punch him.”
“Well, you can still do that,” I deadpan, making Killian chuckle.
“Not the same, asshole.” Connor scowls.
I look at Reign, who’s staring at a now dead as fuck David, his green eyes looking hollow and troubled.
“Hey? You good?” I snap my fingers in front of his face, trying to get his attention as he moves his face towards mine.
“He deserved this,” I remind him. He rubs his face at my words.
“I know. I know.” He nods, the disappointed expression still on his face as he straightens his shoulders. “I’m outta here.”
I nod in agreement before moving my head back and forth between the other two men in the corner.
“Get rid of him,” I command.
Two
Kendall
I hold up the bottle of brown rum in the air, looking at the extremely intoxicated man in front of me.
“You want another one, Larry?”
He raises his wobbling head when the sound of my voice reaches his ears, his eyes trying to keep up with my movements but failing miserably.
“Sweetheart, I want anything you pour me!” he replies with a slurred tongue while making an effort to shoot me a wink as he takes a toke of the cigarette dangling between his thin lips.
I smile, tipping the bottle to splash two fingers of brown rum in his tumbler as he blows smoke directly in my face.
Instinctively, I shut my eyes while my hand reaches up to wave away the smoke that makes my throat sore while I try to suppress a cough.
I thought I’d be used to it by now, working four days a week in a bar that decided to ignore the Massachusetts law about smoking in bars. In general, I’m not really bothered by it. I don’t mind being surrounded by the smoke. It’s just the dickheads who blow it right in my face that I want to slap. Not sure if they think it’s sexy to watch as their drunk faces are being blurred by an air of smoke or they’re just morons.
I’m guessing the latter.
I look back at the man in front of me.
Larry, looking like a drunk Santa Claus from hell, can barely hold up his head while he’s rambling shit about the manager of his day job.
I just chuckle at the sight of him, knowing there is no point in a lesson on respect when he probably doesn’t even know how to use his brain, anyway.
I pick up the dishcloth off the workstation, running it over the bar, cleaning the contents that slid down the glass from his shaking hand when I hear the door open with a loud screech. Cold air sweeps through the room, bringing goosebumps to my skin as my head turns towards the entrance where I’m met by a set of mesmerizing, green eyes.
The whole bar turns silent as the leader of the Boston Wolfes saunters over the hardwood floor, making his way to the bar while being followed by four of his men.
I’ve never met the man, but I know exactly who he is.
Franklin Wolfe.
You can’t live in South Boston and not know who the Wolfes are. They run the city, even though the American Government likes to pretend that’s not the case. But if you’re from around here, you know exactly what the deal is.
Rumor is he even has dinner with the mayor once a month.
I try to keep my focus on cleaning up the bar since my shift is about to end, but I can’t help but glance at the tall man getting closer by the second. His black coat brings out his broad athletic shoulders, showing off his fit physique, while his chocolate brown hair is perfectly styled in a fringe up.
He’s fucking handsome.
If you see him walking down the street, you’d never suspect his involvement in the underworld
of Boston. His appearance is not the same as the rest of his crew who wear black leather jackets, looking like the street gang they really are. He stands out, but he doesn’t stand out the way they do.
Although he’s sophisticated like a businessman with his perfectly trimmed five o’clock shadow and his expensive clothes, something about him still makes him just as street as his boys.
A perfect blend between both worlds.
Franklin slowly pans around the room, taking in the customers silently staring at him.
“Alright, carry on.” He waves his hand in the air as his booming voice fills the room with the order, yet the bar remains deathly silent. Apparently, no one has the guts to actually make a sound.
My eyes move back and forth across the room, anxiously waiting for everyone to keep minding their business, making sure the Wolfes don’t start trashing the place.
“Carry on!” His powerful voice holds a clear threat, making me drop the dishcloth, wincing as my heart starts to race in my chest. I bend over to pick it up before straightening my body, watching while the rest of the room starts to mumble again, obeying Mr. Wolfe’s order.
He gives Larry a friendly slap on the back, making it clear they know each other. I realize I’m still holding my breath, wondering if this is a social call or one that comes with chaos and destruction. If there are Wolfes in the house, you never know.
Franklin: A Boston Mafia Romance (The Boston Wolfes) Page 1