“Really?” The sinister smile returned, but this time it was downright terrifying. The evilness in it mixed with pleasure, and Conall had a feeling Killough was going to enjoy whatever he was about to do next. “Tell Fionn I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Yes, sir.” She bowed and closed the door again, leaving them in silence.
“What was that about?” Conall asked again.
“Curious thing, aren’t you? So many questions.” Killough crooked his finger. “Come with me.”
It wasn’t a choice, more like an order, and like a good little pet, Conall followed him out of the room and back into the hallway. He led Conall down the stairs and through a door to the right of staircase. They headed to a room near the back of the mansion, and Killough didn’t bother to knock as he walked in. Not that Conall expected him to—he was the boss, he could do whatever the hell he wanted to.
In the room stood four large men, a couple of them faces Conall remembered from the Virtue. They surrounded another man who slumped on the floor, blood trailing over his cheek and dripping onto the hardwood. He had a cut above his eyebrow, another weeping on his cheek. He didn’t make a noise, but he noticeably stiffened when Killough strode into the room.
“We found him in Burke’s.” Another man stood beside a desk and lush leather chair. He wore a suit, much like the others, but he was different—slim, shorter, and Conall thought he looked a bit like Sloan, with the same dark eyebrows, narrow nose, and sandy-blond hair. Unlike Sloan’s, though, his hair didn’t look bleached. It was natural. This must have been the nephew the maid mentioned.
Killough smirked at the other man. “Good job, Fionn. I’m very proud of you.”
Fionn smiled and his chest puffed up. It made Conall roll his eyes, which earned him a narrowed look from the nephew. His gaze assessed Conall carefully, before he snorted, like he realized who Conall was.Pet.
Killough stepped closer to the man on the ground and crouched. “Hello, Harold.”
The man, Harold, trembled, and he refused to look Killough in the eye. He didn’t look like a Harold. It was such an old-fashioned name and this man didn’t look older than thirty. He reminded Conall of another man he knew who worked for the mob—James, an acquaintance who often brought them supplies, from lube to drugs to sex toys, whatever clients might enjoy. After a while, though, James had disappeared. Not many people stayed in that position long.
This Harold had short brunet hair, long limbs, and a slender physique. He looked sick, though, with sallow skin and gaunt cheeks. If he worked for the mob, Conall had no doubt he was a runner.
Harold finally raised his gaze to Killough’s, fear warring with bravery in his eyes. It wasn’t a surprise the fear was winning. “Mr. Killough.”
“It took us a while to find you.”
Conall couldn’t see Killough’s face from where he stood, but he imagined he smirked wickedly, because Harold swallowed deeply, and his bottom lip shook.
“I’m sorry, sir. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for it to happen,” Harold whispered. His voice was barely audible in the otherwise silent room.
Conall could feel the stillness and it was stifling, almost like everyone was waiting for the inevitable. And he had an idea what the inevitable was. He’d heard the stories of Killough’s unforgiving attitude. If someone in his mob failed him, he personally made sure they regretted it.
Conall sucked in a deep breath, his skin prickling in anticipation.
Harold’s face paled more, and he bowed, his chest pressing on the floor in front of Killough. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“For what, Harold?” Killough touched Harold’s head, petting it as though he were nothing more than a dog.
“I never meant to.”
“Say it,” Killough said calmly. His coolness terrified Conall, so he couldn’t imagine how it felt to be Harold.
Fionn shifted closer to Conall, eyebrows raised. “Are you the new pet?” he asked quietly, but he ignored him. He was focused solely on the scene in front of him.
“I betrayed you,” Harold finally whimpered after a moment of silence.
“Look at me.” Killough stood and held out his hand to one of his men. This man was the biggest of all of them and had the widest shoulders Conall had ever seen. He reminded him of a steroid-addicted bull, with the flaring nose and everything. The guard handed Killough a very large and sharp-looking knife. “Look at me, Harold.”
Conall stiffened when Harold raised his eyes again.
Killough spread his legs, planting his shoes against the smooth wooden floorboards. “You betrayed our business to the Italians, Harold.”
Harold shot forward, his hands grappling at Killough’s pant leg, but the guards grabbed him, dragging him backward as he begged for mercy. Conall held his breath, his heart freezing in his chest. While he’d heard the stories, he never imagined seeing this happen in front of his face.
Killough turned the blade, the metal glinting under the light. “I don’t like traitors, you know that.”
“Please.Please. I swear, sir, I’ll never do it again. They had my sister, I didn’t know what else to do.” Harold slapped his hands together in a prayer, but he couldn’t surge forward again because the guards were holding him back.
