Both Brendan and Jamie ducked their head toward him.
“We truly apologize, boss.” This came from Jamie, his Irish brogue stronger than the others. Unlike the rest of them, who grew up in New York, Jamie was raised in Northern Ireland until he’d come to the US when he was sixteen and joined their company. He had his ankles crossed, his expensive suit pulling over bulging muscles. He was the biggest out of all of them, but he’d been an enforcer for Sloan’s father before Sloan stepped up as mob boss. “It won’t happen again.”
“Make sure it doesn’t. The only thing that’s saving you is that this is your first mistake.” Sloan leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped together in front of him. He stared around at his men. “But it’s a mistake that has to be fixed. Detective Diaz has finally stepped over the line. She’s threatened my business and my new pet, something I won’t tolerate. That’s why Ardan is here a lot earlier than expected.”
A wave of relief seemed to wash through the room, and it made Sloan grin. He’d seen it before, the tenseness as they waited to find out why their assassin was here. Most were afraid they’d pushed Sloan too far and finally fallen off the tightrope they balanced on. But Sloan was a fair man. If they stayed loyal to him and did as they were asked, most lived another day.
“We have two targets in mind. Both the detective and Toscani, the bastard son of Folliero.”
“Is he the one who did this?” Daire frowned, his thick blond eyebrows furrowing together.
“Mostly,” Fionn answered. “We believe Mancini completed the hit.”
Ardan snorted from his corner. He stepped forward, out of shadows so the light could shine on his short, dark locks. “Mancini is a rat himself. He betrayed Folliero’s brother, the man he swore to protect, for a bit of cash. He has no integrity.”
The vile anger entwined in Ardan’s words made Sloan raise an eyebrow. His assassin was composed, quiet, and Sloan hadn’t seen that kind of fury from him before.
“For a man who has no integrity, he didn’t take my money.”
Ardan glanced at him, lips twisted in disgust. “I promise you, boss, that’s not about integrity or loyalty. Mancini is many things, but he’s not stupid. He knows you’re not someone to piss off.”
“It doesn’t matter about Mancini.” Fionn interrupted Sloan and Ardan’s silent stare-off. “Our main target in the Italians is Toscani. We need to take him out for good.”
“But that would risk a war with Folliero.” This came from Lorcan. “Are we willing to do that?”
“For our company? Yes.” Sloan stood and rolled his shoulders. “I won’t have some bastard kid who thinks he’s top shit come into my world and take my drugs and kill my customs officers. The Italians have learned what they can and can’t do, but it’s about time this little prick learns that lesson as well.”
“Give me the word, boss, and I’ll take him out, make him sing for his mumma before he pisses his pants,” Ardan whispered, something akin to glee crossing his face.
Sloan laughed. “Soon enough.”
“We are risking outright war by taking Toscani out. We don’t know how Folliero will react to his son’s death,” Fionn said.
“Which is why you’re here.” Sloan continued, “Are you willing to go to war with me?”
The unanimous “yes, boss” made Sloan’s lips twist in wicked pleasure.
“Good. Let’s rain hell on the Italians.”
Chapter Seven
Conall woke to two guards at his door, like usual. It had begun a few weeks back. They would never let him pass without Sloan’s orders, no matter how much he cursed at them and called them names. Either they were used to it, or Sloan terrified them enough that they’d put up with being called all the names under the sun. Conall knew it was the latter, and he didn’t blame them.
He spent the next few hours in the room, reading and watching the massive TV until finally the door opened and Killough entered. He had on a pair of casual jeans and a T-shirt, as well as a loose jacket, something different than what Conall was used to seeing him in. It suited him, though, and Conall liked seeing the hard outline of his pecs straining against the tight blue material. The color of it matched his eyes, even though the shirt was dark and his eyes were light, which was odd.
“Did you try to get out again, pet?” Killough smirked at him, his handsome, scarred face mocking Conall. It was all he could do not to punch the smug look off it.
“You can’t keep me locked in this room forever,” Conall muttered from his spot on the bed. He pushed himself off it and stretched, the top half of his body naked while the bottom half was covered with a pair of loose trousers. He’d already been for a scalding-hot shower since he’d woken.
“You’re right. Come, put your collar on and I’ll take you for a walk on the beach.”
Conall eyed him carefully. “Is this a joke?”
Killough raised that annoying eyebrow. “Why would it be?”
“Because you’re a sadistic arsehole.”
He tutted in disappointment. “Don’t break my heart, pet. I’d never be a sadistic arsehole to you. I treasure you.”
