Conall glanced out the window again, sighting some guards who had moved around the backyard, no doubt surveying it for possible threats. They stopped beside the garden, walking in opposite directions. If Conall could say anything about Killough’s home, it was that he couldn’t be in a safer place.
“No.” He sighed. “It’s not bad.”
“Is he treating you well when he’s not fucking you?”
Conall snorted. “Yeah, I suppose. I wear a collar.”
“Why the hell do you wear one of those? I know he calls you pet, but you’re not a dog.” Terrance sounded as confused and annoyed as Conall felt when Killough put it on him.
“Killough says it keeps me safe. Something about people knowing I belong to him.” Conall turned on his heel and headed back to the bed. He fell onto it, lying on his back and staring up at the mirror. His reflection stared back, the deep red collar around his neck mocking him. “Have you heard what happened to his other pets?”
“I didn’t even know he had other pets before you.”
“Yeah.” He touched the collar, heavy and dominating on his neck. He’d grown used to it, and most days he forgot it was there. “Apparently one of them ended up gutted in the Hudson.”
“Jesus. How did that happen?”
“Russians.”
Terrance made a sound. “Of course it was the Russians. They’re idiots for messing with the boss. At least the Italians aren’t fools.”
Conall was almost tempted to tell his brother about what the Italians had done but decided against it. He didn’t know how Killough would react to him telling Terrance private information. Mobs worked with trust, and if Terrance or someone else started doubting Killough’s strength, they’d end up buried somewhere no one could find them. Conall wouldn’t let that happen to Terrance.
The door slid open and Conall glanced toward it. He expected it to be Killough, to hurry him up, but it wasn’t him. It was Ronan.
Conall’s eyes widened, but Ronan merely smiled at him. He was dressed in his usual suit, but unlike last time he’d seen him, he sported a nasty bruise on his right cheek. The skin had turned a purplish-blue, darkening just below his eye.
“I have to go, Terrance.”
“Will you call me again?” His voice lowered, the uncertainty working its way into his usual confident tone.
Conall grinned. “You do miss me.”
“Of course I do, you twat. You’re my little brother.”
He pressed his lips together, his stomach flipping with love for his brother. “I’ll call you. Who knows? Maybe Killough will let me visit.”
“I’d like that. Let’s talk later.”
“See ya.” Conall ended the call and shoved himself off the bed. He shifted closer to Ronan, raising his hand to the bruise, but didn’t touch it. “Shit. What happened to you?”
“The Italians.” The corner of his pink lips twisted in a half smile. “They didn’t like us questioning their integrity.”
Conall let his hand drop. “Did you find out anything?”
Ronan hesitated and glanced at the door. Conall followed his gaze, but he’d shut it firmly behind him after he’d entered. “Nothing worthwhile. If Folliero knows about his son’s activities, he’s a damn good liar.”
That wouldn’t have surprised Conall. He hadn’t met Folliero before, but he’d heard stories about the mob boss. He was much older than Killough, but he was a strong son of a bitch. The only reason he’d made an agreement with Killough’s father was to save his men, otherwise he would have taken whatever torture Killough’s father inflicted him with. As it was, Folliero was left scarred beyond imagination. The Italian mob boss didn’t seem like an idiot, though. He wouldn’t risk war with the Killough Company again.
“He’s not an idiot like the Russians.”
Ronan didn’t look like he believed him. He shrugged and glanced at the door again. “The boss doesn’t know I’m here. I just came to chat.”
Conall raised his brows. “About what?”
Ronan exhaled and ran a hand through his light hair. The bruise looked stark against his pale skin and even paler hair. “Being here is a risk to your life, Conall. You heard what the Russians did to Taylor.”
“Taylor? Is that the pet they gutted?”
