Sloan snorted. “They’re not going to leave scars,” he said, as though he knew exactly what Conall was thinking. Conall supposed he wasn’t being coy about it with the way he stared at the alcohol in the glass.
Shrugging, he said, “I don’t care.”
Sloan smirked at him but didn’t say a word. He settled into the seat, crossing his knees, and took a sip out of his tumbler. Conall commended him on not grimacing, but he was probably used to it. Conall, on the other hand, chose to drink his vodka with something else, like Coca Cola. He enjoyed a red fire engine—vodka, red cordial, and lemonade—on particular nights.
“Are you going to drink it or not, pet?” Sloan raised the one fucking eyebrow at him in judgement.
He glared at him and swallowed the small amount in one gulp, cringing at the liquid as it slid down his throat.
It made Sloan laugh and he curled his arm around Conall’s waist, dragging him closer. “Always so unruly.”
Conall rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Don’t challenge me.”
“When did I challenge you, hm?”
“Just then. You acted like I couldn’t drink it.”
Sloan’s laugh only deepened. “I did not. I asked you if you were drinking it. It wasn’t a challenge.”
Conall didn’t believe him. If he snuggled into Sloan, he wouldn’t admit it, but he was warm, and outside had become increasingly cold overnight—colder than usual anyway. The spring air had lowered in temperature and even a jacket couldn’t save him from the wind that seemed to reach for his bones. Even though the driver had the heater on, Conall wasn’t going to say no to the extra body heat.
Sloan smelled nice anyway, with the musky scent of his cologne teasing Conall’s nose and making his skin prickle. When had he become so addicted to his scent? Who fucking knew, and it frightened him. He couldn’t and wouldn’t like anything about Sloan—maybe his cock, because it was a nice cock, and maybe Conall liked being fucked more than he knew…
“Turn on some music, Henry,” Sloan said, after he’d hit a button on a console near his window.
“Yes, sir” was the static response, before old forties-style music played through the speakers.
Conall closed his eyes. He’d never listened to this kind of music much, but it was calming, and after a crazy month, he needed to feel something other than anxiety and fear, because all the hard parts were over with. The boss had fucked him more times than he could count, and as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he now belonged to him. He truly was Sloan Killough’s pet.
It took them nearly two hours to get to the city and finally reach their destination. Apparently they weren’t heading to the Exotic Virtue first because Sloan wanted to check in on his other establishments, too. The first being the whorehouse in Hell’s Kitchen. Conall had spent his life pretending it didn’t exist, mostly because Leenock and Terrance had always bumped heads and competed over who was the best, but now he was here, standing in front of its dank entrance in an otherwise ugly neighborhood, he couldn’t deny it any longer.
The Leisure Train existed.
Another man met them at the entrance and Sloan gestured to him. “Pet, I’d like you to meet Brendan Curran, my lieutenant of my companies. You’ve never met before because he has men working beneath him, but Brendan runs all the businesses which belong to our family.”
Brendan was a shorter man with vibrant ginger hair and a beard to match. He reminded Conall a bit of Terrance, except he had a petulant frown on his face that looked permanent. He wore an expensive tailored suit, but Conall had learned to accept that with the higher-ups of the Killough Company now. They were businessmen, as Terrance would probably tell him while he talked about them in awe like they were rock stars rather than mobsters.
Brendan nodded at him. “What shall I call you?”
Sloan answered for him. “You may call him sir.”
One of his eyes twitched, but Brendan nodded. He didn’t say anything else as he shifted out of Sloan and Conall’s way. Sloan led him into the whorehouse. Even though it looked shabby on the outside, it was luxury as soon as they entered.
With high ceilings similar to the Virtue, it was the epitome of extravagance with beautifully designed architecture that made anyone feel rich and special by being in its halls. The walls were a rich, dark wood, decorated with oil paintings that Conall suspected an art collector would orgasm over, and wide stairs similar to the Killough mansion. Polished wooden floors with intricate designs and brand-new rugs of royal blue that accentuated the posh feeling confirmed it truly was designed for the elite. From the outside, no one would suspect the elegance that hid on the inside.
“Boss!” Leenock’s thick, annoying Irish accent bounced off the walls as he came skidding down the stairs, his velvet green vest over a white dress shirt a tad too overdramatic for Conall’s tastes. That’s what Terrance hated about him—Leenock thought he was higher in ranking than he really was, as though he was born into privilege, rather than the slums of New York City with a poor father who put himself in debt with the mob. His mother whored herself to the soldiers to win Sloan’s father’s favor, and it had worked.
Leenock paused in surprise when he saw Conall, and his black-rimmed eyes narrowed. “Morrissey.”
“Leenock.” Conall grinned at him, but it fell away when Leenock’s gaze moved to the collar on his neck. He’d grown so used to the weight of it, he forgot it was there. Leenock’s smile made Conall’s stomach drop because now the bastard knew exactly what he was—Sloan’s whore.
Leenock didn’t push his luck, though. He was an arse kisser, so his attention returned to Sloan, and he stared at him as though he’d be more than happy to get on his knees and suck Sloan’s cock himself. “Welcome to your establishment, sir. I’ve taken care of it to the best of my ability.”
Sloan’s smile was as fake as the tits on the woman who sauntered down the stairs. She reminded Conall of Alice, except everything about her shouted plastic surgery, from her plump cherry lips to her slim nose. There were a lot of things he could complain about when it came to Alice, but at least everything about her wasreal, and not designed for a man’s obvious pleasure. She wasn’t a whore, that much was clear by the way she snuggled up to Leenock’s behind, which told Conall she was the new wife he’d heard about.
“Ah, sir, I’d like you to meet Tina, my wife.”
“What’s this, your fourth one?” Conall asked before he could stop himself. He didn’t get the reprimand he expected, though. Instead, Sloan laughed.
