The Italian dropped his gun’s aim and stepped closer. He was taller than Conall, standing at least a few inches higher. Unlike Sloan’s guards and their immaculate suits, this mobster wore long pants, a tight muscle tee, and a leather jacket—all black. He gave Conall an assessing look, lips pressed in a tight line. “I heard the provocateur was a redhead. You’re not a redhead.”
Conall snorted in a mocking chuckle. “Aren’t you a genius. A-plus for your intelligence.”
The backhanded slap to his face came hard and fast and he stumbled into the desk, catching himself on it with his palms.Fuck, that hurt.
“You need to remember who has the gun, Morrissey,” the Italian said, laughing darkly.
Conall sent him a glare and straightened, jaw ticking as he fought for control. “An imbecile?”
This time he was expecting the slap, and he dodged it, which only pissed off the mobster with a gun. Probably not Conall’s smartest movement. He pointed the gun at him, baring his teeth in a way that made him resemble a wild animal. If it had been any other circumstance, Conall might have thought the guy was good-looking, but he didn’t get off on the threat of death.
“You have a smart mouth on you, don’t you?”
Conall chuckled and touched the corner of his mouth with his tongue. The tangy taste of blood met it and he grimaced. The bastard was going to regret that. He’d make sure of it. “You’re not the first one to tell me that.”
The Italian shifted closer, the gun held securely between them. “I don’t like brats, though I heard your boss does. Heard he was keeping your brother as a pet.”
Conall leaned back against the desk and folded his arms over his chest. He grinned. He imagined he looked brutal with a bloody mouth and already bruising cheek. Or maybe he looked like a badarse. “You heard wrong.”
“Our boss doesn’t lie.” He stepped closer and Conall braced himself for whatever physical pain the Italian was going to lay on him. Nothing came. Instead he touched Conall’s cheek with his index finger, tracing it along his jaw and down his neck, pausing at where Conall’s collar had been minutes before. “The provocateur of the Exotic Virtue is a redhead named Terrance Morrissey.” His grin might have been terrifying if Conall hadn’t spent a month with Sloan. “You’re the whore brother.”
Conall’s stomach roiled with fear, but he didn’t show it. He smiled wickedly. “I might be, but if I am, would you take the risk of hurting me? Sloan Killough is not weak. Do you really want to risk your life by making him angry?”
Hesitation flickered over the Italian’s face.
Conall took advantage of it. He touched the top of the gun, shoving the nozzle away so it wasn’t pointed in his direction. “Walk away now while you can.”
“I agree with my pet.” Sloan’s rough, deep voice broke the quietness in the room, ripping both the Italian’s and Conall’s attention to the door where he stood. He had blood splattered across his face, stark against his tanned skin and blue eyes. A handgun clutched in his palm and pressed against his thigh, he looked like death personified in his black suit, and there was something attractive about the power and dominance in the way he stood.
Conall’s blood turned hot, and a rush of pleasure he’d never felt before swelled in the pit of his stomach. Had Sloan always been this gorgeous?
The Italian started to raise his gun, but Sloan’s head twitched in a half shake, making him drop it again.
“Are you brave enough to raise that gun?” Sloan growled, shifting further into the room. He looked like a predator stalking his prey, but not in the way Conall felt when Sloan stared at him. His gaze said he wanted to rip the Italian apart.
The Italian was clearly a fool, though, because he did raise his gun. Sloan was quicker, and one shot straight to the middle of the forehead had the Italian dropping to the ground in front of Conall in a crumpled heap, blood oozing from the hole in his head.
Conall snatched the rifle out of his still warm hands. “Took you long enough,” he grumbled.
Sloan raised an eyebrow, a grin curving his gorgeous lips. “Were you waiting for me, pet?” He moved close to Conall, cupping his cheek. Conall leaned into his touch unconsciously. “We were taking care of the rest of them.”
It took a moment for Conall to realize the rest of the brothel was quiet. He’d been so focused on the Italian in front of him, he hadn’t noticed.
Terrance and Forrest moved out from behind the desk, their movements hesitant.
“How much blood do we need to clean up?” Terrance asked, straightening his suit.
Sloan’s sharp eyes turned on him. “You’re lucky you don’t have to clean up your own,” he said calmly, but there was an underlying meanness behind his words. Conall didn’t have to guess what he’d meant because Sloan stalked past him until he was nearly chest to chest with Terrance. “You letmypet face off an Italian with a gun. Tell me, Terrance, why shouldn’t I slit your throat for being a coward? I have no tolerance for weaklings in my company.”
Conall shot forward, shoving himself between Terrance and Sloan. He touched Sloan’s chest comfortingly. “Hey, it’s okay. I chose to face the guy.”
Sloan’s face softened when he looked at him. “I know, pet, but that’s unacceptable. You are mine, and that means my men”—his focus switched to Terrance–“allmy men, must protect you at all costs.”
A strange sense of excitement tingled at the tips of his fingers, and he closed the hand not holding the gun into a fist to stop himself from reaching for Sloan. “I can protect myself,” he said, but it had less spite than he’d meant.
Sloan made a noise of amusement and touched Conall’s neck. “I never doubted you could, pet, but you don’t need to when you’re under my protection. Where’s your collar?”
Forrest held up the collar that Conall hadn’t seen him holding. “It’s here.”
