Sloan took it from him. “Turn around, pet.”
Conall did as he was ordered, turning his back on Sloan so the mob boss could slip the collar around his neck. He hadn’t realized how bare his skin felt until the comfortable weight returned. Something like peace washed through him, making his limbs relax. The blood pumping adrenaline through his body drained from him. He was safe now.
Sloan turned him around again and smiled down at him. “There. Much better.”
“Which Italians were they?” Conall asked, glancing at the body at his feet. This one got off lucky. He imagined what Sloan would do to the men who had been left alive.
“Not Folliero’s.” Sloan crouched, digging into the leather jacket of the very dead man. He pulled out his wallet and opened it, flicking through the cards until he came to his driver’s license. “Hm. Not a familiar name, but Folliero’s man already promised Folliero wasn’t a part of this.”
“And you believe him?” Conall pressed a palm to his cheek and cringed. It wasn’t as painful as the time he shattered his arm after he fell out of a tree, but it still hurt like a bitch. He had a feeling it’d only get worse over the next few days.
“Folliero isn’t a fool. He made a deal with my father that he’ll keep. He lost too many good men before, and it nearly had him killed by his own mob. He’s not going to do anything that puts his position in jeopardy.” Sloan rose again and reached out to Conall, his thumb stroking over Conall’s bruised cheek. “They’ll regret doing this to you, pet. I promise you that.”
Conall had no doubt that Sloan was telling him the truth, and he looked forward to it. “Maybe I could help with making them regret it?”
Sloan’s grin was wicked as his soul. “That would be lovely, pet.”
The door opened and an unfamiliar man walked through, making Conall stiffen. He didn’t look like one of the Italian mobsters, but sometimes it was hard to tell. He held the rifle tighter in his hands, but one eye-crinkling smile from Sloan and Conall loosened his hold.
Sloan glanced at the man and guided Conall to him with one hand on his lower back. “Pet, I’d like you to meet George, an old acquaintance of mine.”
“By acquaintance, he means he tortured me until I was bleeding and broken and then decided he liked my loyalty and kept me as a friend.” George snorted, but bowed his head at Conall. He was an older man with dark gray hair and a clean-shaven face. Surprisingly, he wasn’t dressed in a suit, but rather a black turtleneck and dark blue jeans, with loafers on his feet. Hadn’t these mob men heard of color?
“Tortured? What did you do to deserve it?” Conall asked. It earned him laughter from both George and Sloan.
“He had information I wanted. Come, pet, let’s get you to somewhere safe.” Sloan applied pressure to the touch on his back, but Conall planted his feet to stop them from moving.
“What about the Virtue? How bad is it?”
Sloan squinted at him, like he was judging whether to be honest or not. “It needs work, but nothing we can’t fix.”
“Who’s dead?”
“About ten whores,” he said nonchalantly. “They can be replaced.”
Conall supposed they could. There was always some money-hungry, homeless sluts on the street who would spread their legs for a warm bed and food. That wasn’t the point, though. “If word gets out about this—”
“It won’t,” Sloan cut him off. “I assure you, pet, Rourke will handle the situation. The Virtue’s clients will not hear about this.”
“What about the clients that were here?” Conall folded his arms over his chest. “We’ll need to do damage control.”
He stared at him for a short moment, and then he smiled again. It was one of thoserealsmiles that made Conall’s gut clench and his heart swell. “Pet, you are a very clever man, but you are no longer part of the Virtue. Let Rourke handle the business.”
Conall glanced at Terrance. His brother gave him a wobbly thumbs-up, but he looked as unsure as Conall felt.
“Let’s go home, pet.” It was no longer a suggestion, but an order.
Conall let Sloan lead him out of the office and down the hallway. Bodies littered the floor, a mixture of whores, Italians, and some Irish. He walked past a bloody Nike shoe that had been dyed blue, and Conall knew exactly who it belonged to.Clue. That’s what he liked to be called, but Conall didn’t know his real name. He never cared before because the whores were only there for one thing: to make them money.
Not far away from the shoe lay Clue’s body, twisted at an awkward angle with his face covered in blood. His mouth was parted, as though he was screaming before he was gunned down.
Conall straightened his back, ignoring the sick feeling that filled him, and looked down the hallway. If he didn’t see the body, it wasn’t there. He had a feeling he’d have nightmares about it for months to come because he’d never had a realconversationwith Clue. The guy wasn’t a high earner, barely making half of what Forrest made. He was still a person, though—a quiet, shy man who had a sweet smile, probably no older than twenty. Did he have a family out there, wondering where he was?
“It’s best not to think about it,” Sloan whispered in his ear, his breath hot and teasing the shell. Had Conall said something aloud? “I can tell what you’re thinking. The guilt is written on your face. Don’t show it, pet. It’s a weakness.”
“I don’t know anything about him. I don’t even know where he came from.” Conall raised his chin as they entered the foyer, but Sloan dragged them to a stop. He held on to Conall’s shoulders and turned Conall to face him.
“And now you never will. It’ll do you no good to think about the past. It’s done.” Sloan stroked a thumb over the bruise again.
