“Oh no, pet, I’m going to fuck you.” Sloan grabbed Conall’s upper arms in a strong grip. His plan was to crush his lips against his pet’s, fuck his mouth before putting him over his lap right then and there so he could spank him, but a crash outside and the sound of gunshots stopped him in his tracks. He moved on instinct, shoving Conall to the floor and toward the table. “Get under the table,now!”
Conall’s eyes widened, but he did as he was ordered, scampering under the tablecloth to hide. Sloan stood and held his hand out to one of the soldiers, who came rushing toward him. The solider thrust a gun at him, and Sloan loaded it immediately.
“Sloan, what are you doing?” Conall peeked out from under the tablecloth, worry flashing across his handsome face. “Are you coming under here?”
Sloan smiled at him. “No, pet, I don’t hide.” Conall looked like he was ready to climb out from where he hid, but one fierce shake of Sloan’s head and Conall stopped. “But you do. You’re precious to me and they know that, so I need you to stay where you are and not make a sound, no matter what you think you hear. Am I clear?” He made sure to use his mob boss voice, the one that usually had his soldiers shaking in their boots.
“Fuck that. I’ll shoot these motherfuckers with you,” Conall hissed, eyes narrowed. When he began to crawl out again, Sloan crouched in front of him and seized his shoulder.
“Youwilllisten to my orders this time, Conall. This isn’t just about you anymore. If you leave from under that table, you risk my company, my life, and the lives of your friends and family.” Sloan added pressure to his hold. “Get under that table and stay there. I will not have you arguing with me this time. This is an order from your boss.”
Conall opened his mouth, but then snapped it closed. He glared, but finally crawled backward until he was under the tablecloth again.
Sloan nodded at his soldier, and they trained their guns at the door, waiting. It didn’t take long. The doors burst open in an explosion of flying bullets. Sloan felt one whiz past his ear, but he ducked behind a cart the waiters used to take away dirty dishes. Most of the shots were aimed at his soldier, and soon he was falling to his knees, his body jerking with every bullet that met his chest. He dropped to the ground, dark blood pooling around his body.
Sloan growled. A commotion began just outside the door, signaling the arrival of the rest of his soldiers, and he used the distraction to peer around the cart, letting off a shot that hit one of the bastards in the head. He collapsed to the ground.
One of the Italians came at him, but someone—Ronan, Sloan realized—got him in the back with a shot from his handgun, making him flop to the ground with a groan. He grappled at the wooden deck, dragging himself toward Sloan.
Sloan stood from where he crouched, his footsteps heavy and seemingly loud in the already boisterous commotion. He stopped in front of him and aimed the gun at the middle of his forehead, ignoring the pleading gaze before he pulled the trigger. The Italian’s head flung backward, brain matter splattering on the ground.
Ronan came running toward him, tackling Sloan around the middle. They crashed to the ground and another bullet barely missed his head. “Are you okay, sir?”
Ronan’s weight lifted and his stare roamed around the deck, as though searching for someone. Sloan knew who.
Sloan pursed his lips. “My pet’s under the table. Protect him at all costs.”
His soldier didn’t argue. One curt nod and he was off, sliding on his knees near the table and missing a bullet aimed at him by inches. He loaded his handgun and pointed it around the table. Sloan took cover behind the cart again, mimicking Ronan’s actions, and they both used their cover to shoot at the Italians.
The deck became a mess of bodies and injured men. Sloan could barely hear his own shouted commands over the screams of pain and firing guns. Someone had an automatic rifle, and Sloan fucking hoped it was one of his men.
Another one of his men came rushing over to him, taking the spot beside Sloan. It only took five minutes before a shot met his forehead and he ricocheted backward onto the ground. It was quickly becoming clear that they didn’t have enough firepower, and the Italians’ element of surprise had a bigger effect than what Sloan was expecting. Hell, even he didn’t think Toscani had big enough balls to attack again so soon. Underestimating the bastard wasn’t a mistake Sloan would make again. He’d come down on him with the firepower of hell after tonight.
Sloan’s attention was so focused on the scene in front of him that he didn’t notice someone behind him until it was too late. The shadow looming against the metal cart had him spinning around, but he didn’t have enough time to land a bullet in the fucker before something hard—a baseball bat—met his cheek, causing his body to fly backward into the cart. It tumbled and crashed, glass and china shattering against the hard deck. Another hit landed on his forehead and his vision blurred and he blacked out.
In his moment of wavering unconsciousness, he heard wailing sirens, orders being shouted, more firing guns, and a rush of footsteps meeting the hardwood floors. By the time he came back to an awareness of his surroundings, two of his men were holding him, his arms slung over their shoulders as they half carried him toward the door. They didn’t get far.
Detective Diaz stepped into the room, her gaze taking in the scene before it landed on Sloan. A triumphant smirk slid over her lips. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Sloan Killough. Why am I not surprised that you were involved in a shootout in New York City?”
Sloan’s fists curled and he inhaled deeply, centering himself. His head stung, blood sliding down his face, leaving behind a sticky feeling. Even though he could focus on her, his world still felt like it was tilting. “Detective. We were just leaving.”
“You’re not going anywhere, Sloan. This is an active crime scene now, and you’re a witness,” she snarled, shifting closer.
One of Sloan’s men tensed, half stepping in front of him. “Detective, move back.”
“It’s all right.” Sloan unfolded his arms from their necks, earning concerned looks from them both, and met the detective face-to-face. “Remember what happened the last time you got in my way, Diaz? I had you removed from a case. But if you push me, I’ll make sure you’re removed from the police force completely, or worse.”
“You think your threats work?” Her eyes lit up in an anger he hadn’t seen in them before, and he counted it as a victory. He’d finally hit her where it hurt. “Trust me, it’s my goal to have that slimeball of a captain removed from office for being a rat.”
Sloan forced a smile on his face even though every movement hurt. A throbbing headache made it hard to focus, and he nearly stumbled forward at another sudden world-tilt but managed to catch himself. “Until that happens, I own you.” He looked at his men. “Get my pet. We’re leaving.”
The men glanced at each other and alarm bells sounded in Sloan’s head, right next to the pounding.
“Where’s my pet?” he asked forcefully.
The one on the right swallowed visibly. “They took him, sir.”
Detective Diaz tutted, grinning. “Looks like you lost your little lamb, Sloan. I’m sure the Italians will have fun slaughtering him.”
