He gritted his teeth, worry seizing his heart, making his blood go cold in his veins. Had taking his pet been their plan from the start? He was going to find them and grind their bones to dust. He was going to bathe in the blood he drained from their bodies. Clearly they hadn’t heard about what he’d done to the Russians, but they were about to. Nobody took what belonged to him, especially not his favorite pet.
Sloan straightened as best as he could with the amount of pain he was in and strode past Detective Diaz. He expected, maybe even hoped, that she’d try to stop him, but she knew she’d lost another round. Not even the cops who walked past him attempted to stop him. They all knew who he was.
More of his men were waiting outside, including Fionn. His nephew sighed in relief when he saw Sloan and hurried forward, grabbing Sloan’s elbow and leading him to the car.
“I’m so glad to see you’re okay, uncle. I’ve called the doctor. He’s going to meet us at the house. We have our men scouring the area, too. I’ve yet to call Ardan, but that’s—”
“Enough.” Sloan shook off Fionn’s hold and ignored the hurt look he gave him. He slid into the back seat of the limo when one of his men opened the door, and Fionn followed, getting in the opposite side. “They took my pet and I want their heads. Ardan doesn’t get this pleasure, I do.”
“You’re worried about your toy?” Fionn’s words were careful, gentle, but still held a resentment that Sloan thought had been beaten out of him. “Uncle, we have more important things to worry about. What if they hit our cash houses next? Or attempt to take down our drug runs again? Toscani is smart, I’ll give him that. He’s trying to bring our company to its knees.”
Sloan pressed back into the seat and touched his temple where his skin was broken. Blood seeped out, and he could already feel the bruising. “Right now, I want my pet back. Toscani took him because heknewwhat he means to me.” He gritted his teeth, raw anger making his skin hot. “I want my pet’s collar tracked. We’re taking him back tonight. Get all the men together, even the associates like George.”
“Sloan—”
One sharp look and Fionn’s jaw snapped closed. He nodded, his phone already in his hands.
Sloan closed his eyes and shivered. This wasn’t the worst pain he’d been through, but it was high on the charts. Agony or not, though, he wouldn’t rest until he had his pet back in his arms, no matter how long it took him. And once he’d made sure Conall was okay, then he’d torture the motherfuckers until they begged for death.
Chapter Twelve
Conall groaned, head bowed and jaw hurting like a bitch. His forehead throbbed. He’d seen them hit Sloan, and on instinct he’d slipped out from under the table and ran at them, ignoring Ronan’s angry yell. It earned him a bat to the head and a sea of blackness.
The blood dripped down his face from the cut on his forehead and he could taste it in the corner of his mouth. His hands were tied above his head and he was hanging from some type of beam in a large warehouse. Everything hurt from being stretched.
He was shirtless, his skin bare to the chilly wind that whipped through the open and sparse room. At least they had the decency to leave his pants on, but his shoes had disappeared as well.
He blinked through the blood that stung his eyes and looked at the men in front of him. They were sitting at a round table, playing a game of cards, glasses of alcohol—probably whiskey from the looks of it—in front of them. Conall didn’t have to guess who they were, it was obvious by their outfits. They were speaking a different language, too, and Conall had listened just enough in his language class at school to recognize the Italian.
He did hear a bit of English, though. It sounded like, “Who the hell gives their whore a collar with a fingerprint scanner anyway?”
“Hey!” Conall snapped. “What the fuck is this?”
The men looked at him. One of them was obviously the leader, because his mouth upturned into a smug smile and he threw down his cards on the table. He stood, walking toward Conall with a lopsided gait. “Well, well, well, look who decided to wake up.”
Conall sneered at him. “Who the hell are you?”
The Italian bopped him on the nose with his forefinger. “That’s none of your business, whore.”
“What the fuck did you call me?” Conall struggled against his restraints, but the rope chafed at his wrists. “Say that to my face when I’mnottied up, you little bitch.”
He laughed and glanced at his friends, then turned back quickly, his fist meeting Conall’s cheek hard enough that Conall swore he heard bones crack. His head whipped to the side, blood spilling from his mouth when he accidently chomped down on the inside of his cheek.
“I thought you’d be used to being tied up. Aren’t you Killough’s pet?” the man whispered mockingly into Conall’s ear, touching the collar on his neck. His breath smelled of alcohol and it made Conall shudder.
Conall’s cheek throbbed, his bones ached, and his world spun. Blood pooled in his mouth, coating his tongue with the coppery liquid that made him want to vomit. His stomach churned, but he wouldn’t give these arseholes the satisfaction of vomiting. Gathering as much of the blood as he could on his tongue, he spat it at the Italian. Some of it landed on his cheek, while most of it got the front of his white shirt.
The Italian growled, swiping it off his face and staring at it on his fingers. His glare turned on Conall and he raised his fist. Conall clenched his eyes closed, waiting for another blow, but a groan next to him interrupted them.
Conall hadn’t even realized someone was hanging beside him until he looked.
Ronan.
Ronan was hanging in the same fashion as Conall, with his shirt and shoes gone and his hands tied above his head. His head was bowed, blond hair stained red and clinging to his face.
“Well, if it isn’t the other sleeping beauty.” The Italian swaggered to stand in front of Ronan. “The hero. Trying to protect the doggie.”
Ronan raised his dazed stare. “Fuck off.”
