Chapter One
Sloan Killough hated late people, which was why Ardan made sure he was on time, every time. He stood in front of Sloan’s oak desk, the thick wood gleaming under the sharp lights in the ceiling. Hands interlaced in front of him, Ardan kept his shoulders squared and his face impassive, the perfect soldier—or in Ardan’s case, assassin.
“Do you want a drink? I’ll just ask Aileen—” Sloan rose from his leather office chair when the door opened, Aileen sneaking through with a glass of whiskey in one hand and a Coke in the other. She smiled sweetly when she handed Ardan the pop, before doing the same to Sloan.
“Thank you, Aileen.” Sloan took a sip of the alcohol, eyes slipping closed for a moment to appreciate the taste like he always did when he had a smooth, expensive drink. “Perfect, as usual.”
Aileen bowed, blonde ringlets cascading over her shoulders and black dress fluttering around her knees as she straightened and left again.
The scent of essential oils filled the room, something vanilla that Ardan hadn’t smelled in Sloan’s office before. It was subtle, but almost calming.
As if reading his mind, Sloan smirked. “My pet.”
“Ah.” Ardan kept a straight face, forcing back the amused smile that threatened to appear on his lips. “It’s lovely.”
“I’ll be sure to let my pet know you approve.” Sloan’s dark eyebrows rose and he returned to his seat, leaning back with his ankle over his knee and his tumbler settled on the desk in front of him. The suit he wore was a dark charcoal today, with a navy tie and his usual shiny black dress shoes. Ardan knew enough about suit brands to guess it was one of the new Dior lines. He preferred Armani himself, but the boss knew style when it came to suits. It certainly fit him perfectly, and the tie contrasted nicely with the lightness of his ocean-blue eyes.
“He’s making quite the changes around here,” Ardan said, keeping his tone neutral. What Conall Morrissey did around the Killough Company wasn’t any of his business. Sloan’s leadership never faltered and every decision he made catapulted their company to greater heights. If the boss trusted his pet to start making decisions, then so did Ardan. Others didn’t agree, but they were intelligent enough not to voice it. They didn’t have a death wish.
Sloan didn’t acknowledge the comment. He stared at Ardan carefully. “It’s been over six months since you began chasing Mancini, Ardan, and I’ve seen no results. Care to explain?”
Ardan knew the question was coming. He’d never had these kinds of disappointing outcomes when chasing a mark before. Their death usually came quick—a bullet to the head, or a jab of liquidized strychnine—but Mancini was different. He had state-of-the-art training and the closer Ardan homed in on him, the faster the hitman moved. Manciniknewhe was there and took flight like a bird frightened from a gunshot. Ardan didn’t have a chance to even think about firing a bullet from his silencer before his target disappeared again, though.
Sloan’s eyebrows hiked higher. “Well? I expected a dead hitman by now. You’re my best.”
Ardan dropped his head in respect. “I apologize, boss. Mancini seems to be one step ahead of me the entire time. I’ve chased him across fifteen states and every time I locate him, he disappears again.”
“Howdoesthat happen?” Sloan asked, his tone deep with subtle annoyance. Ardan resisted the urge to shiver under the cold fear that slid down his spine. He wasn’t afraid of many men, but Sloan was on the top of that list. No one knew how truly dangerous he was better than Ardan. He’d seen him cut men into pieces while they were still alive, feed enemies to stressed rats looking for an escape, and take pleasure in trying out Viking torture contraptions. Sloan Killough was a cold-blooded killer, no matter how sophisticated he acted. He had a lot of people fooled into thinking his men did all the work for him.
They were wrong.
Dead wrong.
“I can’t answer that, sir, because I don’t know.” Ardan kept his chin raised, refusing to look away from the sharp gaze of his boss. He wouldn’t disrespect Sloan with that sign of weakness.
“Tell me about him.” Sloan took another slow sip from his tumbler. “How do you know Mancini?”
Ardan inhaled deeply.Mancini. A fucking name that had plagued him for years, and no matter what, he couldn’t seem to escape the bastard. “We met on a hit, sir.”
“A hit I sent you on?”
Ardan tilted his head forward in acknowledgement. “You sent me to take out Roberts.”
Sloan stroked his chin. “The double-crossing drug dealer who stole from our warehouse.”
“Yes, sir. Apparently, he thought it wise to steal from the Italians as well, so Folliero’s brother paid Mancini to deal with him too. Mancini had been working as Leo’s hitman for six years by then.” Ardan forced down the hot anger that threatened to explode in his veins.Control.That’s what George had taught him above all else. Without control, a man was vulnerable to his emotions.
Sloan waved his hand in a continue gesture.
“We made an agreement to work together and we took him out.”
“So, what happened?” Sloan asked.
Ardan kept his stare leveled with Sloan and gritted his teeth. “We worked together in a few other hits after that, but then Mancini betrayed Leo, which got Leo killed.”
“You’ve said that before. Why do you care about Leo’s death?”
“It’s not his death, Boss, but rather Mancini’s loyalty. We have codes to live by in the Society and he broke them. Mancini was paid off by one of Leo’s enemies to give up his location so they could take him out. That’s a code no assassin or hitman should break.” Just the thought of that piece of shit had Ardan’s usual tight façade crumbling and it took every ounce of strength he had not to let his mask slip in front of Sloan.
