Page 3 of Play The Game

“She’s mine!” he roars, grabbing her arm this time, but before he can do anything else, the door on his side of the car is ripped open with such force that I’m surprised it doesn’t tear right off the hinges.

“Get your fucking hands off her, D’Ardo!” roars the newcomer. My eyes stay glued on the Jackal until he drops her arm, Lips sliding away from him the moment she can, but there’s only so far she can get. For a second, the Jackal stares at her before finally he turns away to look out the door with a grimace, and his expression changes into something close to wary.

The second his attention shifts, I yank Lips into my arms and shove us both out of the door on the other side of the car, curling my body around hers like a shield the way I wanted to for the entire fucking drive down here. She’s not shaking, no racing heart in her chest or shallow breathing, but I can’t say I’m as unaffected by the little spat. Once we’re out and I’ve run my hands over her to be sure he didn’t fucking knife her without me noticing, I glance up to find the fucking Butcher of the Bay staring back at me.

I gape back at him like an idiot. He winks at me.

Fuck me.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

“I told you, I called for reinforcements. Illi’s a good guy. The best,” the Mounty whispers in my ear, then she pulls away from me, stepping back into her role as the Wolf.

A good guy.

He’s a cage fighter, a trained killer, his weapons of choice are his fists or a fucking meat cleaver, he shows no mercy and has no conscience, and, according to my crazy hot girlfriend, he’s a good guy.

I think I’m going to have a fucking stroke.

ONE

LIPS

Mounts Bay never sleeps.

The title might belong to New York, but I’ve always thought it was false advertising. I mean, I’ve barely traveled outside of the Bay city limits, so I haven’t been to the east coast to compare, but it’s never sat right with me. Maybe it’s the way people say it like they’re bragging about it, like it was something to covet and dream about. Broadway shows, exclusive clubs, high-profile lives being lived to the fullest… well, good for them, but shit’s a bit different around here.

If New York is too busy partying and living the good life to bother with sleep, the Bay is an insomniac crackhead on the verge of a blood-soaked rampage.

As the door to the bar swings open and the bouncers throw a man out onto the streets, they don’t even pause at the sound of his skull busting on the asphalt or glance his way to see if he survived the landing. A pool of blood starts forming around his ears and his chest is barely moving, so I’d say his time is running out.

No one stops to check him.

The Mounty street girls all working around me jeer and cackle at him, a regular, but the more they trade stories, the more certain I am that the world is better off without him. Fuck, half the girls around me are younger than I am, and they’re obvious about it, too. It’s a selling point, and fuck if that doesn’t make me want to gut every man who so much as glances this way. I can’t, though. Not only would it ruin my cover, but the girls here are just trying to feed themselves and their families.

Only one of them knows who I am for certain, but a few of the others have surely guessed. They’re true Mounties, though, born and bred, so no matter how many nights I show up here dressed like I’m selling without ever taking a john, they see nothing. It’s not just the fear of the Twelve that keeps their mouths shut, either. It’s the fact that my mouth is sealed just as tightly, that the one and only time some asshole tried to get rough with one of them, I dealt with him for her without hesitating or payment, and that I haven’t looked down on any of them, either.

I save my disgust for the ones who really deserve it; their customers.

The bar sign is lit up so bright that it’s practically a beacon, but with a name like ‘The Dive’, it’s only fitting that it draws in the worst patrons that the city has to offer. It’s owned by another member of the Twelve, the Viper, and he runs a lot of his business out of this place. He started off as a loan shark, but after he won the Game, he expanded his empire to include underground cage fighting, money laundering, and a thriving gambling ring. This isn’t the type of bar you go to for a round of beers and a good time because nothing good happens here. I should know; before I went to Hannaford, I was a regular.

Not that I’ve stepped foot into the bar tonight or even this week. I’ve avoided the place since the Tiger called me about this job, because it’s the type that could get me killed—violently. That’s par for the course and not something that usually factors into my planning beyond the price I’ll charge, but the streets have changed drastically since I was here for winter break.

The Jackal is watching me.

It’s not just the men branded with his insignia out on the streets dealing that are keeping tabs on me, or even the thugs doing his dirty work extorting so-called protection money from every business within his domain. I learned how to shake that kind of surveillance years ago, easy as breathing, but now I have a dedicated full-time detail following me around.

At least, they tried to.

Underestimated as always, I’m clearly more patient than those assholes ever suspected. I ignored them for long enough that they got complacent, then I used the opportunity to slip away and get this job done. I’m not just trying to blend in with the crowd here, I need to disappear entirely. Tucked into the alleyway like I am, I’ve melted into the shadows so well that even when a few of the Jackal’s thugs I’ve known for years walked past, they didn’t spot me. Being a ghost is easier than breathing for me, which is why spying on clients for the Tiger is my favorite type of work.

I’m picky about what I’ll do for him. I’ve made it pretty fucking clear that I won’t take out innocent witnesses just to keep his dirty clients out of prison, and he’s good about finding me work that falls into line with my own moral code. I mean, I’m a member of the Twelve, so that code isn’t exactly pious, and that’s how I’ve ended up here, dressed like a Mounty street girl at three in the morning.

The bar doors open again and a group of sleazy, drunk assholes pour out. The girls around me immediately start their hard sell, talking up their services and sauntering off with the men flashing green at them. A few call out to me, but I ignore them entirely. Leaning my overheated, sticky back against the brick wall while I’m staring at my phone should be a big enough indicator that I’m not currently selling, but men are stupid. Only one attempts to approach me, clearly not the type to take ‘no’ for an answer, but three broken fingers later, the message finally sinks in.

My phone vibrates silently in my hand, and I cringe before opening the new text.

It’s three in the morning, Mounty. I’m done waiting. Where the fuck are you? If you don’t tell me, I’ll text the group chat and Avery will lose her shit.