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Rogan grins. “It’s never too early.”
“Coffee before killing.” Alistair points at him, and we all laugh, the sounds making my heart flip. How could I have ever thought I could betray them? Ever thought they were cold and cruel? Well, they still are I guess, just not to me.
After coffee and breakfast, we get to work. Not killing, not yet at least. Maddox and Alistair work hard on framing Charles, the old man I met in their offices. Apparently, he’s their enemy and has had this coming for a long time. Two birds, one stone. They get to protect me and get rid of him.
Rogan and I focus on finding a way out of the situation with Bronson. We spend hours on our laptops, pouring over ideas, until Rogan looks up at me with a shocked expression. “What?” I ask.
“I’ve got it, and it’s fucking juicy, Hellcat. No wonder he wanted you here so badly and is pissed you’ve turned on him.” He chuckles and leans back, looking satisfied.
Frowning, I look over his shoulder. “You mean we have a way—Holy shit!”
My heart stutters as I stare at his screen, excitement racing through my veins. Rogan’s right—not only will this give me a way out, but it will also destroy them. Not only Bronson, but so many others. It seems we’ve found the missing link, the way to make all of this make sense.
Now we just have to exploit it to save my men and me.
After telling Maddox and Alistair and coming up with a plan, they leave to get ready, and I stand before the clothes in my walk-in closet. Feeling nervous as hell, my stomach rolls and my body buzzes. I don’t know if this will work, it could backfire, could get us killed, but it’s the only option we have.
Life with them will never be safe or easy, so I better get used to it.
Bronson has it coming, and I refuse to cower anymore. I go to select some jeans before I back away. No, I’m not the street rat stealing for money any longer. What about a work dress? No, I’m not that girl either, the one working for them to steal information. I’m Rory fucking O’Brien. The Dixens’ girl. Thief. Killer. It’s time I dressed like me, like the woman I was always meant to be.
Dragging my hand across the dresses, I stop at one and pull it out, grinning. Deciding to go with it, I put oil in my hair and straighten some bits to make it less frizzy before pulling out a black lace thong with straps that go across my stomach. Luckily, it doesn’t hit any sore areas. I try to put on a bra, but my breasts are too sore, so I leave it off.
Before I slip on the dress, I do my makeup, my war paint, with a bold, blood-red lip, high arched brows, and winged liner sharp enough to cut a bitch. I look every inch the gangster’s girl. The dress I’ve picked is black, a deep black satin that’s soft to the touch. I pull it over my head, and it fits my curves perfectly, and when I look in the mirror, I’m glad I didn’t wear a bra.
It’s backless, after all, completely bare from my neck to the very top of my ass, except for a few straps. The thin spaghetti straps intersect in a cross pattern like a harness over my back and come around to the side where my skin is displayed all the way to my hip. It ties into bows just above my ass to keep it in place.
The front is cut low enough to show my cleavage, and the material is secured like a bandana in the front, keeping the sides open too. The skintight dress drapes down my body to my knees, and there’s a slit up one thigh. It’s obscene and hot as hell, and when I add the Louboutins and choose a leather jacket, I feel like a knockout.
I feel expensive, put together, and moreover…confident. Like nothing can touch me.
I hear a noise, and when I turn, I see all three of my men in the doorway, suited up with their mouths hanging open. Fuck. As they look me over, I do the same to them. Alistair is in a traditional suit, but he doesn’t wear a tie and he has the top two buttons of his shirt undone. The fitted material hugs his muscles to perfection.
Rogan is in a gray and yellow striped suit, almost like tweed, but he makes it look sexy as hell, and Maddox? Shit, even he dressed up…well, for Maddox. He’s wearing his leather jacket, but under it is a white dress shirt and black dress pants and sparkling leather shoes. I spy the gun tucked into his waistband, on full display, and shiver as I meet his dark eyes. Even his hair is slicked back, and his beard is trimmed and combed. They look every inch the rich gangsters who own this city.
“You sure we need to go to this meeting?” Alistair growls out, licking his lips as he runs his eyes up my legs again. “It can wait, right?”
Rogan chuckles. “No, but after, we can give our girl all the pleasure she so desperately wanted last night.” He winks at me, and my pussy pulses.
Shit, count me in.
Shrugging the jacket onto my shoulders, not bothering to put my arms through it, I saunter up to them, swinging my hips. It’s addictive, the lustful, silent way they watch me move. “Now then, boys, let’s go kill a pig,” I purr, and as I step past them, I run my sharp nail across Rogan’s chest.
They follow eagerly after me as we say goodbye to Mischief, lock up, and exit my apartment. They touch me the entire way down in the elevator, sneaking spanks and caressing my bare skin. Rogan even tries to steal a kiss, but I narrow my eyes and move away, not wanting to ruin my lipstick, which just makes him laugh. Once in the garage, we all get into the same car, a sexy as fuck blacked out SUV. Three other SUVs follow us—guards, they said.
As a show of strength, they will all be carrying weapons, which will also serve as a warning to Bronson so he doesn’t try anything funny.
The drive there is quiet, filled with urgency and anticipation of what’s to come. It feels as if we have been waiting for this our whole lives, even though it’s only been a few months. My heart races, and my palms sweat, but I refuse to show it. I refuse to be weak. Alistair reaches out, places a hand on my bare thigh, and slides it higher, gripping and squeezing as we drive through the city to the meeting. It settles me, and when we pull up into the dark parking garage, I swallow back even more nerves.
The car stops, parking across the empty spaces, as the other SUVs surround us. Bronson is waiting there, under a barely lit flickering light, leaning against his car and sipping his coffee. His eyes twitch at the number of cars and his hand goes to his gun, but he doesn’t do anything as Maddox gets out and opens the back door for me, offering me his hand. I slide mine into his and slip from the car. Bronson is probably wondering what we’ll do. He thinks his badge offers him protection, but he’s wrong—the badge doesn’t make him untouchable, and he still has to answer for his crimes. My eyes lock on Bronson’s, my chin tilted up in defiance and a smirk playing on my lips as I face him.
The sound of other doors opening echoes around the empty structure, and he stands taller as I step forward, my hand going to my hip. “Hello, Detective Bronson,” I purr.
