Page 26 of Gangsters and Guns


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Chapter Nine

Rogan gestures toward the double doors. Smiling, I saunter past him before turning my gaze to the throng of bimbos watching in disbelief and irritation. I toss them a wink, flip my hair over my shoulder, and strut toward the doors. Rogan’s footsteps echo behind me, and soon, two more pairs join his.

I can feel their eyes on me, and a wave of nerves licks up and down my spine.

You can do this, Rory. You’ve got this.

Focusing on my breathing, I reach for the door handle when Rogan rushes ahead of me. “Allow me.”

“Thank you,” I reply as he pulls it open and allows me entry. Behind the brown doors is a round foyer. The tiled floor gleams, reflecting the lights from the crystal chandelier hanging above it. Four glass office doors greet me, each with lettering on them displaying whom they belong to.

“First door on the right,” Rogan calls from behind me, and I wonder why they’re allowing me to lead. It’s weird. As a person who has no idea where I’m going, one of them should be leading the way. Are they insisting I lead to see if I can take charge? Or are they just trying to get a good look at my ass?

I’m betting the latter, since I can feel their gazes locked on it as I walk.

Shrugging it off, I reach for the door handle but jump back when the fucker zaps me. “Oww! What the f—heck was that?”

“Oops,” Rogan quips, sidling up next to me. “You’ll find this and many more surprises here at Dixen Enterprises, Ms. O’Brien.” The way he says that, like a dark promise, has my pussy clenching. Either this man is making a sexual innuendo, or I’m a fucking idiot. When I don’t respond, he just laughs, the sound smooth and sexy, and then with one arched eyebrow, he grasps the handle. It turns green, and a beep sounds before he pulls it open and gestures for me to walk inside.

The sight I’m met with has my steps stuttering, and I have to force my legs to keep moving.

This office? It’s fucking huge.

Floor to ceiling windows line the perimeter, overlooking the city, and allow vast amounts of sunshine to pour in. A mahogany desk sits proudly in one corner. Behind it are various plaques displaying awards, degrees, and achievements of one Rogan Dixen.

Several more chandeliers are scattered on the ceiling. One hangs over a square table near the window, surrounded by plush chairs. An orchid sits happily in its pot, basking in the sunlight. I count at least nine purple blooms on the stem. Just behind the table is a seating area with two brown leather couches and finished cement tables. A reclaimed wood tray sits on the coffee table with a glass decanter filled with a brown liquid and four clean glasses.

A work area is beyond that. Several monitors take up an entire wall, sharing the space with a massive whiteboard with scribbles all over it. I can see now that the scrawls are the same coding I saw on Rogan’s iPad.

Stopping at the desk, I turn to face them, and my mouth goes fucking dry. They look formidable, sexy, threatening. Standing shoulder to shoulder, the brothers could be the leads in the next captive mafia film to go live on Netflix.

Sign me up for that shit.

Each of them is tall and broad, wearing sharp, tailored suits and designer shoes, but they couldn’t appear more different, especially for brothers.

The largest brother, whose name I’ve yet to learn, is massive and must be over six feet tall. His muscles bulge beneath his suit, so much so I’m surprised he hasn’t burst out of it. He’s striking in a terrifying way, with shoulder-length black hair and a thick beard, and he’s eyeing me up with a callous expression. He looks like a beast draped in riches. Flicking his almost feral dark gaze up and down my body, he moseys over to the temperature gauge, and while watching me, he turns it down. I hear the click as the air conditioning kicks on, and I wonder what the fuck he’s doing using the AC in fucking November. He must be hot under all that hair and all those layers of clothes.

I don’t react, even as the wire I’m wearing zaps my breast. Fucker must be shorting out from the water.

“This way.” Rogan’s smooth voice draws my attention as he walks over to the seating area. He gestures for me to sit on a couch, and I oblige, shuddering when my legs connect with the cold leather. Rogan sits across from me, and Alistair perches next to him. The third man doesn’t take a seat, instead leaning his ass against the armrest, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Care for a drink? Rory, was it?” Alistair says with a smirk, reaching for the decanter.

The last thing I need is a fucking drink right now. “No, thank you. I—”

“Oh, I insist, Ms. O’Brien.” Alistair pours a glass and slides it over the table. The tips of our fingers touch, igniting my nerve endings as I take the cool crystal from his grasp.

I try to control my shaky hands as I raise the glass to my lips and sip, schooling my features to remain impassive as the liquid burns down my throat. “Thank you, Mr. Dixen.”

His smile grows as he finishes pouring the other glasses. “Please, call me Alistair.” He raises his gaze to mine as if to see my reaction, but I don’t fucking give him one. You don’t live as I’ve lived and not learn to rein in your emotions. Not doing so could get you killed.

Alistair takes a sip from his glass then sets it down before leaning forward, his elbows perched on his knees. “If you are to become our PA, then there are certain areas you must be proficient in. One of which is alcohol. You must know which type goes best with which meal, and what brand of whiskey or brandy to bring out when we are entertaining certain types of clients.”

Oh, this bish…

I fold my hands in my lap and tilt my head, flicking my eyes from Rogan’s golden gaze, to Alistair’s sky-blue orbs, and finally to the dark, haunted eyes of the hulking, brooding brother. I hold his gaze to watch his reaction. “Like knowing the delicious drink I just consumed was actually scotch? Glenmorangie, if I’m not mistaken.”

This gets me a response, and his dark eyebrows shoot up as he strokes his beard.

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