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Walking out of the room, I hear three loud shots ring out, then the familiar thud of a body hitting the concrete. Ronan is a ruthless son of a bitch, and I’m lucky to have him as my second enforcer. Loyal as fuck, too, despite not being born into the correct bloodline. It used to be an ironclad tradition that we kept every role in the organization within the family. If you weren’t a Quinn, then you were an enemy. But after Antoin betrayed us during the war with the Bratnovs ten years ago, I learned that sharing DNA doesn’t breed unwavering loyalty. In fact, those closest to you will fuck you over the most because they are well out of the way of suspicion. I weeded out the snakes in the grass and looked outside of the bloodline and found Ronan. Well, we’re technically still related. He’s a very, very distant cousin who came over from Limerick, Ireland, to help the cause. He’s a scary-looking bastard, and his accent is so thick he’s near impossible to understand, which poses a problem, sometimes, because he never shuts up.
He follows me into the hallway, polishing the grip of his gun with the hem of his T-shirt. “Need me to come with you, boss?”
“Nah. Stay and clean up,” I say, striding toward the exit. I wave to him over my shoulder and add, “If you’re lucky, I’ll bring you back a doggy bag.”
* * *
Gatsby’s.A glitzy, Quinn-owned joint stuffed with all of the Art Deco pieces Lorcan could get his hands on. At night, it’s a restaurant with a waiting list as long as my dick, known for serving rare—and usually illegal—delicacies from all over the world. Japanese pufferfish, blood clams, all washed down with the finest Swiss absinthe or gold-infused vodka. I try to avoid the place in the cold light of day because you’ll usually find Lorcan here with a face like a slapped ass. Today is no different.
He’s sitting in one of the green velvet booths with his arms folded across his chest. Poppy is next to him, glaring at me over the rim of her wineglass.
“What is this, a family day out? I didn’t get the memo.” I ignore Lorcan’s death glare and head straight to Poppy, who rises to give me a peck on the cheek. “You could have at least brought my favorite sprogs.”
Poppy forces a smile, then dabs at her wine-stained lips. “Gus and Valentina are with Cillian and Lottie today, I’m afraid.” She lowers her voice as if there’s anyone but us in the restaurant. “How’d it go? With Cooke?”
I lean over and steal a truffle fry from her plate. “Who?”
“Jesus, Don. How many people do you kill in a day that you can’t keep track of names?”
“You mean the pervert investor guy? Yeah, he’s handled.” I pretend I don’t see the alarm creeping up her face or how she scans my hands for signs of blood. Instead, I jerk my chin up at Lorcan. “Who’s pissed in your Cheerios, then?”
His top lip curls. “Where the fuck did you disappear to yesterday? I needed you.”
“Chill,” I say, reaching for another fry. This time, Poppy goes to swat my hand away, but I’m too quick. “There was another incident at the hotel I had to take care of. Some hooker had killed her John.”
Poppy gasps. “A murder?”
“A fucked-up fantasy gone wrong is my bet.” I lick truffle oil off my fingertips, feeling a smirk creep onto my face. Damn, yesterday was fun. That whore… whew. As a hard rule, I don’t deal with hookers anymore, but I’m regretting that I never had anyone like her in my little black book. Eyes like ice and an attitude just as cold. And when she reluctantly sank to her knees to beg…
Fuck. The memory sends a shiver along the length of my cock. A feeling that reminds me exactly why I don’t pay to fuck anymore. It’s a dangerous game when you’re a sick, twisted cunt with unlimited cash, like me.
“Don?” Poppy’s voice pulls me back from the dark place I only allow myself to visit when I’m drunk and alone. “You all right? You suddenly look like you’ve seen a ghost. Maybe you should eat something more substantial than my fries.”
I cough, grab Lorcan’s sparkling water, and down it in one, slamming the bottle on the table to bring me back to the conversation. “Nah, I’m all good. Anyway.” I nod at Lorc, who’s now eyeing me suspiciously. “Your hotel, it’s a five-star joint. I thought it’d be best to sort that shit out quickly and discreetly before any of the guests got wind of it. Don’t want to be known as the next Hotel Cecil, do you?”
Lorcan pauses, then slowly nods. “True,” he grunts. “That would have been a publicity nightmare. But still, you left me with that asshole and his heavily armed men.”
“Relax, cuz. I had eyes on you from every angle and men outside the drawing room ready to start World War III if needed. Oh, and we put that tracker on his vehicle. Traced him back to an address at the Hamptons. We’ll keep an eye on his movements.”
He resets his jaw and thaws a little. “Good, because we have bigger problems than a killer hooker to worry about.”
I glance at Poppy. Concern clouds her big blue eyes.
“Hit me with it.”
Lorcan pulls out a file from his breast pocket and slides it across the table.
I wipe my greasy fingers on a napkin, then flick it open. “All I see is text and a lot of it. Are you really going to make me read this, or can you just give me the CliffsNotes version?”
Poppy sighs. “It’s Belsky’s proposed manifesto for if he becomes governor of New York. Some of it focuses on tax breaks, healthcare, education… all the usual garbage. But he’s also included something more relevant to us.” When she leans over to flick through the file, I get a whiff of her vanilla perfume. “Here.” She taps a new page with her red fingernail. “Read this.”
I groan. “Don’t make me read. Just fucking tell me—”
“He’s proposing a new immigration law,” Lorcan snarls. “Any green card holder suspected of a crime of moral turpitude will be considered for deportation without the right to appeal.”
My eyes flick back and forth between him and Poppy wearily. “And again in English?”
Poppy rests her elbows on the table and leans in. Her brows are knitted, lips drawn in a tight line. She’s wearing an expression I can’t read. “A crime of moral turpitude. It’s a purposely vague term lawmakers use to fuck people over. It can cover anything, really. Fraud, theft, intent to hurt another person…anything that normal people would consider bad can be classed as a crime of moral turpitude.”
