24. Quinn
24
QUINN
“Good,” Killian murmurs against my neck. His cock is still buried deep inside me, and I haven’t even tried to move. All I want to do is lie here with him and savor the connection. His weight pins me to the mattress, grounding me in this moment where nothing exists except the two of us.
When he finally pulls out, I feel the loss immediately. My body clenches around emptiness, already missing the fullness of him. He presses a kiss between my shoulder blades before climbing off the bed.
I hear water running in the bathroom, then he returns with a warm washcloth. His touch is unexpectedly gentle as he cleans between my legs, wiping away the evidence of our fucking. The tenderness in his movements makes my chest tight—this man who can be so ruthless, so cruel when needed, treating me like I’m something precious.
“Roll over,” he commands softly, and I obey with muscles so loose and light I might as well be floating. He examines the marks he left on my throat, his fingers skimming over what will surely be bruises by the end of the day. There’s no regret in his touch though—we both know I wanted them.
Needed them.
He tosses the washcloth aside and stretches out beside me, pulling me into his arms. His hand strokes up and down my back and I melt against him, tucking my face into the crook of his neck. He smells like leather and whiskey and sex, and I don’t ever want to leave.
“Thank you,” I whisper against his skin. “How do you always know exactly what I need?”
Killian’s hand goes still on my back. When I lift my head to look at him, his eyes capture mine and hold my gaze with a breathtaking intensity. I’ve never seen him like this—completely open, walls down, letting me see straight through to his soul.
“Because I know you,” he says with nothing but honesty in his voice. His fingers thread through my hair, cradling the back of my head. “And because it’s what I need too.”
The words settle in my chest like a physical weight. Killian doesn’t do vulnerability—none of us do. But here he is, letting me see this hidden part of himself. Trusting me with it.
I kiss him, every movement still slow and languid as I savor the taste of him. His arms tighten around me, and I cling to him just as greedily, letting my fingers trail across his back. They find the raised scar on his side—the one I gave him that night that feels like a lifetime ago.
“I’m sorry I stabbed you,” I murmur against his lips, tracing the mark I left on him.
His chest rumbles with a low laugh. “I’m not.” His hand slides up my back, pulling me in even closer. “You were fucking perfect, all rage and fire and hate. I want all of you, siren. Even your anger. Even your hate.” His voice drops lower, rougher. “I like it every time you touch me, even if it’s to shove a blade between my ribs.”
A smile tugs at my lips. “You know that makes you sound like a psycho, right?”
He grins at me—that rare, genuine grin that transforms his whole face, the one I’ve only ever seen him give to me. “When it comes to you?” His fingers thread through my hair, tugging just hard enough to sting. “I fucking am.”
The words should probably scare me. Instead, they send a shiver of heat down my spine, because I understand exactly what he means. There’s nothing sane or rational about what exists between us—between all of us. It’s primal and raw and maybe a little bit crazy, but it’s ours.
“My psycho,” I murmur against his mouth, and he growls in response, claiming my lips in another kiss.
We drift off tangled together, his arms locked around me and my head tucked under his chin. For once, my mind is quiet enough to let me slip into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Until the harsh buzz of a phone cuts through the darkness.
My eyes snap open, but it takes me a few seconds to place the unfamiliar sound.
“Is that your phone?” I ask, but I know the answer as soon as I look over and see the dark expression on Killian’s face. “Shit.” Realization dawns slowly, then all at once. “Shit, shit, shit.”
I jump over Killian’s massive, naked body and out of bed with the kind of precision and form that would make an Olympic vaulter weep, then rummage through my discarded clothes until I find the source of that ominous noise in my jeans pocket.
“It’s the burner phone Malcolm gave me,” I explain in a quick whisper just before swiping to accept the call.
“Yes?” I keep my voice steady even though my pulse is racing and I’m starting to sweat a little. I’ve had the phone on me or near me ever since the induction ceremony in the cemetery, but this is the first time anyone has used it to call me.
“I trust I didn’t wake you.” Malcolm’s smooth voice slides through the speaker. Even at this hour, he sounds perfectly composed and dangerous in his civility.
“What do you want?” My fingers tighten around the phone as Killian sits up beside me. I keep my back straight but I want more than anything to lean into him and give thanks for the way his body is radiating protective heat against my side.
There’ll be time for more of that later though.
“Straight to business. I like that about you, Quinn.” There’s an unsettling amusement in his tone. “We’re having a meeting. Tonight.”
My instincts scream that it must be a trap. Why else would they summon me in the middle of the fucking night? “And if I’m busy?”
“You misunderstand.” His voice hardens slightly. “Another member has called in their votum. As you so effectively demonstrated during your induction, when a votum is invoked, all members must respond. Immediately.”
I catch Killian’s eye in the darkness. His jaw is clenched, and I’m not sure if he can hear Malcolm’s side of the conversation, but he’s clearly picking up on my tension.
“Must be something important,” I say, choosing my words carefully, “to warrant a midnight summons.”
Malcolm’s low chuckle raises the hair on my arms. “You would know all about urgent votums, wouldn’t you? As I recall, you barely made it through your ceremony before calling in yours.” There’s a subtle bite beneath his cultured tone. “Some would say you tested the limits of what our little organization allows, but this isn’t the time to have that conversation.”
My stomach twists as his words sink in. I took a huge risk using my votum right after joining, and it’s clearly put me on thin ice with the Syndicate. These people expected me to prove my worth, to contribute something to their organization before drawing on their power. Instead, I stormed in and immediately demanded their help.
But I’d do it again. Atlas is worth whatever price they make me pay.
“I understand the rules,” I say, keeping my voice firm. Malcolm’s subtle jabs might have me on edge, but I’ll never let him hear it.
“Good. Then I’ll see you at Noctura in thirty minutes.”
At least it isn’t the cemetery again.
Not that Noctura is much better. That place where I first met him, where I stood naked while he circled me like a shark testing its prey. The memory makes my stomach clench all over again.
And thirty minutes? Fuck. No more cuddling with Killian tonight.
The line goes dead, and I lower the phone slowly. Killian’s hand finds my lower back, his touch reminding me that we don’t have much time to spare.
“The Syndicate?” he asks, his voice rough with sleep and concern.
I nod, already calculating how quickly I can get dressed and get there. “Someone called in their votum. I have to go.” The words taste bitter. I hate that I’m at their beck and call, but what choice do I have?
“I’m coming with you,” Killian says, already moving from the bed. “I’ll be ready in five minutes.”
I know there’s no point in arguing, so I pull my own clothes on and walk down the hallway to Atlas’s room. I hate having to wake him, but I know better than to leave without giving a heads-up. Each of these men would tear the city apart with their bare hands if they thought I was in trouble, and I’d rather not worry them unnecessarily.
When I push open Atlas’s door, my chest tightens at the sight of him sprawled across the bed, finally getting the rest his body desperately needs to heal.
“Atlas.” I keep my voice soft, but his eyes snap open immediately. Always alert, always ready. “The Syndicate called. I have to go to a meeting.”
He’s pushing himself up before I finish speaking, and I wince at the way he grits his teeth against obvious pain. “Then we’re going with you.”
“You should stay here.” I hold up my hands to make him slow down, but I might as well be talking to the wall behind him. “You’re still healing?—”
“Not a chance in hell. I’m not letting you walk into that snake pit alone.”
I know that tone. There’s no point arguing with him when he sounds like that. Still, my heart aches as I watch him slowly get to his feet, trying to hide how much it hurts.
Nico is already up and moving when I get to his room, either woken by our voices or by Killian. One look at my face and he knows. “When and where?”
“Twenty-five minutes. Noctura.”
He nods, already reaching for his clothes. No questions, no hesitation. Just absolute loyalty and solidarity that I appreciate so fucking much.
Minutes later, we’re pulling out of the driveway and thundering through the mostly-empty streets in perfect formation. Atlas stays tight on my left while Nico and Killian flank my right side. Even with everything ahead of us, there’s something comforting about the rumble of their engines surrounding me and the way we move as one unit through the darkness.
The parking lot at Noctura is mostly empty when we arrive, just a few expensive cars that probably belong to the other Syndicate members. I kill my engine and swing off my bike, my men moving with me in perfect sync as we approach the entrance.
If any of us are worried about what waits inside, it doesn’t show. We’ve faced down worse odds together, and we’re still standing.
The regular entrance to the building looks exactly like it did the first time I came here, understated luxury that serves as a thin veneer for whatever darker purposes Malcolm and his Syndicate use it for. But this time, we’re led through a different door, hidden behind what looks like an ordinary supply closet.
The stairs going down into darkness seem endless. Our footsteps echo off stone walls as we follow our guide deeper underground into what feels like a nuclear bunker that’s been carved out from beneath the sleek building above us. Finally, we step into a cavernous room dominated by a large wooden table that wouldn’t look out of place in a medieval castle.
But instead of a king and his knights, we’re faced with Malcolm and his band of deadly criminals.
The six Syndicate members are already seated, their faces barely lit by the scattered lighting in the room. Each one of them has at least two people standing behind their chair—bodyguards who look just as dangerous as their employers.
Malcolm sits at the head of the table, and his smile when he sees me makes a knot form in my stomach. But I keep my chin high as I walk to the nearest empty seat with my men at my back.
“For fuck’s sake.” The platinum-haired woman two seats down slumps back in her chair, managing to make even that petulant gesture look elegant. “Is this really necessary? Some of us have actual business to attend to in a few hours.”
“Poor baby,” the auburn-haired woman drawls from across the table. “Did someone interrupt your beauty sleep?”
“Careful, Imogen.” Blondie’s smile is razor-sharp. “Your casinos have been looking a bit empty lately. Would be a shame if certain authorities started asking questions about your bookkeeping.”
The auburn-haired woman laughs, her eyes glittering. “Tit for tat, darling. Don’t start a war you can’t win.”
Blondie arches a brow. “Don’t worry. I always win.”
Their banter almost has the cadence of old friends talking shit, but there’s an edge to it that makes it hard to tell if they respect each other or hate each other. Maybe it’s a little of both. I can feel my men shift behind me, responding to the predatory energy filling the space.
“Ladies.” Malcolm’s voice cuts through their back-and-forth. “Need I remind you of your vow to the Syndicate?” His authority fills the room, making even these hardened criminals straighten in their seats. “The same sacred oath we all took when we joined. The one that demands we respond to a votum immediately, regardless of the hour or circumstance.”
“Some of us take those vows more seriously than others,” the man at the opposite end of the table adds smoothly, his dark blond hair falling across his forehead as he shoots a pointed look my way. “Although perhaps our newest member could use a refresher course in Syndicate etiquette.”
“Meaning what, exactly?” I ask, feeling my men tense up behind me.
“Meaning,” the man with long hair and a beard cuts in, “that most people don’t burn through their first votum before the ceremony has even finished.”
His hair is pulled into a man-bun today, rather than loose around his shoulders like it was during the ceremony at the cemetery, but the hairstyle somehow makes him look more dangerous rather than less.
The blonde woman closes her mouth with an audible click, but the look she shoots me could freeze hell itself. Her perfectly manicured nails drum against the table in a slow, steady, precise rhythm. “At least I had the decency to wait a full week before calling in my first favor.”
“And look how well that worked out for you,” the other woman murmurs, examining her own blood-red nails. “Wasn’t that the vote that ended with three of your lieutenants in prison?”
“Enough.” Malcolm’s voice doesn’t rise, but it fills every corner of the room. “We are not here to relitigate past votums or question each other’s methods.” His dark eyes sweep the table. “When any member calls for aid, we respond. That is the foundation of everything we’ve built and everything we are.”
His gaze settles on the blonde woman. “Unless you’d like to formally challenge the legitimacy of tonight’s summons?”
She holds his stare for a long moment before dropping her eyes. “No. My apologies.” The words sound like they’re being dragged out of her. “I will honor my vow, as always.”
“Now then.” Malcolm’s shark-like smile does nothing to warm the temperature in the room. “Given the unconventional nature of your initiation and immediate use of your votum, we never properly introduced you to your new family members.” His emphasis on the word ‘family’ seems to carry a subtle threat.
He starts with the platinum blonde, who lifts her chin as he says her name. “Cassandra Vale runs organized crime operations spanning several states. Everything from narcotics to high-stakes gambling falls under her purview, and she handles it all with ruthless efficiency.”
“You forgot to mention my winning personality,” Cassandra interjects with a cold smile. “And how well I play with others.”
Malcolm continues as if she hadn’t spoken. “Rafael Castillo.” The man with dark blond hair and a charming smile tilts his head in acknowledgment. “Our master of black market operations. If it’s rare, illegal, or supposedly impossible to acquire, Rafael can get it. His network extends from Detroit to Dubai.”
“You flatter me,” Rafael says smoothly. “But seriously. If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask.”
Nico clears his throat behind me, and I can only imagine the looks Rafael is getting from my men right now.
“Owen Callahan,” Malcolm intones. The man with the rugged appearance and man-bun gives a slight nod as Malcolm says his name. “There isn’t a border in the world he can’t cross. His smuggling routes have never been compromised, and his discretion is nothing short of legendary.”
Each introduction comes with carefully curated details about their specialties and territories, painting a picture of an organization with tentacles reaching into every dark corner of the criminal world. Malcolm presents them like pieces on a chessboard—each one deadly in their own way, each one positioned for maximum effect.
“Imogen Brooks,” Malcolm says. The woman with striking auburn hair examines me like I’m a particularly interesting insect. “Her casino empire provides an excellent cover for more lucrative ventures. The high rollers at her tables never realize they’re betting against the house in more ways than one.”
Imogen’s lips curve. “And they never seem to remember that the house always wins. Always.”
“And finally…” Malcolm’s voice takes on a slight edge. “Elliot Sands.” The man’s pocked face and hazel eyes seem to absorb the dim light, and it’s clear that his slightly crooked nose has been broken at least once. “His particular expertise lies in… human commodities.”
The euphemism for human trafficking makes bile rise in my throat, but I force my expression to stay neutral. Dad always said the most dangerous people in our world were the ones who could make atrocities sound civilized.
“Charmed,” Elliot says in a tone that suggests he’s anything but. His gaze rakes over me like he’s assessing my market value, and it takes everything I have not to reach for my gun.
My stomach clenches as the full weight of my situation hits me. Every person around this table commands enough power to crush Enigma without breaking a sweat. Their networks span continents, their influence reaches into the highest levels of government and business. And here I am, the leader of a relatively small Detroit gang, surrounded by apex predators who already resent me.
I feel Atlas shift quietly behind me, a subtle reminder that I’m not alone. But even with my men at my back, I know we’re outgunned. The target I painted on myself by using that votum so quickly feels like it’s glowing neon bright.
Still, I keep my shoulders squared and my chin high, channeling every lesson about projecting power that I learned from my father and from leading Enigma. My voice stays steady as I meet each of their calculating stares.
“I appreciate the introductions,” I say, letting just enough hardness enter my tone to make it clear I won’t be intimidated. “I look forward to working with all of you.”
It’s a lie, of course, but it might serve me well in the future. I’d much rather have these people as reluctant allies than outright enemies.
Elliot’s scarred lips twist into something that might be a smile. “I’m sure you do. Assuming you survive long enough for us to work together.” Without waiting for a reply, he turns to the rest of the table, his scarred face twisting with impatience. “I called this meeting for a reason, and it wasn’t to welcome our newest member to the fucking book club.”
His hazel eyes are hard as steel as he surveys the room. “I’ve just received word that Arturo Valencia is in Detroit. That slimy fucker thinks he’s here for a quick business deal, but this is my chance to eliminate him permanently.”
The name doesn’t mean much to me, but Malcolm cuts in to explain that Arturo runs a rival trafficking operation that’s been aggressively expanding into Elliot’s territory.
“Valencia?” Rafael leans forward, suddenly interested. “I heard he was still in Colombia.”
“He was.” Elliot’s fingers drum against the table. “Until my contact at Border Control informed me that he entered the country yesterday on a private jet. Apparently, he’s gotten bold enough to travel under his own name now.”
“Or stupid enough,” Imogen adds, her auburn hair catching the light as she shifts. “How reliable is your intel?”
“Very.” Elliot’s smile is all teeth. “I have proof he’s meeting with some of our shared connections and trying to cut deals that would push me out of the Pacific trade routes entirely.”
“So what do you want from us?” Cassandra asks with a petulant sigh.
“We’re going to kill him, of course,” Rafael answers. “But the window of time is narrow. He’ll be in the city for less than forty-eight hours. If we’re going to move, it has to be now.”
“And you’re certain about this timeline?” Malcolm asks, his calculating eyes fixed on Elliot.
“Dead certain.” Elliot’s choice of words sends another chill down my spine. “Which is why I’m calling in my votum. I want every person in this room committed to this operation. With your help, I’ll make sure Arturo Valencia doesn’t leave Detroit alive.”
“I need each of you to play a specific role.” Elliot begins doling out assignments with the precision of a general planning a war. “Rafael, your network will create a fake business opportunity—something too lucrative for him to ignore. Make him think he’s about to cut into our profit margins even further.”
“What kind of numbers are we talking?” Rafael’s charming smile has an edge now.
“Eight figures, minimum. Make it look like you’re ready to undercut his entire Eastern European operation.” Elliot’s scarred face twists. “He’s greedy enough to bite, especially if he thinks it’ll hurt me.”
“Owen.” He turns to the smuggler. “You’ll handle his security detail. I want every member of his protection team identified, tracked, and eliminated before they know what hit them.”
Owen’s man-bun bobs as he nods. “I’ll get my contact at the airport to send over their arrival manifest. Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Imogen.” Her auburn hair gleams as she leans forward. “Your casinos will be the backdrop. Make him feel safe there, comfortable enough to let his guard down. Then lock down every exit when the time comes.”
“Which venue?” Her blood-red nails tap against the table.
“The Golden Palace. It’s closest to where he’s staying, and the private gaming rooms have… convenient access points.”
The assignments continue around the table, each task more ruthless than the last. Cassandra will ensure local law enforcement stays away. Malcolm’s teams will handle perimeter security and cleanup. These people plan murder with the same casualness that normal people plan dinner parties.
That’s not the part that gets me though.
I’ve done the same with my own men plenty of times. It’s the cold, calculated efficiency that makes me jealous and a little nauseated at the same time. But then, what did I expect from the Dark Lotus Syndicate? They didn’t get to where they are by playing nice.
When Elliot’s eyes finally land on me, his lips curve into a cruel smile. “And Quinn…” He draws out my name like he’s savoring it. “You’ll handle the loose ends. Make sure there are no surviving heirs left to seek revenge or rebuild his operation.”
His choice of words makes my stomach clench. “Surviving heirs?”
“Just one, really. Arturo has taken a wife and has apparently knocked her up.” He pauses, squinting a little as if he’s sizing me up. “Your job is to kill her.”