Bossy Billionaire Bad Boy (Ruthless Bad Boys #4)
Chapter One
Walker
A figure looms beside my bed in the dark.
With an ease borne of practice, my hand slips under my pillow to the cold steel waiting there. As my fingers wrap around the grip, I lift the weapon, leveling the barrel at the intruder as my heart jackhammers behind my ribs. Who dares come into my home?
The click of the safety is deafening in the silence and adrenaline pickles white-hot across every inch of my skin. But the dark figure doesn't move, doesn’t so much as breathe, and I blink away the blur of sleep, my finger on the trigger, my mind daring the silent figure to do something, anything.
And as my brain wakes, I realize there’s nobody there. I’m trying to kill a dream, a shadow in a life I’ve long since left behind. But even though it’s just a dream, a ghost of my past, my body doesn't know the difference.
My gaze trails from the barrel of the gun to my hands and up my arms, studying the tattoos that tell the tale of who I was. But I’m not that person anymore.
I sit up, the sheets falling away to pool at my waist, my breaths coming hard and fast. Sweat beads on my forehead, and I click the safety back on. Then, with careful hands, I set the gun on the nightstand with a heavy clunk . I rake an adrenaline-shaken hand through my hair.
“ Dammit ,” I say, the word sharp as I try to bring myself out of the headspace that’s demanding I kill… or be killed. “I’m not that guy anymore. That’s not my life anymore.”
The silence of my mansion rings like sirens in my ears and I study my tattoos, remembering how I’d earned each one. Now, they’re just a reminder of the distance between who I was and who I've become. Once, I lived for my brotherhood of the streets, the adrenaline of the next fight, the next score. But that life is a closed book, with chapters written in blood and sealed with the promise of death if I didn’t escape that life.
I force my muscles to relax, each exhale and inhale easing the tension knotting every inch of my body. I skim the tattoos, my map of survival and loss. I wasn't that person anymore—the gang member who survived by being quicker, tougher, more ruthless than the rest. I’d traded bullets for board meetings, violence for venture capital. The streets knew me as a ruthless enforcer; now, I wield a different kind of power.
They hadn’t been willing to let me walk away. They’d come for me, and I made them wish they hadn’t. Some habits don’t die. Like sleeping with a gun under the pillow or tucked between the mattresses. Like waking from a dead sleep with the feeling someone is about to blow me away… but not if I get them first. Nowadays, my name alone is enough to deter any would-be challengers. But the taste of paranoia still lingers like bitter coffee.
The coolness of my room takes the edge off the sweaty heat of my body, and I realize that the morning sun is beginning to filter through the curtains, streaks of gold highlighting random strips of the hardwood floor.
I stand, pushing back the covers, the cool air of the room pressing in close to my bare skin. I’m safe. The empire I've built might as well be a fortress - within these walls, I’m untouchable. Yet, the memories of my past are a reminder that no amount of money can buy peace of mind.
I stride toward the bathroom, my bare feet making no sound on the cold floor. In the bathroom, I turn on the shower, determined to wash the night and the sweat from my skin. After a quick rinse, I dress and make my way back into my room.
I need an escape. And I know just the place - my farm just outside of town. I can spend some time with my grandparents and just relax from the pressures of work for a while.
My thoughts drift to the farm I own just outside the city, where the impossibly green grass smelled like sweet summers and the air isn’t tainted with the scent of old money and new sins. I want to be there. I need that fresh air, space to think—space to breathe.
The sudden rustle of sheets snaps me back to reality, and I turn to see the two women entangled in my bed, their limbs all curves and softness. The sound of their whispers and kisses meet my ears and have my body responding.
The redhead straddles the blonde’s hip, their lips meeting. I’m not even sure they notice me drinking in the sight of their tangle of limbs and tousled hair. The redhead’s eyes sparkle with mischief as she traces her companion’s curves, tossing me a hungry glance. Their actions are a private show just for me.
“Stay... play with us,” the redhead asks in a sultry tone.
The primal instincts that never quite left me stir with a deep-seated need to relieve the ache building inside me. Memories of last night's encounter are fresh in my mind. And, for a fleeting moment, I’m tempted.
I could join them again, lose myself in their sweetness and forget my dreams and my start to the day. But something holds me back. Maybe it’s the call of the countryside or maybe it’s the realization that this, all of this, is just another illusion of intimacy. None of this is real.
“Join us,” the blonde says, her hand reaching out, fingers grazing the empty space where I’d gotten out of bed.
“Another time, ladies,” I say, the tone of authority in my voice leaving no room for argument.
I leave them with a wink, a promise that next time, perhaps, I won't be so quick to walk away.
As I close the door on their disappointed sighs, I know that no number of women in my bed can fill the emptiness within me. But on the other side of the door, the world awaits—the vast empire I had built from the ashes of my previous life.
But even as I walk forward, part of me wonders if the emptiness that gnaws at my insides will ever truly be filled, or if it’s just the price paid for my sins.
The aroma of freshly ground coffee fills my nose as I make my way down the marble hallway.
Morning light pours in through floor-to-ceiling windows, splashing light on the furnishings I hadn’t bought in a room I spend no time in. The bright place is a direct contradiction to the dimly lit rooms of my past.
“Good morning, Mr. Blackthorne,” Charles, my house chef, says with a respectful nod as he hands me a steaming cup of coffee. The rich scent is intoxicating, far from the bitter sludge I’d been introduced to when I first started drinking coffee. This is one detail that never fails to remind me of how far I've come.
“Morning, Charles.” My voice is still heavy with sleep as I take the mug from him.
“Will you be needing anything else? Breakfast, perhaps?” His ever-polite tone shares no judgment, and I shake my head. “This will do.”
With the warmth of the cup in hand, I make my way to my home office. I sink into the dark leather chair, and my laptop screen flickers to life at the brush of my fingertips, the glow illuminating my face.
Settling into the high-backed leather chair, I place the espresso on the coaster—a trivial, yet necessary act of order amidst the chaos that often rules my world. My laptop chimes to life at the press of a button, its screen illuminating the dim room with an artificial glow.
I scan work figures first, the numbers following a predictable pattern that calms my mind.Profits are up, margins are steady—an empire of commerce hums along under my command. Life is a game of numbers, and I’ve gone from the kid who hated math to the man conquering the world with numbers.
With a flick of my finger, I shift over to the news, allowing myself a moment to absorb the happenings outside my reality. Political dramas, economic fluctuations, trivial celebrity scandals—they all play out like scenes from a show I've seen too many times. Yet, I absorb each detail, looking for patterns, for shifts that could offer me opportunities… or warn of disasters.
As the caffeine begins to sharpen my focus, I can't help but reflect on the irony that is my life. The battlefield has changed, but the war for survival remains just as fierce.
And in this new arena, I am king.
I'm greeted with the sterile glow of numbers and graphs—a language of success that I've come to speak fluently. I take a sip of the espresso, its bitter perfection a reminder that I now savor the taste of control over chaos.
My gaze flits across the revenue streams, the investments, and acquisitions—all testament to a man who's traded the adrenaline of danger for the thrill of domination. In business, at least, I am still the bad boy, pushing boundaries and taking risks. But now, it's calculated, contained within the glass and steel confines of corporate warfare.
A headline flashes across the bottom of the screen, breaking into my thoughts. It's about me—the latest deal that's got the city talking. They call me a shark, a mogul, a titan. They don't know the half of it. They don't know the fires I've walked through to stand atop this mountain of wealth.
But as I scan the news, absorbing the world's narrative of my life, I can't help but feel the familiar tug of emptiness. The screen blurs, and for a moment, I see my reflection—a man dressed in power, yet draped in the solitude of his own making.
"More coffee, Mr. Blackthorne?" Charles's voice cuts through the quiet, but I barely hear him.
"No," I murmur, my focus returning to the figures dancing before my eyes. "This is all I need."
And with that, I dive back into the depths of my empire, letting the numbers anchor me in a reality where I'm no longer just a survivor—but a conqueror with everything to lose.
The delicious tang of the coffee lingers on my tongue. My gaze relaxes, the charts before me nothing more than a blur of green and red.
I never expected this life—the high thread count sheets, the sleek lines of the Italian sports cars in my garage, the weight of a billion-dollar empire resting squarely on my shoulders. If the streets taught me anything, it was to expect the unexpected, but this—nothing prepared me for this.
From gang member to billionaire. The transition seems impossible- a story that, when told, would sound more like a homeless man’s fever dream - yet here I am. I’ve made it, according to most people.
But at what cost?
In the gang, there was always noise, always movement; fights, drunken songs, stories of glory and victory. We were united by our broken pieces, bound by the need to survive. Loyalty was the light in those dark alleys and rundown hideouts. The sense of family is one I haven’t forgotten. It was an illusion, but it was mine.
Here the silence is deafening and there’s no reminders of my past outside my thoughts. But I don’t need companionship; I have women in my bed and family to spend time with when needed. So, what’s missing?
I’m ready to go home, to be part of a world where I’m not standing alone at the top, looking down at a world I'd conquered, but feeling none of the sense of accomplishment I crave.
The numbers on the screen don’t fill the void within me, just as the zeroes in my bank account can’t buy back the sense of belonging I miss.
I take another sip of the scalding coffee, burning away my ability to taste anything. Those days are behind me. I've bought my safety, my power, with a currency of blood and sweat.
“Mr. Blackthorne?” my assistant says, her soft voice little more than a whisper in the space. I don’t bother to look up at her from my laptop.
“Schedule,” I say.
“Your nine o'clock has been moved to ten,” she says, “and the architects for the new development project are waiting on a conference call.”
“Good.” My response is automatic, but my mind locks on business.
She leaves the room without another word and I exhale. I close the lid of my laptop, the clap ringing like a gunshot in the quiet, and for an instant, I'm back there—in the heat of the fight, living a life where my fists did more talking than my mouth.
But it's just a memory of a life left behind. I stand up, the chair rolling silently away on the marbled floor, and I make my way to the door. Because while the house may be empty, my agenda is not, and there are empires left to build.