Silver Fox Grump (Grumpy Bosses #3)

1. Sev

1

SEV

Poking the dead body of the Battersea double-agent with my toe, I hope it’ll help. I used to get a buzz out of this sort of thing.

I wait.

Nope. Nothing.

I am just not as bloodthirsty as I was.

Perhaps turning thirty-nine stole all the joy out of life. I’m so old.

“Clean up,” I direct my second-in-command and stride out of the basement interrogation room—it’s whimsically called the executive exercise suite—and shove my hands in my pockets. I’m tempted by the stairs, but there are twenty floors in this building and that’s enough for even me to break into a sweat.

How is it possible for a mafia boss to be bored? I punch the button to call the elevator.

Making obscene amounts of money? Most people’s idea of a good time.

Being respected and revered? I believe people aspire to this.

Death. That’s supposed to be exciting, or at least distressing, but I find it rather dull now.

I even have family and friends. One of my triplet brothers lives here in London, and I’ve been thinking about how to drag the other back from Milan to have the three of us together, and Wes Matthews, the kingpin of Mitcham, counts as a friend.

Avoiding my own gaze in the mirrored little box, I consider going to the penthouse to pretend to relax.

But I cannot shake the feeling of loneliness, and being at the top of a tower won’t help that.

I need a fucking hobby.

Or perhaps just to reconnect with the legit part of my business? Maybe that will provide a challenge of some sort. On impulse, I punch the ground floor button. When the elevator slides to a halt, I prowl out.

The huge entrance hall is empty, as it should be, just a receptionist at his post, a security guard, and that idiot stray cat, who trots up to me like we’re best friends. But it’s not tranquil. There’s the sound of laughter and chat coming from one of the main conference rooms, and I narrow my eyes as I reach down to scratch between the ears of the ginger tom cat who has adopted Morden Company as his home. What’s going on?

My feet thud on the marble floor as I stride towards the noise, leaving the cat behind.

Throwing open the double doors, my jaw clenches as the room falls silent.

“What the fuck is going on here?” I say into the horrified hush.

There are balloons. In Morden Company. We build skyscrapers and bury bodies.

Fucking balloons .

One man is mid-way through a dance move that he borrowed from the seventies, a woman has a microphone, another is holding a potted plant , and there’s music playing. There are snacks on tables.

“Mr Blackwood.” A woman I recognise as the head of HR and the bane of my life hustles up to me. She’s in her fifties and wearing a sensible navy dress. “This is the welcome and getting-to-know-you party for the new recruits.”

A welcome party? They get salaries . What do they need a party for?

“Who signed off on this?” I snarl.

“I believe that was you, sir.”

“No, I told you to stop hiring idiots who quit.” There is a dead man in the basement, but here my staff are hanging out like it’s a school disco for eleven-year-olds.

“That’s right, Mr Blackwood. These are the best and brightest!”

“Really?” I glance around the room. Half of them are wearing T-shirts. “Oh fuck.”

A tickle of recollection comes to me. Florence begged me to do something about the high turnover of staff at Morden.

“But there was a…” She coughs awkwardly. “Slight issue with retention of the younger personnel that you ordered us to employ to grow Morden Company’s online presence. We tracked it down to workplace comfort expectations of Gen Z, compared to previous generations. Due to technological changes and economic uncertainty, they have different values.”

“Values,” I mutter under my breath.

“This welcome event has reduced the need for new hiring by twenty per cent.” Florence preens slightly. She has the confidence of a Morden employee who has survived years in my company and knows I respect hard work and results above all. “This provides a chance for our newest staff to bond so they feel like valued members of the team.”

Sounds like the kind of thing I agreed to when I was feeling tired of the mafia aspect of my business and imagined if I threw myself into the legitimate part I’d feel magically better.

My lip curls.

Wonderful. If this attempt to fix my mood is a failure too, I’m left with nothing but phoning one of my brothers or Wes, and drinking copious amounts of whisky.

“What do you think?” I ask, turning to the terrified audience. “Does this help you feel like a ‘valued member of the team’?” I don’t bother to keep the cynicism from my tone.

The cotton-clad children stare at the floor.

I roll my eyes. “Relax. I won’t throw you into the dungeon for talking in my presence.”

Someone titters.

That wasn’t a joke, and I remain stone-faced. They’re all aware I’m a mafia boss, as well as the CEO of this company that fronts up Morden’s darker activities. You’d have to have been hiding under a rock the size of Manchester to not know.

“I mainly kill people for being stupid, and presumably you all have bits of paper saying you have qualifications,” I drawl. Unlike me. I have scars to prove my suitability for the job of Morden kingpin. “So you can’t be totally brainless. So speak up.”

“That’s not reassuring,” someone mutters, almost inaudibly.

“I’m your boss, not your therapist,” I snap back.

Behind me, there’s a gentle sound of pain.

Florence. Right, yes. This was supposed to increase staff retention by showing we value them as individuals and I’m a reasonable employer. Well, one out of two isn’t bad.

This was a mistake. I am not a good boss, I am a cantankerous, sarcastic, scarred arsehole and I should let these young people—I will concede they aren’t children, just—alone to enjoy their party and be effective members of staff when they’re done.

“Glad to see morale is high.” I spin on my heel and chatter starts up as I head to the door.

It must be a voice that makes me stop and look around.

At the side of the group, previously hidden by a tall man, there’s a girl. Quite an unassuming little thing, with short black hair and a smile that’s like looking into the sun in June as she offers the person next to her a cupcake from a clear plastic tub.

She has sparkling brown eyes. She’s tiny, barely tall enough to reach my shoulder. She’s wearing dangly earrings, a blue skirt that is utterly flick-up-able, and a white blouse. There’s a subtle gold necklace around her neck, and no rings on her left hand.

My heart lurches as a middle-aged man takes a pale-pink iced cupcake from her stash. It has swirls of buttercream. I glower as he bites into it, anger and jealousy burning in my throat.

That is for me.

I’m across the room and in front of her in a second. She blinks up into my face.

“What are those?” I ask abruptly.

I mean to have a bit more tact and open my mouth to say something more, but then she turns her unexpected weapon on me.

Fuck, her smile. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. She’s like I’ve been living in black and white, and suddenly there’s colour.

I stare at her.

I’d never realised until now how brave it is to smile. How being happy and positive is leaving yourself so totally vulnerable. I’m probably twice her age and three times her size, and I don’t let people in by smiling like that.

She’s just standing in front of a man who scared and threatened everyone in this room, and instead of bowing her head or looking as nervous as she should be, she’s smiling . As though it’s easy.

I admire it.

“Cupcakes.” Her voice is high but lyrical. “Would you like one?”

I am not a cupcake sort of person. I am not a person for sweet treats. I like whisky that tastes like burnt Scottish soil having a reunion in a morgue.

Apparently, now, I like her .

It’s not that she’s young and beautiful, although that definitely helps. It’s that I’m suddenly achingly aware that taking care of this girl would fill a need I had no idea about. A gap in my chest that I hadn’t even recognised was in the space that I always assumed had my withered, charred excuse for a heart.

I don’t know how to love her as she deserves. I haven’t a clue how to make her love me. Both those things feel very important, and I can’t believe I’ve neglected them as skills.

There’s a pause while I’m flummoxed by unfamiliar feelings, and I’m still scowling. Which is maybe why a young guy pushes in from the side.

“This is Mr Blackwood.” He pronounces my name like it’s “God”. “He doesn’t want your pathetic little cakes.” He’s barely more than a boy, and wears a shiny suit that likely cost him more than he can afford.

She jolts like he’s smacked her, and her smile falters.

“Of course not. I didn’t think he would.” She begins to pull away, her expression going from sunny to hurt in a second.

I’m so busy looking at her, I don’t anticipate the disaster.

The man’s elbow connects with the girl’s, and her tub upends. Instantly, the cakes topple out, smacking onto the floor and rolling off, leaving smears of pink icing.

She watches in horror, and the man laughs.

Anger flares through me.

“Oh!” She sounds like she might cry and goes to fall to her knees.

“No.” My hand shoots out. I grab her wrist where she’s holding the plastic tub, then just as quickly let it go. But that split second of contact tingles. Soft. So soft and breakable. “Leave it. I want…”

I thankfully manage to not say more. You. Everything. Your sweet pink pussy that I bet tastes even better than anything you have there .

She’s mine.

Instead, I just take the remaining cupcake from the tub and bring it to my lips. She watches, and my cock responds, thickening in my boxers as the paper case peels from the cake. It’s borderline erotic, as though I’m removing that prissy little blouse from her warm skin.

It feels good. Really good. I can’t remember the last time I got turned on from nothing. I feel alive .

I take a bite of the cupcake, and flavour and texture explode in my mouth. Sweet, soft butter icing, moist, crumbly smooth vanilla cake that melts and a flare of sharp raspberry sauce. It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted, and I’m floored.

Shocked.

Devastated. Where has this been my whole life? And I don’t think it’s actually the cake. I think it’s her . I regard the girl, with her straight black hair, so innocent and yet… I want her.

I need her.

“How is it?” she ventures, smiling again.

“Very…” I stop. Orgasmic is an inappropriate reply. “Nice”, or “tasty” is utterly inadequate. I opt for, “Sweet.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, as although she nods in agreement, her eyes lose that spark. Fuck. Should have said, “orgasmic”.

I’ll destroy her enemies in lieu of being eloquent.

“Is that how you treat your colleagues?” I turn to the man who tried to embarrass my girl. “Call their work pathetic? Scare them so they drop things?”

I take another bite of her heavenly cupcake. Still, I bet it’s not as good as her pussy.

“I was trying to save you, sir. As you say, it’s too sweet, and this whole thing is ridiculous. I’m here to work for you, not to engage in some social club.” The young man has a smooth, square jaw and straight nose he’s probably proud of. As though he had anything to do with his face being pretty, and not having fought for everything he owns makes him a special, chosen one somehow. I have no time for that sort of arrogance. I built and stole and clawed my way to where I am now, and genetics had nothing to do with it.

“You doubt my capacity to protect myself from a cupcake?” I say, a little louder, finishing the cake in two more efficient bites, and screwing up the paper. I will ensure everyone understands this lesson.

“No! You slay cupcakes, sir. I merely sought to save you the inconvenience…” He trails off. His gaze is fixed suddenly on my hands, so I reach out and drop the paper case before him. It bounces at his feet, with the rest of the ruined cupcakes.

He gulps, eyes not shifting from my wrists. He can’t see my tattoos, they begin in snaking patterns over my forearms. But he’s freaked out. It starts to dawn on the boy that he may have made a mistake. I see the realisation rising up his face like bile from his stomach.

“Pick it up. And the cakes, too.”

I barely watch as he prostrates himself, because the girl has followed the line of his eyes and is also looking at my wrists. She’s gone pale.

And then I notice. There’s a fine spray of red over my white cuff and dove-grey suit sleeve. No one could imagine that it’s my blood, and it’s not a smear, or a speck. This is the sort of pattern of blood that is created by an instrument of torture.

Damnit. Should have accepted the rubber gloves my second-in-command offered. But it just doesn’t feel the same . And honestly, threats are better received from a guy in a suit, than one looking as though he’s about to wash dishes.

“Say sorry to her.” I nod at the girl as the man clambers back to his feet, the paper wrapper and wrecked cupcakes in his hands.

His pause tells me everything I need to know. He’s a dick.

“I apologise if you took offence.” He fails to look her in the eyes.

Can’t say I didn’t give him a chance, but if he can’t repeat “sorry”, he has no place in Morden.

“Florence, is Charlie done in the executive exercise suite?” I refer to my second-in-command.

“I believe not, Mr Blackwood,” comes the reply after a moment.

“Your lucky day.” He just avoided being murdered immediately by me not wanting to overload my staff with work. “Florence, as you know, runs the HR department. Since you don’t have the right instincts for working in this team, she will help you with the paperwork to leave Morden Company.”

“But—” the boy splutters.

“I might think Florence is full to the brim with the smelliest of shit when it comes to what’s needed to retain staff, but she’s better at this particular brand of bullshit than I am, and that’s why I employ her. But if you disrespect her,” I point at the short, black-haired girl who is watching this exchange open-mouthed, “you disrespect me.”

“Sir, you have to understand—” His backtracking is tedious, and intended to save his life.

“Don’t worry, you’ll have a generous pay-off.” My lips tighten into a thin line. “I suggest you use it to go on a trip somewhere far away and consider your choices.”

Florence takes a sharp intake of breath.

There’s a simple code in Morden. I have an excellent assassin—a woman in her forties who looks like someone’s bumbling mother—who disposes of anyone, anywhere in the world. Zoe loves nothing more than travelling for work. Apparently, she has a social media travel channel. Perfect cover. And if an employee leaves Morden and moves abroad, they’re never heard of again.

“You,” I glance back to the girl. “Come with me.”

I indicate the exit and practically herd her out of the room like I’m a bad, bad sheepdog who has just discovered a succulent, lonely lamb.

We don’t speak on the way up to my private office. It’s all I can do to not grab her. Scare her.

I’m not a caring pet dog, I’m a wolf, intent on consuming her. The only question is how best to do it.

Closing the door behind us, I sink into my office chair and regard my vulnerable little prey. She has followed obediently, and now stands before my desk, still clutching her empty cupcake tub, and looking the exact combination of confused but brave that is the recipe to undo me.

She’s young. Big eyes.

I consider some options: I could order her to lean over the desk and fuck her senseless. It’s a good one, and I like it, but it has the slight disadvantage of meaning I’ll have to kill at least some of the HR department when they object. And I’ll already be on thin ice from telling Florence to give a generous end-of-employment package to that prick so I can have him murdered for being awful.

The next option is to try a longer game. Keep her close and see if I can lure her in.

“What were you employed to do?” I ask.

“I’m a junior administrative assistant,” she says tentatively.

Oh good, I definitely have things she can assist with. Administering to my every need, for instance. This is going to work out well.

“You’ll be assisting me.” I have a perfectly adequate PA already, but fine. I’m a mafia boss, which is basically like being a very privileged and homicidal toddler. I require a lot of assistance.

“Yes, Mr. Blackwood.” She drags her gaze over my face, and I like to think that bright smile is all for me.

My desk phone shrills, and I mentally curse.

Wes Matthews, Incoming Call.

7 Missed Calls .

What?