17. Malone
SEVENTEEN
Once we’re back at the penthouse, I make her a drink and serve it up with some polite conversation. Scarlett’s silent as I mix the cocktail. Rum, a touch of ginger, lime, and brown sugar. I know she likes rum, even though I give her scotch, but as I strain the mixture into a glass, I can feel her eye daggers sliding in between my ribs, ready to lance.
And the thick suspicion that hangs in the air is both good and amusing.
She’s trying to work out why I’m making her a drink, why I’m being so nice and attentive all of a sudden.
This is just the fucking start of her tying herself in knots, trying to read me and my intentions. Because tonight, or what’s left of it, I’m going to leave her alone.
To some, it might be a reprieve, but I don’t think that’ll be the case with her.
For Scarlett, it’ll be sheer torture. She’s volcanic in the emotions that she keeps so tightly strapped inside, but deprive her of what she craves, and it all comes undone, spewing like lava. I saw that firsthand when I had her bound, blindfolded, and gagged.
So, I treat her carefully, delicately, with a sweetness that’s not at all my typical style. She eyes me like I’m about to grow fangs and tear her to shreds.
She’s not wrong. At all.
I hold the glass out to her, and she takes it like I’ve beaten her ass into submission… and it makes me think that I might have just read her wrong.
There’s an air to Scarlett, something sweet that strokes against me. But now I see it clearly. Behind that meekness is something else. Craftiness.
Like she’s trying to work out my angle so she can use it against me to take me down. Subservient and placating on the surface, enough to find the cracks.
I like that she’s distracted on that level. Let her try to analyze me. It’ll just make her head spin even more until she’s completely dizzy with every emotion I want her to experience.
She’ll never know the truth. Won’t even come close to finding it.
“Bishop was looking at you.” I pour myself some scotch but just hold the glass without bringing it to my lips.
Her eyes narrow and she sips her drink, never breaking her stare. “You dressed me like a three-dollar hooker. Everyone was looking.”
I laugh. “There are three-dollar hookers? Lead the way.”
She huffs. “Asshole.”
“He wasn’t looking at you like he wanted to fuck you,” I say. “He was looking at you like he was trying to pin you down in his memory.”
A frown stretches across her beautiful mouth. “But he didn’t actually see me that day.” She glances at her drink and then up at me once more. “I’m not sure why I’d even exist on his radar.”
Shit. Scarlett’s a little more observant than I thought. “He knows your family, so he’s seen you around. Scarlett, I need your help in getting to the records, the clients?—”
“If they have clients like that man, then I’m not doing anything that’ll harm my family. Find another way.”
I lift a brow and my lips lift into a mocking smile. “Who the fuck do you think I am?”
“An opportunist. One I don’t like.”
“But one you like to fuck.”
“Sex means nothing,” she says, taking a deep swallow of the drink.
She’s a trapped rat right now. I pick up one of the cupcakes I brought in from the kitchen. At first I thought the mess of buttercream was amateur hour—yeah, I’ve seen the shit New York’s coveted bakeries sell—but it’s a crafted mess, artisan homemade, the swirls that looked carelessly slapped together hold color and shading that must have taken her a while to perfect.
It's the kind of creation someone stupid and sweet would bring on a romantic picnic or serve a lover snuggled in bed after nice missionary-style sex.
Again, not what I expected, but it probably tastes like it’s right out of the box.
“Says the girl who was a virgin three fucking times removed when I met her.” I slide my finger through the buttercream and pop it into my mouth to sample it.
Holy fuck.
I’m not into sweet shit, but this is next-level orgasmic food sensation, and I want more.
I eye her again. Her expression is so fucking naked and vulnerable that I put the cake down to focus on unraveling her a little more.
“Or close enough.” I cross the room with my drink and sit on one of the sofas. “Daddy kept you in in an ivory tower, didn’t he? Probably hoping a Prince Charming with buckets of money would come along and pop the question, giving you the charmed life you were groomed for. Too bad I’ve ruined you for him.”
She glares and dangles her glass in front of me. “I should throw this right in your pompous-ass face.”
“Because you want me to tie you down again? Beat that pretty ass and then fuck it?”
“Screw you.”
“That’s the idea, Scarlett.” I rub a hand down my thigh. “Look, you know what I am. I’m powerful, and that’s worth a lot. I’m letting people see us together, both the polite society and the not-at-all polite people who break laws and necks.”
“Like you. Freaking murderer.”
“They’re not going to be scared of the fucking Easter Bunny, baby.” I take a swallow of my drink as she finally sinks into the seat opposite me, on the other side of the coffee table. “And being scared of me and what I can do to them and their businesses works well for my purposes. But I don’t think you want to be stuck with me forever.”
I pause. But bless her sweet little heart, she bites back the bitter vitriol I’d bet my left nut is brewing and bubbling in her.
“And there’ll come a time whoever made the threats will surface again to risk actually doing something. Not to you but…”
She lets out a shaky breath. “My family.”
“Exactly. Help me help them, like I’ve already said. Your father claims he doesn’t have enemies, right?”
“He runs a business, doesn’t go around stealing businesses or trying to rip people off. He keeps everything low-key and doesn’t pry. He turns people away when they’re too busy. And those people mostly come back because they’re loyal, repeat customers, I guess.” She shrugs. “No enemies. I’m sure I’d know.”
Would she? But that really isn’t where my interest lies. “We need to see the client list.”
“There’s no way. Uncle Grant won’t?—”
“Scarlett, you need to help me get it.” The idea’s growing more delicious in my head by the moment. It’s an act of betrayal I’m asking of her. I’m just phrasing it like she’s helping them, and she’s good enough, loyal enough, innocent enough not to see the truth.
“Even if I wanted to try, I can’t access the locked systems. I don’t know if it’d be stored there or somewhere else. And the little I’ve seen of client information… on the invoices or the filing of emails… is all coded with numbers. Like I said, completely secure.”
“So you do sort the information?”
“Not exactly. Everything I see is scrubbed of anything that points to a specific client. And then they get categorized on the home computer system according to the codes set up. It’s all automated.”
“Tell me the codes.”
She’s quiet for a second, contemplating what she should do next. But fear must win out because my girl gives me exactly what I asked her for. And she basically just told me she’ll give me everything if I ask the right questions in the right ways. “Sesame for general emails. And then the number one for client invoices that I send out. But like I said, there’s nothing that will lead to a specific client. There’s no way for me to decipher any of it.”
I can use that as a working place to begin. We have some old stolen invoices and emails, and I’ll go over those and see where they might fit. Reconcile them against whatever I can find in the system once I get access.
Right now, none of it makes sense, but it will once I piece everything together and find the missing link. They’re burying details for a reason, and it’s only a matter of time before I figure out why.
“Go to bed. I have things to do.” I down my drink and smirk at her. “If you’re good, I’ll fuck you in the morning.”
Because I just can’t help myself.
It’s almost three a.m. when I get to Queens.
The car I’m driving is an average, secondhand Honda Accord. Nothing about it stands out. I made a call to the cleaner and she’ll take care of the guy’s body we left back in Brooklyn earlier.
With a heavy sigh, I slouch back against the cracked leather driver’s seat and peer through binoculars.
Then I dial Smith’s number on my phone. We shoot the shit for a couple of minutes. He’s at the club, keeping watch using the video surveillance screens in the office. The only people who see him are those we want to see him.
It’s all part of the game because what matters most is the whole impression I’m crafting. I’m not always at the club, and when I’m not, someone I trust implicitly is. Like my second-in-command. Like Smith. But he’s also there to get any information for Jones that he can.
Jones is after something, but I don’t touch that mystery. Normally, I’d dig, but tonight, I ignore it.
“Anything come up?” I ask.
“Nothing out of the ordinary.” Smith pauses. “What’s your endgame here?”
“You don’t want to know. And anything I might do will happen when the job’s done. That’s all you need to know.”
He sighs. “And if the job goes beyond what we originally thought?”
“That’s a bridge to be crossed when we find what we’re looking for.”
I rehash our visit to the warehouse in Brooklyn, leaving out the sex fest on the floor after I’d killed that pig.
He’s silent, probably texting Jones or making notes or cross-referencing shit in some meticulous database he keeps. I’m definitely not him, we have different methods of getting things done, but we work well together.
He likes to have the tiniest of details and facts available before he makes a move.
I use gut instinct to get me to a place where I might need to be methodical. When I’m playing a part, instinct rules. Being flexible, willing to improvise and switch tactics when roadblocks spring up is critical in our line of work, even though the individual styles of the Knights vary.
Sometimes I wonder if Smith thrives on the chaotic end a little more than it seems. If he’s a little more like me than he lets on.
“The photo, man,” I say. “It’s something.”
“Fuck.” He sucks in a breath. “How bad?”
“Borderline underage and severely fucked up,” I say.
“Bring me the photo and wallet.” He pauses. “Tonight, if you can.”
A truck arrives and I jot down the license plate. It’s private, no company logo on it anywhere I can make out. “You think this guy has something to do with what Jones is after?”
“I have no fucking idea.”
I’m not sure I believe him, but unless it interferes with my job and my private mission, I don’t really care. Stepping on toes is never a good look.
“The guard got the picture from somewhere. Or he still has the girl hidden.” I regret the words the moment they come from my mouth. Nothing about the guy led me to that conclusion, and I don’t usually share my thoughts so freely.
“You think?”
Fuck.
Pulling the brim of my New York Mets baseball cap down, I ignore the urge for a cigarette. I don’t need it, but it’s something to do. “Nah, I think he found it. He was too low-level.”
“You know this how?”
“How the fuck do you think? Too easy to kill, too easy to jump, too fucking puffed up on his own small-time job.”
Smith’s just being an ass, an instigator, but I continue to convince him.
“I’m more interested in who he might have worked for or who he was working for. Maybe it’s something, maybe it’s nothing, but every small piece matters until it doesn’t with this, and you fucking know it.”
“Did your pretty thing turn you down tonight?”
I ignore him. “The fuckwit at the warehouse might have had something to do with why Jones wants the full client list.”
“Drop it all off when you’re done.”
I hang up without bothering to so much as grunt a reply.
Busy times on the dock tonight. But that’s okay, I want to watch their operation. I really don’t give a fuck what’s being loaded, but the foreman has an iPad. That’s something to file away for later, another way into the depths of Hanlon Shipping.
Behind the foreman, I can see people walking around a lit-up office.
I need to work out a time to search that area, too, when nobody is around. The shipping schedule could help me figure that out.
My eyes return to the foreman. He logs shit on the iPad, but he also has a notebook crammed into his back pocket. Every now and then he pulls it out and marks something down.
It might be important. It might not.
But it’s worth keeping in mind.
I watch a little longer, but it’s all rinse and repeat. I can set someone up to really do a detailed watch and get me a schedule of crate movement. I’m thinking early morning might be the best time, or maybe even late afternoon to fit in a search of the offices.
I pack up the binoculars and drive to Alphabet City and Orchid Lane.
As I pull into a parking spot, I call Orion.
“This better be fucking good or I’m going to kill you.”
“Good morning to you, too,” I say. A soft, feminine murmur flows in the background.
“Okay, asswipe, it’s the fucking middle of the night. What do you want?”
“Encryption.”
“Not my thing,” he mutters.
“But you know people, if I can get you some info?—”
“Outside of the Knights?” he asks quietly. A train rattles as he moves from his bedroom to the living room. The man really needs to fucking move off the goddamn train line.
“For now. Encryption and code cracking isn’t my forte, but I recognize certain things that may mean something. I just want to poke around first, if I can.”
Jones and Smith, I trust them. I trust them all as much as I trust anyone, but when I get my hands on some of the files and invoices Scarlett’s talking about, I’d like to see if I’m on the right track.
Poking around’s one thing, but delicate while acting heavy-handed is the name of this game. Tread lightly, outsource carefully curated snippets to see where I am, and then move forward. I’ll treat it like a real grift.
Jones might want to run with whatever’s uncovered, with whatever he’s looking for.
I really don’t know.
But I need to be careful. I have a lot riding on this, and I don’t want to blow it all open prematurely.
“Yeah, I can do that. Can I go now?”
I roll my eyes, mutter goodbye, and get out of the car. I walk toward the back entrance closest to the office. Smith is waiting. Reclined in my desk chair.
“Here.” I hand him the wallet and the photo.
Even he winces. “Fuck.”
“It’s pretty bad. I just don’t know if that security guard found it or took it.”
“If you’d have kept him alive, we?—”
“Fuck that. He signed his own death warrant when he threatened to hurt Scarlett.”
He stares at me for a long minute, then says, “Some info’s on the desk. Just a who’s who of those who want to see you and pay homage to the newest superpower, JM.”
“Fuck you, too. And thanks.”
When he leaves, I change into a suit befitting the king of the fucking club, and then I head out to visit the lower floors.
Bars are starting to close across the city as it nears four a.m., but this club doesn’t close until seven. It’s the ultimate after-party destination for the BDSM crowd, and a few people expect to see me here.
I get a drink and sit down to watch a couple in play. The woman casting ropes is good, hot as fucking hell, and her sub is black-haired and sweet-looking.
My dick gets hard watching them.
Not because of the act, although it’s right up my alley, the Shibari rope play. No, it’s the black-haired beauty who has the effect on me.
And if I’m being honest, it’s who she reminds me of. Because instead of the sub, I can fucking see Scarlett hanging there, suspended, bound, and open to me and whatever I want to do to her.
A gorgeous girl, one of the ones into pain and bondage and all the good things—I know, I’ve seen her play in here before—comes over to me as I start a boring conversation with a patron. He’s rich, like most of them in here, but he’s not important aside from a prop for me to sell my role.
I pull the girl onto my lap.
She wants more, but she’ll also sit here, thinking she’s winning favor with me.
Normally, she would be.
Normally, I’d drag her off and tie her up, whip her and fuck her holes. But all I can think about are cupcakes with messy, colored swirls.
When my conversation with the rich fuck ends, I send her on her way and head home as the early gray of an overcast dawn hovers over.
I shower and pull on a pair of jeans, ready to work. But my feet don’t carry me to my office. They lead me to the master bedroom.
Scarlett’s asleep. She looks so fucking pretty and sweet and delicious that I walk toward her and dip my head so my lips are against her ear. She stirs and lets out a soft moan.
My cock twitches.
“Wake up,” I whisper. “Time to play.”