Chapter 2
Two
JULIAN
Finally, after two days of torture, the motherfucker who tried to steal ten million dollars in diamonds from me broke and told me who the mastermind behind the heist was. All it took was me showing him his kidney.
They usually talk way before that, so I had to have respect for his endurance and pain threshold. It was impressive.
He still fucking died, of course, but he put me and my knife through our paces.
I’m exhausted and covered in blood. I need a shower and a good night’s sleep before I start hunting the fucking thief in the morning.
Tonight, I plan to go to the penthouse that I keep in the city and crash for a solid seven hours.
I’d usually go home. I built a mansion several years ago outside of the city. It’s become my sanctuary, but I’m not up for the thirty minute drive to get there tonight.
I have the penthouse for nights exactly like this.
But before I can leave my Porsche 911, the phone rings, and I recognize the number. With a sigh, I answer.
This will be about Elliott.
“Cillian, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Cillian O’Connor is the head of the Irish mob and owns a casino here in Vegas, but his business is primarily out of New Orleans. I have no beef with the man. He runs a good casino, cleans his own money there, and doesn’t interfere with my brothers and me in our city.
It’s been mutually beneficial.
But I have a bad feeling about this call.
“Julian,” he says smoothly. “I don’t like making this call and ruining your evening.”
Fuck.
“What’s the problem?” I ask.
“Your son has been gambling at the Four Leaf all week and has lost more than he can cover.”
I’m going to kill him.
“How much does he owe you, Cillian?”
“Just over a quarter of a million.”
“Fucking hell,” I mutter with a loud exhale.
“Quite,” he replies, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “I have no issue with you, Julian. Your son, however, has an addiction that’s starting to piss me off. So, here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to forgive this debt, and you’re going to keep your kid out of my place. Permanently.”
“Done. I’ll pay you, Cillian.”
“I don’t want your money. You and I are square. Just keep him out of the Four Leaf and out of New Orleans.”
“Done. Thank you.”
We hang up and I drag my hand down my face in agitation. This is the third call like this in the past month. I paid the other two debts, totaling almost half a million. Elliott is writing proverbial checks like he’s already in charge, and it’s going to get him killed.
He wasn’t always this reckless. This . . . stupid. Elliott was a quiet boy, an excellent athlete, and I had high hopes for him in my organization. But a couple of years ago, he started gambling and drinking way too fucking much.
He’s a liability. Not just to me personally but to our organization. To the family.
And I absolutely can’t fucking have that. I would kill anyone else for making me look weak.
I climb out of the car and nod at my security, who followed me home, and then ride the elevator up.
At the very least, maybe I should stop protecting my son from the consequences of his actions and let someone beat him to hell and back to teach him a lesson.
Pushing through the door, I can feel that I’m not alone, which isn’t a surprise.
Elliott crashes here when he’s not in a casino or the club.
The one rule in the past was that he not bring women here, but I don’t care if he stays.
And now that he’s engaged to Natasha, I know that he’s brought her to the penthouse off and on, which doesn’t really bother me, either, except that I see her more than I’d like.
Not thinking about that.
Crack!
I scowl as I turn the corner and see my son slap his fiancée across the face, twice, sending her to the floor.
“You stupid cunt! I don’t fucking care what you want. Do you understand English?”
“What the fuck are you doing?” Rage roars through me as I watch blood seep out of Natasha’s leg and her lip, and I glare at my son, who’s breathing hard, a look of pure malice on his face.
Christ.
He’s not answering me, and the woman won’t look at me, so I march to my son, fist my hand in his shirt and snarl, “I asked you a fucking question. I won’t repeat myself.”
“I’m putting her in her place.”
Jesus fuck, this is not how I taught my kid to behave.
I can smell the liquor on him, and it turns my stomach, and I push him away from me.
“That is not how I taught you to treat women.”
Elliott shakes his head and turns his back, marches to his bedroom and slams the door, and with a sigh, I turn my attention to the woman on the floor.
She’s in a white dress—I’ve only ever seen her in white, now that I think about it—which is spattered with blood, and her blond hair is down, shielding her face from me. She’s trembling, which only makes me angrier.
Has he been treating her like this the whole goddamn time? They’ve been seeing each other for a month.
Squatting next to Natasha, I reach over to brush her hair behind her ear, but she flinches away from me, giving the rage flowing through me a renewed energy.
“I won’t hurt you,” I murmur to her. “Come, let’s get you cleaned up.”
“I-I can just go home.” Her voice is small, and she won’t look me in the eyes, which annoys the shit out of me. She’s too amazing to be this . . . small. That’s the only word I have for it. Her voice, the way she’s making her already petite body look tiny, as if she’s trying to disappear.
This woman should stand up, take up all the space she needs and fucking roar.
“Do you want me to help you up?”
She takes a deep breath and then shakily climbs to her feet, and with my hand barely on her back, I lead her down the hall.
She moves away, so I can’t touch her, which I allow for now, and when we walk into my bedroom, her eyes scan the large space, the tall ceilings and wall of windows that look out to the strip, the perfectly made bed, and I guide her to my bathroom.
I have six bathrooms in this penthouse, and why I immediately brought her to mine, I don’t want to think about.
“I’m going to lift you onto the vanity.”
Her brows pull into a frown, but she gives me a shaky nod, granting me permission to boost her up by the waist onto the marble vanity, and then I grab a washcloth and the first aid kit from beneath the sink, ignoring the way my hands want to continue to touch her.
I turn on the water to let it warm up, and then with one finger under her chin, I lift her gaze to mine.
Christ she’s fucking beautiful.
Since that day in her father’s office, I’ve been drawn to her, which is a huge fucking problem considering she’ll be marrying my son.
But who could resist these big blue eyes, the gorgeous, smooth skin, and those plump bowed lips?
And who in their right mind could possibly mistreat her?
“I’m sorry that happened.” My voice is low, and my face is stoic as I take in her cut and bleeding lip and the older bruise on her jawline.
“It’s not your fault,” Natasha whispers. She’s still shaking, and I hate it. I don’t want her to be afraid of me, and she absolutely should not be afraid of the man she’s going to be married to, and I’ll be having a conversation with Elliott after I get her fixed up and headed home.
“Are you hurt too?”
I frown, following her gaze to my blood-spattered shirt.
“No. It’s not mine. Does he hit you often?” I ask her as I wet a cloth and wipe it over her chin, cleaning up the blood where her lip is split. She winces but doesn’t jerk away as I dab it clean.
“Only when I deserve it.”
Pausing, my gaze lifts to hers, and then she looks away.
“You will never be hit like this again. Not by him.”
That frown forms between her brows again, but she doesn’t say anything, and resigned, I continue to clean her up.
Her knee is the worst of it. I rinse the cloth and wipe the line of blood from her shin and then wince when I see the gash over her kneecap.
“You likely need stitches.”
“No.” She shakes her head and rifles through my first aid kit, then comes out with butterfly strips. “These will work. I’ve got this.”
Standing back to give her room, I watch as she opens the strips and expertly closes the gash.
“You’ve done that before.”
She shrugs and frowns at my hand. “You have blood on your finger.”
Glancing down, I see she’s right. I have her blood on my finger. But rather than accept the cloth she offers me, I hold her gaze and lift the digit to my mouth, sucking her blood from my skin, and my heart pulses at the coppery taste on my tongue.
Her eyes dilate, and she licks her lower lip. The air between us crackles with sexual tension.
Fuck, I want to squat right here, bury my face in her pussy and eat my fill of her before I fuck her so hard, she’ll never think of another man again.
She’s not mine.
“Please don’t make me marry him.” It’s whispered so softly that I almost missed it. I know, without a doubt, that she means it with her entire heart and soul.
The problem is, I also know that Elliott will be a worthless husband if he doesn’t get his shit together real fast.
I don’t like this part of the world I live in. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t have to respect it and honor the deal I made with her father.
I don’t answer her. I can’t. Because if I’m being brutally honest with myself, I don’t want her to marry Elliott either. I’d take her for myself if I wasn’t so much older than her, if I thought for a minute that I was the kind of man who could marry again.
Not replying, I simply stare into her eyes, holding her gaze until her shoulders roll forward and she looks away, making herself small again.
It grates on my goddamn nerves.
“My driver will take you home.”
“Oh, I can find my own way.”
Shaking my head, I help her off the vanity to her feet, steadying her, and then I back away, keeping a safe distance so I don’t give in and kiss the fuck out of her.