22. Honor Among Thieves #2
“I’ll have my people contact yours,” Zeke says, keeping his response calm and diplomatic. Michael may have denied her prior knowledge of the betrayal, but her loyalty is still under scrutiny.
When only trusted personnel remain, cleanup begins. I supervise body disposal while considering implications of tonight’s events. Tommy’s apparent betrayal provides a convenient explanation for recent troubles, but something feels too neat, too carefully constructed.
Once I’m confident the cleanup is secure, I head back to the club where Zeke is waiting.
“She’s playing us.” I voice the conclusion aloud once Zeke and I are alone in his office.
Zeke pours two whiskeys into heavy crystal glasses, sliding one across his desk to me. “Agreed. Question is, how do we prove it?”
“Tommy’s hiding.” I accept the drink but don’t taste it yet. “Convenient timing.”
“Very.” Zeke settles into his chair, fatigue evident. “You think she ordered both hits?”
“I do. She’s testing our defenses, creating a distraction while setting up the Gallaghers to take the fall. Possibly to make way for Nicolo to squeeze back in.”
“Ambitious play.” Zeke’s tone carries reluctant admiration. “Risky though. Puts Tommy at risk. If we kill Tommy that’d draw Nicolo here.”
“That’s what she wants.” I sip the whiskey, its warmth chasing away the lingering winter chill. “Francesca doesn’t strike me as someone who leaves things to chance.”
“No.” Zeke takes a moment for serious consideration. “She’s careful. Smart. Probably counting on us suspecting but not being able to prove anything.”
“What’s our play?” The question emerges more from habit than necessity. I can usually anticipate Zeke’s strategic decisions.
“Let her think she’s won this round.” Zeke swirls whiskey in his glass, the amber liquid sparkling under the club’s recessed lighting. “Maintain the coalition, keep her close.”
“Meanwhile, we watch and wait,” I finish for him. “Look for the mistake she’ll eventually make.”
“Exactly.” Zeke gives me a dark smile. “Everyone slips eventually. Even smart players like Francesca.”
Our discussion turns to practical matters—increased security protocols, surveillance assignments, and contingency plans for various scenarios.
The conversation feels familiar, comfortable despite its violent implications.
This is the world we’ve chosen, the life we’ve built.
Yet something feels different tonight, an undercurrent I’ve never experienced during similar planning sessions.
I realize with sudden clarity that I’m anxious to finish, eager to return to the cabin where Naomi waits.
“Go home.” Zeke’s voice breaks into my thoughts. “You look like you need some sleep.”
I glance at my watch, surprised to find midnight approaching. “You sure?”
“She’ll be worried.” No need to specify who she is. “Take it easy. Rest up. I’ll call you when I need you.”
“Thanks, boss.” I stand, bones protesting the long day’s tension. I toss back the last of my whiskey and head out, anxious to get home to my sweet little red head.
It’s ridiculous how much I miss her. I held her in my arms this morning, kissing and fucking her, marking her as mine.
But it feels like ages, not hours.
I don’t know what kind of witchcraft Naomi cast on me, but I am hooked.
I pause outside the cabin door, steeling myself before entering. Blood still stains my sleeve where I executed Connor’s lieutenant. I should have changed before coming home. Naomi doesn’t need to see this darkness, to know the violence I’m capable of. She’s endured enough already.
A warm glow spills from beneath the door—she’s waiting up for me. My chest tightens.
I ease the door open, just in case she’s dozed off. But no—Naomi sits curled in the armchair by the fireplace, a book forgotten in her lap as her eyes find mine. Relief floods her delicate features and something inside me threatens to crack open.
“You’re back.” Her concern both warms and wounds me.
“Didn’t mean to keep you up,” I say gruffly, shrugging out of my coat. The night’s events weigh heavy on me. But Naomi doesn’t need those burdens.
She unfolds from the chair with natural grace, crossing to help me with my coat. The simple act catches me off guard.
“I wanted to wait up,” she says softly, hanging my coat by the door.
Her fingers brush my arm, and I have to consciously stop myself from flinching. I don’t want her to feel the dried blood on my sleeve.
“Are you hungry? I could heat up some of the stew from earlier.”
The offer of food, of care without agenda, creates a lump in my throat I have to swallow past. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
She studies my face with those observant green eyes that always see straight through my defenses. “Rough night?”
Rougher than you need to know about , I think, remembering the wet gurgle of the lieutenant’s final breath, the spray of arterial blood from his throat. But after the attack on the restaurant, I owe you an answer. “Took care of those who attack you. They won’t be a problem anymore.”
Naomi’s hand finds mine, small fingers interlacing with my larger ones. The contact grounds me, pulling me back from the edge of darkness where violence and duty live.
“Tell me something good,” I say. “Something that has nothing to do with Columbus or business or any of it.”
A shy smile curves her lips as she tugs me toward the bed. “Well, I’ve been thinking about something. A dream, really. Probably silly.”
“Not silly,” I counter, following her lead. I discard my button-down shirt, leaving myself in a T-shirt. We settle on the bed, my back against the headboard, Naomi curled against my side in a position that’s become natural over these weeks together. “Tell me.”
She takes a breath, fingers playing with the hem of her sleeve—a nervous tell I’ve learned about her. “Remember how I told you I always dreamed of owning a bakery? I want to do it. A real one, not just selling at farmers markets or working for someone else. My own place.”
The simple honesty of her dream catches me off guard. In my world, ambitions involve territory and power, the endless game of control and dominance. But this? This is pure Naomi—creating something beautiful and sustaining, bringing joy through simple pleasures.
“Tell me more.” When was the last time I discussed someone’s dreams without calculating angles or advantages?
She sits up straighter, animation entering her voice. “I have money saved in my trust fund, more than enough for a down payment and initial equipment. I’d need to write a proper business plan of course, figure out licensing and permits.”
“I could help with that.” I don’t even think before I say it.
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know I mean them.
My position in Columbus’s underworld requires more than muscle.
Understanding business operations, finances, and legal frameworks is essential.
Why not use that knowledge for something good for once?
Her eyes light up. “Really? You’d help me?”
“Of course.” I cup her cheek, thumb tracing the constellation of freckles I’ve memorized. “You have the talent and vision. Let me help with the practical details.”
She leans into my touch. “I’ve been sketching layouts, making equipment lists—would you look at them? Tell me if I’m being realistic?”
Her enthusiasm is contagious. She retrieves a notebook from the bedside table, its pages filled with her neat handwriting and careful drawings. Floor plans, equipment specifications, even rough calculations of startup costs. She’s clearly given this serious thought.
“Show me what you’re thinking.” I shift to make room as she settles beside me again.
For the next hour, we pour over her plans together. My experience with business operations allows me to offer practical suggestions about layout efficiency and equipment priorities. Her face lights up with each contribution.
“We’d need to research locations carefully,” I muse, studying her sketch of the ideal storefront. “The right neighborhood is crucial. We need enough foot traffic to support a specialty bakery, but not so trendy the rent becomes unsustainable.”
“We?” she echoes softly.
I freeze, realizing my assumption. But before I can backtrack, she continues.
“I’d like that,” she whispers. “Having you involved. Not just with the planning, but … everything .”
Her vulnerability matches how exposed I feel. This conversation has shifted from theoretical support to something more concrete, more permanent. Are we really discussing a shared future? One that extends beyond our current circumstances?
“You should know what you’re getting into,” I say carefully. “My involvement comes with complications .”
She sits up to face me fully, those remarkable green eyes steady on mine. “You mean because of your work with Zeke? The less-than-legal aspects?”
Sometimes I forget how perceptive she is. “Among other things. I’m not exactly the kind of business partner that looks good on paper.”
“I don’t care about paper,” she says firmly. “I care about you.”
The declaration hits me hard. She’s choosing me—not for what I could provide or protect, but for who I am. Even with all my darkness, all my complications, she wants me .
“Besides,” she continues with a teasing smile, “every business needs security, right? Who better than someone who actually understands both sides of the law?”
A startled laugh escapes me. “Is that what I’d be? Security?”
“Among other things.” She mirrors my earlier words, but her tone is warm and makes my chest constrict. “Partner. Advisor. Whatever we need to make it work.”
The possibilities unfold in my mind—a legitimate business we could build together, combining her creativity with my protection and business acumen. A future that extends beyond our current crisis. A partnership founded on mutual choice, not necessity.
Before I can fully process our conversation, Naomi tosses her notebook onto the bedside table.
“We can worry about business plans later,” she says, her voice taking on a sultry tone that sends heat straight to my groin. “You look exhausted.”
She shifts gracefully, moving to straddle my thighs. The simple cotton sleep shorts she wears ride up, exposing more of her creamy skin. My hands automatically find her hips, steadying her as she settles against me.
“Let me take care of you,” she whispers, leaning forward to brush her lips against mine. The gentle contact ignites my desire for her.
I let her lead the kiss, enjoying her exploration. Her tongue traces my bottom lip before slipping inside to tangle with mine. One of her hands cups my jaw while the other slides into my hair, her fingers massaging my scalp in a way that makes me groan.
The sound seems to flip a switch in both of us. The kiss turns hungry, desperate. My hands tighten on her hips as she rocks against my rapidly hardening cock. The friction, even through our clothes, sends sparks of pleasure through my system.
“Fuck, lovely.” I moan against her mouth. Her fingers tug at my hair, the slight pain only heightening my arousal.
I slide my hands up her sides, beneath the loose T-shirt she wears—my shirt. The thrill of seeing her in my clothes never gets old. Her skin is silk-soft under my rough palms. No bra. Just miles of warm, willing woman grinding against me like she can’t get enough.
“I need to be inside you.” My hands tighten on her hips. Her grinding against me drives me crazy. “Now.”
Naomi smiles—that sweet, seductive smile that never fails to make my cock throb. Her small hand slides between our bodies, nimble fingers working my belt open. The metallic clink of the buckle seems loud in the quiet cabin.
When she gets my pants undone and wraps her fingers around my cock, I can’t hold back the groan that escapes me.
My head falls back against the headboard as she gives me a gentle squeeze.
Her touch feels incredible. Those delicate hands that can create such beautiful, delicious pastries now wrapped around my cock with perfect pressure.
I slip my hand between her legs, pushing her sleep shorts aside. My fingers find her already wet and swollen for me. The knowledge that she wants this, wants me, as badly as I want her fills me with emotion.
“Put that sweet pussy on my cock,” I command, my voice harsh with need. “Show me how much you want it.”
The words make her shiver, her pupils dilating until only a thin ring of green remains. She loves it when I talk to her like this. Her submission is a gift, one I’ll never take for granted.
I watch with hungry eyes as Naomi rises up on her knees, her small hand still wrapped around my cock. The anticipation makes my breath catch as she lines me up with her entrance. When she slowly sinks down, taking me inch by inch into her tight heat, I groan.
Watching my thick cock disappear into her perfect pussy never gets old. The sight of her stretched around me, accepting all of me, makes something almost feral roar to life in my chest.
“That’s it, beautiful girl,” I praise as she takes me to the hilt. “So perfect for me. Look how well you fit on my cock.”
A pretty blush spreads across her cheeks at my words, but her eyes stay locked on mine as she starts to move. She sets a slow, torturous pace and my hands tighten on her hips. She moves up and down, grinding against me on each downstroke in a way that makes her gasp.
The violence of the night fades with each roll of her hips. Here, buried deep inside her willing body, I find peace. Her soft moans from my whispered praise wash away the darkness, replacing it with something pure and good.
“You feel so good around me, lovely,” I tell her, meaning every word. “So wet and tight. Made for my cock.”
She whimpers, her inner muscles clenching around me as I strip the T-shirt over her head. Her pace increases, those perfect tits bouncing with each movement. I can’t resist leaning forward to capture one peaked nipple in my mouth, sucking hard enough to make her cry out.
The sound goes straight to my cock, making me throb inside her. Her fingers tangle in my hair, holding me to her breast as she continues to ride me.
Each stroke brings us closer together, deeper into this connection that defies explanation.
Images of a future life with her flash through my mind. I see it all: our marriage, our home, our bakery—our forever.