Chapter 49
Chapter Forty-Nine
Killian
“And that is how to properly cut a man’s tongue out.” I hold up the muscle in my hand like a trophy. My other hand holds the blood-drenched knife like an instrument when a doctor is operating.
My unit looks terrified, not because of what I did, but because of my ease and enjoyment of doing it. These aren’t men who give their loyalty out of respect; it’s given out of fear. I learned that early on.
Beside me is a Russian on his knees who was captured. He heard something he shouldn’t have, and I cut his tongue out and broke his hands so he wouldn’t be able to communicate.
“Tommy.” I direct my attention to him. “You brought him in. What should we do to him now?”
“He’s been mutilated. Kill the poor bastard,” Tommy replies.
“Wouldn’t that be easy?” I chuck the bloodied tongue at him.
“What will our enemies and allies think if we just put people out of their misery?” I challenge.
No one says a word. Tommy is horrified as the tongue hits his chest then falls to the floor.
“Pick it up,” I command him. “Send it over to whoever he serves. If the Russians retaliate, you cut off a limb and send it over. And you keep doing it until there’s nothing left of him.
” I point to the man passed out on the floor in a pool of his own blood.
“Do you all need a lesson on how to dismember a body?” When I see him shake his head, I drop the knife onto the metal table. “Now it’s time for a nice cold beer.”
“Killian,” Mickey’s voice crackles over the phone. “Nico is heading toward you. Are you able to handle it on your own?”
I take a long, measured sip of my whiskey, letting the warmth spread through me. “I don’t have a choice, do I?” I reply, my voice steady but laced with the weight of the situation.
“Are the Costellos still in cahoots with the Russians?” he presses with concern.
“Now that they have the girl back, it’s only natural they would pull back,” I respond, glancing around the dimly lit bar, taking in the scent of aged wood and spilled drinks.
He huffs with frustration. “Have you thought about taking her again? It would be a strategic move.”
I chuckle softly, though there’s no real humor in it. “She’s a bit much to handle,” I reply, recalling the blurred line between business and pleasure. “I don’t have the energy to deal with Nico, the Russians, and an Andretti.”
Suddenly the bell above the bar door jingles, breaking my focus. I hear Donal’s voice, a mix of sarcasm and surprise. “Are you lost? The nail salon is up the block.”
Turning around, my breath catches in my throat.
Despite the bright daylight flooding the bar, there is Liliana, dressed in a rose-colored silk slip dress clinging to her curves, accentuating every graceful move she makes.
Her red heels click confidently against the wooden floor, and she’s lit up with diamonds, glimmering on her ears, wrapping around her wrist, and glinting at her neck.
Every man in the bar is momentarily transfixed by her presence, but she seems oblivious to their stares; her entire focus zeroes in on me.
Ignoring Donal’s quip and the catcalls that erupt from the crowd, she saunters toward me, her hips swaying with an alluring rhythm that holds my attention captive.
She doesn’t need to utter a single word to convey what she wants.
The unspoken connection between us crackles in the air.
“Clear the bar,” I state, my voice firm and commanding, as I watch her approach, sensing the inevitable clash of chaos and attraction. My unit looks around, unsure of what’s going on.
“Should the next class session be on how to remove eyeballs?” I shout, my voice echoing through the nearly empty bar, though my attention remains fixed on Liliana. I can see her chest rising and falling steadily, a rhythm that intrigues me even more than my own bravado.
As my words linger in the air, the atmosphere shifts dramatically.
The patrons scatter, their chatter fading into silence; even my bartender hastily retreats to the back room.
Once I’m certain we are alone, I lean back against the polished wood of the bar, a smirk playing on my lips.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” I ask, raising my glass of whiskey slightly, the amber liquid catching the dim light.
Liliana swallows hard, her knuckles turning white as she tightens her grip around the handle of her purse. “I’ve come to make a deal with you,” she states, her voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of tension.
“With me?” I arch an eyebrow, feigning surprise, though I’m already piecing together the potential layers of her proposition.
She nods firmly, her eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that suggests she’s not here to play games. “You men meet to make deals all the time. Who says women can’t do the same?”
I let out a hearty laugh, the sound reverberating in the stillness of the room. “Alessio sent you, didn’t he?” I lean forward, the distance between us narrowing. “Tell him to stop being a coward. Sending a woman to try and make up for his lack of loyalty? Pathetic.”
“I’m not here on Alessio’s behalf,” she replies, her voice unwavering. “I’m here for me.”
This revelation catches me off guard, and I can’t help but feel a flicker of intrigue.
Rising to my feet, I place my glass down on the bar with a deliberate clink, then slowly pull out my black leather gloves, sliding them on with a practiced ease as I walk around her, my movements deliberate and predatory.
“What are you—” she begins, but her words falter as I position myself directly behind her, standing close enough that she can feel the heat radiating off my body.
“You think men negotiate without ensuring there’s no threat?
” I respond, my voice low and gravelly. The gloves aren’t just for theatrics; I’ve framed someone before, using their prints against them.
I won’t be played in my own game. As my hands brush around her waist, she gasps, the sound sending a rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins.
“I’m not a threat,” she insists, though she allows my hands to linger, exploring the contours of her body. “I don’t have any weapons if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Can’t be too sure,” I murmur, my hand gliding between her legs, eliciting another sharp gasp. “That’s your greatest weapon,” I whisper softly in her ear. “You’d be surprised what else that thing can hold inside.”
She turns to face me, her hands resting on my chest, her touch electrifying. “Don’t blame a woman for having a place a man can’t resist being inside of.”
My pulse quickens, a primal response to her words.
I take a step back, retreating to the bar to grab my drink, the whiskey feeling warm in my hand as I navigate to one of the small tables.
I pull out a chair and sit down, the leather creaking beneath my weight.
“Okay, let’s hear it. What are you putting on the table? ”
“We all want Nico Vidalia dead,” she states matter-of-factly, her gaze unwavering. “And you need the Russians out of Providence.”
“Obviously.” I take a measured sip of my whiskey, letting the warmth spread through me.
“I can help,” she says, a hint of confidence creeping into her tone.
I hold back a laugh, the absurdity of the suggestion almost too much to bear. “With what? Wardrobe? Although I’ll admit, you can run in heels. Do you have any other special abilities?”
“You think you have everyone fooled,” she replies, gracefully swaying toward me, her silk dress hugging her curves in a way that’s both enticing and dangerous. My arms stretch along the chair’s armrest, the whiskey glass dangling precariously from my fingertips.
She delicately places her fingertip at the edge of my knuckle, tracing a slow, deliberate line up my arm, as if she were mapping out something intricate and hidden.
“You aren’t a simple man, Killian,” she says, her voice smooth and confident, each word laced with an unshakeable certainty.
“I mean, if you were, why in the world would you be wearing a suit that costs seven thousand?” Her finger glides up to my shoulder, then moves fluidly from one to the other as she elegantly circles around me, each step measured and purposeful.
“I could swear this is a Zegna, although I know they don’t actually make three-piece suits. ”
Her finger continues its journey, trailing down my arm, and by the time it reaches my knuckle, she has positioned herself directly in front of me, standing right between my legs, an intoxicating proximity that sends a shiver down my spine.
“Which means this is a custom design,” she continues, her gaze never wavering from mine.
“And that’s definitely not cheap leather on your hands either,” she adds, her eyes flickering down to my wrist adorned with an expensive watch that glints in the low light.
“You are just like every other man in power.”
With an effortless motion, she snatches the cup from my hand, her fingers brushing against mine as she takes a swig of the remaining whiskey, the amber liquid swirling dangerously close to the rim.
I can see the way her throat works as she swallows, and I’m captivated, transfixed by the sight.
It’s almost as if I can feel the warmth of the whiskey sliding down her throat, coating her chest and settling into her stomach.
The simple act of drinking suddenly becomes something profoundly intimate and arousing.
With a dramatic flourish, she tosses the glass aside; it clinks against the floor, but I barely register the sound, my focus solely on her.
We lock eyes, the air thick with unspoken tension as she waits, silent, for my response.
“Why are you here, little girl?” I ask, my voice low and steady, a challenge laced within the question.