Chapter Twenty-Nine
Killian
It’s late on Friday night when I drag my ass to the basement of a high-end nightclub to meet with Carter. He’s probably the closest thing to a friend I have, considering he’s the only person I’ll willingly spend time with outside of work hours.
Aside from Lyra. These days, I can’t seem to get enough of that infuriatingly beautiful woman. Which is a problem, considering I only have just over a week left with her before our deal is over.
I could extend the timeline, of course, but what would be the point?
I’d be wasting my time alongside hers, since nothing substantial could ever come of us.
I require a very specific woman to fit into my life, and Lyra will never be that woman.
She’ll never be quiet or demure. She may be poised, but she also radiates a curiosity and power that tells me she’ll be notoriously difficult to manage.
Men in my circles have wives for two purposes; arm candy and procreation. Lyra would never just be arm candy, and I’m certain she’d rather cut out her uterus with a rusty spoon than carry my heir.
In short, she is not worth the hassle. And yet… the thought of only having a little bit of time left with her is bothersome. Extremely bothersome.
Fortunately, meeting up with Carter provides an excellent distraction.
The bouncer waves me right through the VIP entrance, recognizing me, and I make my way down a carpet-laden staircase that leads into the most exclusive room of the club—and the room known for hosting orgies and kinky play-parties alongside the occasional intimate gathering for a billionaire or mafia crew.
Carter reclines on a loveseat, arms slung over the back, with two girls sitting on either side of him.
His legs are spread and his pants are down, and a third girl is on her knees in front of him, eagerly slurping away on his cock, head bobbing up and down.
Carter looks more bored than interested in getting his dick sucked, but he’s not protesting.
“Killian,” he greets, jerking his chin up. He idly reaches over with one hand and shoves one of the girl’s shirt down, freeing her tits. He pinches her nipple, rolling it between his fingers as he regards me with a thoughtful expression. “We have a bit of a problem.”
“What kind of problem?” I ask, glancing at an empty armchair across from him. I wonder how many STDs the seat has seen.
“None,” Carter says, reading my mind. A nifty trick he’s developed over years of working with some of the seediest individuals in the world and constantly anticipating someone to put a hit on him. “Professional, medical-grade cleaners come in here every night. Stop being a fucking snob and sit.”
“I’m new-money; snobbery is part of the package,” I comment drily, but lower myself into the seat nonetheless.
Carter chuckles. “New money or not, you’ve got more liquid assets than most of the old-money families in this city. Combined.”
“Most of them in the world, as well,” I correct, lifting a shoulder. “Hard work pays off.”
“So does the occasional hostile takeover.”
I nod my agreement. “What’s the problem? Is John still kicking up a fuss?”
“No, though he is now on my kill-list. He tried to air an article through one of the reporters he’s been working with, one that’d have implicated both of us in taking over his company. Nothing catastrophic, but enough to piss me off.” He glances down at the girl between his legs. “Suck harder.”
She comes up for air and drags her palms up his thighs; he uses his free hand to fist her hair and wrench her head back. “No touching. The only part of you permitted to come in contact with any part of me is your lips, and with my cock. Do your job or I’ll find someone else to pay.”
“Hookers, Carter? Really?” I ask, upper lip curling. “Have you already scared the entire female population of NYC away? Now you have to resort to paying for it?” I tap my chin thoughtfully. “Or are you that bad of a fuck, and rumors have begun making their rounds?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Carter says, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m simply trying to avoid lawsuits or scandals.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Hookers are not a good way to avoid scandal.”
“They’re escorts, and they’re more than willing.” He shoots a devilish smirk to the girl who’s nipple he’s still playing with. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”
“Yes,” she moans, arching her back.
“You want one?” Carter asks me.
I pause to consider it, raking my gaze over the barely-clothed women. A few weeks ago, I’d have gone for it—it’d spare me the booty-call or the workout for my right hand to get my needs met. Now, however…
The women have the wrong hair, wrong eyes, and wrong body. The only person I want on my lap or kneeling at my feet is a petite, brown-haired and blue-grey-eyed beauty with a heart-shaped ass and perfect, perky little tits.
“No, thank you,” I say. “I presume this is more than just a social call. Shall we move somewhere more private to discuss business?”
Carter waves a dismissive hand. “They’re under iron-clad NDA’s. If they talk, they’ve signed contracts that give me permission to put them in a prison of my choosing for the rest of their lives.”
“That doesn’t sound legal.”
“It’s legally binding, and the sentence will be carried out long before they step a toe in court—if I’m forced to exercise any punishments.”
I lean back with a sigh. “Do you plan on getting to the point any time soon, or should I settle in for more of this useless banter?”
“I’ll get to the point.” Carter leans forward. “Silas Cornell.”
My jaw tenses. He’s been quiet since I sent him a copy of Lyra’s sex tape—a very short snippet, just enough to get him off my back without giving him the really interesting bits. “What has he been up to?” I growl.
“He’s been sniffing around you and me. It seems he really doesn’t like you, and he’s figured that since we’re close, taking me down alongside yourself would be a nice benefit.
Apparently, he’s forgotten he has skin in our game, as well.
” Carter’s face falls into a blank mask.
“If you don’t get him in line, he’ll be more useful to me dead than alive. ”
My lips thin. Silas’s death would be no skin off my back—in fact, I’d very much enjoy watching him be slowly tortured to death—but he’s part of The Eyes.
If he dies, I’ll be the first suspect, which might cause unneeded tension.
I have a strong position in the organization and I have plenty of respect from even the most senior members, but I’m not infallible.
I’m still held to the same code as everyone else; members are strictly off-limits for killing.
The only exception to the rule is when a member tries to kill or expose another—then, The Eyes usually gives permission for the aggrieved party to kill the aggressor.
That’s not to say that no member ever puts out a hit on another, but it has to be done with extreme discretion, and the understanding that The Eyes take the eye for an eye commandment very seriously, and very literally.
If anyone were to suspect I killed Silas Cornell, my head would be on the chopping block next.
I’d rather not forfeit my life now, when I’ve finally gotten everything I want.
Well, maybe not everything, but more than I ever thought I’d have, and certainly more than I deserve.
“Killing him will cause problems for me,” I tell Carter bluntly. “Don’t do it.”
I don’t know what the fuck Silas is playing at, but I certainly intend to find out, and put a stop to it.
Maybe he’s tired after years of me playing with his life and his money—maybe he just doesn’t like me.
Our rivalry has had its moments of fondness, and we’ve even helped each other out on occasion, but at the end of the day, Silas sees me as the dirt on his shoe—as the kid from the wrong side of the tracks who took his business from him.
I see him as a nepo baby who had an empire handed to him but couldn’t hold onto it because his greed got the best of him.
If he were smart, he’d have adopted my business practices to truly compete with me, but he still wants to mark up goods at obscene costs and screw the poor people of the world out of money they don’t even have in the first place.
I’ve found a far more effective way of emptying people’s pockets.
Carter yawns. “I don’t give a shit about something causing problems to you. I give a shit if things cause problems for me. And, when things cause problems for me, I prefer to kill them and be done with it.”
I meet Carter’s eyes, letting him see the severity in my gaze. “Killing Silas will cause more problems than you’re capable of cleaning up, and it’ll tie my hands behind my back, preventing me from helping you.”
Carter smirks. “Aw, protective of me? I had no idea you were falling in love with me. Just don’t start chasing me around with roses.”
“I’m protective of the money your company makes me.” Castell Luxury Group accounts for a significant chunk of my yearly income. Not as much as Helixon Biopharma, but nothing to turn my nose up at, either. “What is Silas looking into, anyways?”
“No fucking clue,” Carter says. “He hired two guys to follow me, and a third to break into my computer. When I caught ‘em and made them sing like fucking canaries, they coughed up that you were also being looked into. Silas isn’t having you followed, but he is employing people to break into your accounts.”
So Silas is breaking rules of The Eyes, as well. Members are generally required to leave other members to their devices. Something small, like me tanking Silas’s stocks, could be overlooked. But him hiring a hacker to break into my tech? That’s an escalation.
Not a strong enough defense to justify killing him, but a defense nonetheless.
What the fuck is he up to? We have some business interests together. He has to know that going after me could only hurt him.
“Am I going to need to call in a favor to keep you on a leash?” I ask Carter.
He bares his teeth at me. “Woof.”
“If you could try to act human for a moment, I’d appreciate an answer in the English language. I understand it’s hard for you to pretend to be a person and not a goddamn demon, but do me the courtesy of attempting to.”
“Courtesy?” Carter repeats, scowling. “Sounds middle-class.”
“Carter. Do not get rid of Silas.”
Carter’s scowl remains as he stares at me, thinking. He’s still playing with one girl’s nipple while forcing the other’s head farther down on his cock. The third woman is making out with his neck like it’s an Olympic sport.
“Fine,” Carter sighs. “I won’t. Yet.”
“Tell me before you do.”
“You’re no fun. The surprise is what makes things so enjoyable.”
“I’m sure.” I stand up, smoothing down my tie. “Keep me in the loop.”
“You’re not staying?” Carter asks, eyebrows rising. “Have a hot date with that reporter of yours?”
“I have a fuckload of work to get through. You might consider trying the same thing.”
“Hey, I am working,” Carter says. He nods at the girl between his legs. “It’s hard work, too.”
“Try not to catch an STD. HIV wouldn’t be good for your complexion.”
“Spend a lot of time thinking of my complexion, do you? Is a proposal forthcoming?”
I leave before Carter can irritate me into killing him. It’d be unfortunate to lose him as an ally and occasional friend.
My phone starts buzzing as soon as I get into my car. I recognize the number—it belongs to the man whose services I utilized to carry out the hit requested by The Eyes—so I pick up.
“Yes?”
“Job’s done.” The man on the other end of the phone, Greyson Blackwell, sounds vaguely impatient, as if he has better things to do with his time than get a multi six-figure check from me. “Do you require proof? I can have the head sent to you on ice.”
“Greyson,” a woman says—moans?—in the background. “Please!”
“My apologies,” Greyson says into the phone. I feel my eyebrows inch up—is he playing with someone as we speak? Since when do the Nighthawks—the single best organization of assassins in the country, possibly the world—spend their free time with women?
“Do you want to be punished? Is that what’s going on here?” Greyson barks, though his tone is muted. “You will wait another half hour now. If you speak again, you won’t like what I do.”
A moment later, he’s back on the line. “Would you like the head on ice?”
“Photographs would do just fine.”
Greyson pauses. “Alright. They’ll be in your inbox in five minutes.”
“I appreciate it. How was the job?”
“Much easier than I anticipated.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Does that mean you’ll cut the cost?”
Greyson chuckles. “That’s funny. Cain didn’t tell me you’re a funny man.”
Cain, the new leader of the Nighthawks, is an absolute sociopath and someone I wouldn’t trust to polish my shoes—he’d plant an explosive in them if he were paid well enough—but he’s extremely good at what he does.
Rumor has it, he’s reinstated an ancient tradition of the Nighthawks which enables every assassin to choose a woman for themselves.
A woman they capture, bring to their fortress, train, and keep.
That could be who was calling out Greyson’s name.
I don’t care enough to inquire, though the idea of taking a certain someone captive and training them up to be what I want them to be is tempting.
No. Lyra isn’t worthy of me.
Or maybe you’re the one who’s not worthy of her…
“Pleasure doing business with you,” Greyson says amiably, though he sounds distracted.
“Was it?” I inquire.
“No, not particularly. On that note, I have shit to do. Anytime you want to part with another 250k for a hit, give me a call.” He hangs up without further ado.
The car pulls up in front of my apartment, and the driver promptly opens the door for me. I gaze at the skyscraper I’ve called home for many years, feeling a pit form in my soul. Even though I haven’t had Lyra here often, I don’t like the idea of staying here without her.
Tough shit. I’ll fuck her every free moment I get next week, and that ought to be enough for me to be able to let her go.
I hope.