Eleven
Ten
Elias
Are You Dead Yet? – Children Of Bodom
I sip my latte as I weave my Porsche through the streets of Bridgeport, feeling the small buzz of caffeine through my veins. I rarely drink coffee. The caffeine crash that follows is something I can’t afford. But I needed a reason to see her.
After I got home from Delirium last night, I went straight into my office and pulled up the security feed of Headstone, but of course, she wasn’t there.
It was two in the morning by the time the cops finished searching Delirium.
They didn’t find anything. That bar is compliant with every code in the state, and even some from out of state.
But of course, we had to show them everything.
I knew the guy who was searching us, he’s been assigned to one of our cases before. He knows enough about what’s going on beneath the city that this tip was bullshit, but it didn’t stop him from looking under every fucking liquor bottle like a god damn bloodhound.
I cursed them the entire ride home, and cursed them even more when I couldn’t see her on my security feed.
I was tempted to watch the whole performance again through the footage.
I was halfway through the performance before my dick was straining painfully in my slacks.
I relented and stroked my cock right there in my office, finishing by painting a freeze frame of her cowl-covered face with my come.
I haven’t jacked off over a photo since I was in high school. What the fuck was I doing?
I shut off the monitor and took myself to bed. But she plagued my mind all night. I had to see her.
I didn’t plan on going to the coffee shop today.
But my dick was thinking faster than my brain, and I was in the car before I even knew what I was doing.
She’s like the brightest flame, and I’m a moth drawn straight to her, ready to burn in her heat.
When I saw her this morning, there was something…
bleak about her that wasn’t there last night.
I make a mental note to check with Finn later.
I don’t like not knowing things, especially about her.
Whatever weighed on her, she tried not to let it show.
The way she didn’t back down from me made something primal shift inside me.
I wonder how far that defiance runs?
As I come to a stop at the stoplight, I can’t help but picture her perfect fucking face staring at me, her plump lips slightly open with her hair tied up in a messy bun, giving me the perfect view of the column of her neck.
I barely contain a groan as I imagine kissing my way down.
And fuck, when her fingers brushed mine? I could have come on the spot.
What is this girl doing to me?
HQ comes into view at the end of the street.
The tall, glass-covered building stretches high into the sky.
It’s not the tallest building in the city, but it’s close.
Fifty-two floors to be exact. Not all of them are for Circle business—that’s mainly the top sixteen floors.
The rest are various bars, restaurants, and stores that I rent out.
Gareth kept hounding me to put the extra floors to use to “protect our image.” It took three years for me to relent.
But the fucker was right, those businesses have kept The Circle out of the public eye. I’ll never tell him that, though.
Pulling up at HQ, I adjust myself in my slacks before getting out of the car and giving my keys to the valet.
He shifts his gaze to the floor as he takes the keys from my hand.
I walk through the white, clinical lobby and make my way toward the elevator.
The security detectors scream as I walk through them like they always do—but no one stops me.
“Good morning, Mr. Monroe,” one guard says to me as he inclines his head.
Stopping inside the elevator, I scan my fingerprint and press the top-floor button. The soft whirring of the motor settles my thoughts, smoothing out the last of the earlier tension. As the doors open, I walk out into Circle HQ.
It looks the same as it always does—white walls, computers with far too many monitors lining the benches.
The room is always darker than the outside world, thanks to the heavily tinted bulletproof glass in the windows.
I employ dozens of people for this part of my business—mainly hackers.
This floor is specifically dedicated to my higher-risk work.
No one looks up from their screen when I walk in.
Good.
My shoes echo through the space as I make my way to the boardroom. I adjust my cufflinks and steel my spine before pushing the handle down.
Eight men circle the table, and most of them—except for one—sit up straighter as I close the door behind me.
I make sure to look at each of them as I make my way to the head of the table.
Three of the men are the leaders of the various criminal gangs that operate in Bridgeport, each of them joined by their second in command.
Gareth and Cain sit to the left and right of me, Cain with his feet on the table, twirling a butterfly knife in his hands, and Gareth with his fingers poised over his laptop keyboard.
Chairs shift as I reach my place, spines stiffen, and bodies lean forward as I slowly lower myself into the chair.
“Nice of you to join us, Boss,” Gunnar, the leader of The Raiders, scoffs.
Gunnar is a greasy man. His salt and pepper hair sticks to his shiny forehead as a bead of sweat rolls down his face and onto his ill-fitting suit.
A slow grin curls up on his face. He’s been in the underbelly of this city longer than I’ve been alive.
He likes to think he’s the one pulling the strings here, but all it does is paint a bright red fucking target on his back.
“When you make yourself as powerful as you think you are, Gunnar, then you can control my schedule,” I reply casually, taking a cigarette out of my pocket and lighting it.
Gunnar’s face reddens, but he wisely chooses to keep his mouth shut. His second, Ivan, wrings his hands in his lap, his knee bouncing restlessly.
“If I may, Boss,” Trip chimes in, hand slightly raised.
Trip is the president of the Raptors MC.
He’s the youngest in the room after their last president passed away.
The old man saw something in Trip, so he bypassed all the older members and made Trip president.
He’s the only person at this table, aside from my two men, that I feel I can truly count on.
He’s got a good head on his shoulders, but he’s wasted in this life.
He should be anywhere but here, but I guess that’s what happens when you’re practically born into this life.
“The Raptors have doubled shipments to Spain this month, and we look set to double again next month,” he goes on, sitting back in his seat with a lazy grin on his face.
“And the Kings have tripled our storage capacity to accommodate the weapons moving in and out,” Michael, the leader of The Kings, says as he shuffles some papers towards me.
Aside from me, Michael is the only other man at this table with the power and sway to actually run this city.
After The Circle took Bridgeport, he was the first to swear loyalty to me.
No power struggle, no undercutting, just plain respect from one boss to another.
He’s supported every decision I’ve made since then with no pushback.
Plus, I can actually count on him to get shit done.
Aside from the Circle and Elias Monroe, the Kings are the ones who strike fear into people.
They’ve been in this city for decades, an old-school Italian mob-style group.
They were a household name even when I was growing up.
Gunnar scoffs in the corner.
“Something to say, old man?” Cain asks from beside me, his brow quirked as he flicks his butterfly knife open with force.
Gunnar pauses for a moment as if to consider what he’s saying.
But somewhere in his smooth brain, he decides to speak anyway.
“This is fucking pointless,” he says, arms flying into the air as he rises from his seat.
“We need to focus on drug distribution. It’s best for steady cash flow.
Dope addicts always want more.” He adds with a sly grin towards Ivan, who avoids all eye contact.
“It’s simple: we make the dope and distribute it, and you get to claim your blood money from it in your taxes.
I’d have thought a man of your… financial status would agree, Elias. ”
My fingers tap on the table while my knee bounces underneath it. It’s not the first time he’s challenged my authority, but I’m already walking a tightrope after seeing Kat earlier today. My fingers twitch, and I take a few breaths to calm the storm swirling inside me.
“Are you losing your memory in your old age, Gunnar?” Cain asks, his feet firmly on the floor as he leans across the table.
“Everyone at this table signed an agreement when we took you under our wing to remove drugs from the street. I know that you have an IQ level similar to the temperature of this room, Gunnar, but I thought you could at least read.”
“The Raiders don’t have any fucking money, boy!” He slams his fists on the table as his face turns impossibly crimson. “This is the only way I can make sure my men get paid. Half of our fucking cash goes to you!”
His words hang in the air, his wet breath the only sound in the room. I take a deep inhale, drawing his eyes from Cain’s to mine.
“Gunnar, I must be mishearing you,” I say to the now silent room. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that sounds like an admission.”
While Gunnar’s eyes hold against my own, the rest of the men drop theirs to the table.
“I want the tax dropped, Elias,” Gunnar responds. “Either drop the tax, or we sell junk.” He folds his arms with a nauseating, shit-eating grin on his face.
You could hear a pin drop from another state in this room. My own pulse pounds in my ears. All eyes are on me. I take a long drag of my cigarette before stubbing it out in the glass bowl—the soft hiss of the ember being snuffed out fuels me.
“I’m sorry, Gunnar,” I say as I place my hands on the table and stand from my chair. A flash of confusion on Gunnar’s face quickly morphs into satisfaction. “I’m sorry you felt important enough to make demands at this table. Hopefully, Ivan learns from your mistakes.”
His face drops as I pull my pistol from my holster, aim, and pull the trigger. My ears ring as the bullet finds its home—right between Gunnar’s eyes.
Blood and brain matter splash against the clinically white wall behind him, dripping down and pooling on the floor.
The sound of his massive body hitting the ground is the only sound in the room.
Nobody so much as flinches. The only ones who react at all are Gareth and Cain, who have satisfied smirks covering their faces.
“I never liked that slimy bastard anyway,” Cain says, his voice cutting through the silent room as he kicks his feet back up on the table and resumes flicking his knife.
I carefully place the gun back into its holster underneath my suit jacket as I walk over to where the former leader of The Raiders lies. I reach out my hand and rest it on Ivan’s shoulder, ignoring the twitch that wracks his body at the contact.
“You’ve just been promoted. Get the drugs off my street and do better than he did. Or it’ll be a bullet in your skull next,” I warn, my voice lethally calm. I don’t wait for a response before looking to Cain. “Clean this up.”
I don’t look back as I leave the boardroom.
Fuck. If men are starting to test me, I’ve been too lenient. I need to remind them who Elias Monroe really is.