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Poppy Murphy.
Fuckme.
When I claimed her when she was only fifteen, she was nothing but a debt. A one-up on her bastard of a father. Yes, incredibly rare, but I had no intentions of using her for anything other than a pawn in my long-term game. I’m a cruel bastard, but I’m not a sick one.
But in just four years she’s aged like the fine whiskey in my hand. She’s even rarer; a completely different kind of artifact. That porcelain skin… it’ll break under my heavy touch. That tumbling copper hair, shimmering like a penny, and those emerald eyes that give away all of her secrets.
And when she slipped off that robe…
She has the grace and elegance of a Victorian queen, but the curves of a 1950‘s pin-up. My two favorite time periods rolled into one.
I pour another drink, one to sip this time.
And the fact she remains untouched… my cock prickles again with excitement.
She’spriceless.
My only regret is that I didn’t collect my wares sooner. But then again, I wouldn’t have gotten to enjoy the surprise on her delicate face had I showed up on her eighteenth birthday.
I guess I’ve always had a passion for the eccentric.
I’m staring at the empty bottom of my tumbler when there’s a sharp knock on the door.
There’s only one man on God’s green earth that would dare knock on my door with such force.
“Enter,” I grunt, tugging at my suit pants to hide my bulge.
Antoin flies through the threshold and slams his palms against my desk. “We have a big fuckin’ problem.”
“Careful,” I growl, swatting his hands away. “This desk belonged to Roosevelt. It didn’t sit in the Oval Office for five fucking Presidencies for an oaf from Boston to break it.”
Antoin ignores my brief history lesson. “One of the Bratnovs is dead.”
I take another swig of whiskey and swill it around my mouth, pretending to be lost in thought. “The Bratnovs…” I mutter, “Hmm, name rings a bell.”
“Don’t play games with me Lorc, it’s way too fuckin’ early and I’m way too fuckin’ stressed.”
Of course I know who the Bratnovs are. The Russian mob has run New York City for decades, and we’ve had a treaty with them for just as long. They supply Boston’s clubs, strip joints, and bars with enough party drugs to keep revelers juiced up every weekend, and we take a heavy cut of the profit.
“Donnacha said you ordered the hit.”
Donnacha Quinn, you fucking snake,I think to myself.I pay you to shoot bullets, not run your mouth.A sigh escapes my lungs as I stand and move over to the window. In the reflection, I can see Antoin scowling at the back of my head.
“Oh, I remember now,” I drawl. “Yes, I did. The kid was on our territory.”
“He was on arun.Donnacha shot him right outside Mickey’s strip joint.”
“Yeah. I guess I forgot to tell you. I’m cutting the treaty. No more dirty Bratnovs on our turf.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Antoin hisses, thumping his fist against my desk again. I decide to let it slide this time. “You’re gonna start a war, Lorc.”
Good. Something to excite my cold, dead heart.
“Then let’s go to war,” I say simply, striding to the drink’s cabinet to fill up my glass. “Drink?”
Antoin eyeballs my tumbler, disgust curling on his lips. “It’s not even eight a.m.”
I ignore his jibe and fill my glass to the brim. “Boston isourturf. Those Russian roaches shouldn’t be supplyingourbusinesses.”
