by Layla Reyne
Chris took another swallow of the stout and repositioned himself, back to the bar, elbows resting on its rounded edge. He slowly panned the dance floor, giving Holt the requested look. It was hell on Chris, not focusing all his attention on locating Hawes, but the careful survey gave him the opportunity to locate several other familiar faces in the crowd—the Madigan captains from that morning and those he’d only ever seen on his office wall. They blended in expertly. If Chris didn’t know any better, he’d think they were like the rest of the hipsters filling the club, young, rich, and out for a night on the town. But knowing what he did, Chris recognized their positioning for what it was—a Madigan operative on each exit and one in each quadrant of the dance floor.
And where the four corners met in the center of the room, Helena and Avery were putting on a show. Dancing close but with enough club light between them to be decent, barely. They moved in sync, with each other and the music, and their sexy show was drawing eyes from all over the club, including from Patrick McKennie.
“Van Gogh, Degas,” Holt said, “you’ve caught the Irishman’s eye. Up the ante.”
The taller Avery draped her long brown arms over Helena’s shoulders, bare above Helena’s leather bustier, while Helena dove her hands into the back pockets of Avery’s jeans, hauling her closer. Ante upped, indeed, and so much for decency. And so much for McKennie’s date, assuming that’s who the woman was in the booth next to him. His gaze was locked on Avery and Helena, eyes widening as Avery wove her fingers into Helena’s long blonde hair, tilted back her head, and nuzzled her neck. That was the tipping point for McKennie, who brushed off his date and slid out of his booth. He wove through the crowd toward Helena and Avery, exactly as they’d intended. Chris hid his smile behind another drink from his bottle.
“Nine o’clock,” Holt said.
Chris shifted his attention toward the wall of windows. Antonin Volz had his beefy arms slung over the shoulders of two girls, neither of whom looked a day over twenty-two, barely old enough to be in here at all. And definitely not old enough to realize the level of asshole they were flirting with. One of Volz’s soldiers opened the terrace door, ushering Volz and his unsuspecting prey outside.
“Cézanne, Monet, you’re up as soon as Matisse intervenes.” On cue, Volz’s rearguard got tangled up with Sue on the dance floor, which gave Alice and Victoria the chance to duck out after Antonin’s party.
“Where’s Rembra—” Chris didn’t finish his question. Didn’t need to. He’d swung his gaze forward and found the man he’d been searching for. Finally. Only he suspected everyone else had found him too. Dressed in combat boots, dark jeans, and a black tailored suit jacket, no shirt on underneath, Hawes slowly descended the stairs from the mezzanine. Like he wanted every set of eyes on him, like he owned the fucking place. The king in all his glory, no matter what anyone said. Top strands moussed for maximum volume, the sharp lines of his face were accentuated, as was the blue of his eyes, practically glowing in the club lights. Beautiful and dangerous, the picture of control, in his movements, his appearance, and his sway over the room.
Chris nearly choked on the need to shove his way through the crowd and meet Hawes at the bottom of the stairs, to claim the man as his, to give him the release from the control that Chris knew was costing Hawes so much when he had so little left to give. It ached—in his gut, in his chest, in his dick—to be even this far away from him.
“Stay at the bar,” Holt said, as if reading his thoughts. The surprising snap of command in his tone shocked Chris back the step he’d taken toward Hawes. “Get it together.”
Cursing, Chris drowned his instincts with the rest of his beer. “That’s not exactly discreet.”
“He’s not meant to be. He’s the distraction.”
Fuck. Chris recalled what Hawes had said to him last week after the auction: “If that’s what it took to keep my family and city—you—safe.” He’d been willing to sacrifice himself then, same as he was willing to do now. So the rest of his team could do their work, and so he could prove to Remy Pak that he could still control a room. She was leaning over the mezzanine rail, watching as Hawes snaked through the crowd, pretending to eat up the attention, to respond to the hands on him and the propositions whispered in his ear. Hawes smiled indulgently at every suitor, and moved each one exactly where he wanted them, disguising his intentions with dips and sways to the music. Moving, with each interaction, closer to Ferriello’s gathering. He caught the eye of two of Ferriello’s men, who after a quick word with their boss, started toward Hawes.
“They’re on him,” Chris said, setting the empty bottle on the bar.
“Just wait,” Holt warned. “Remember, he’s the distraction.”
And boy did Hawes play up his role, drawing Ferriello’s men in with hungry eyes and a sexy smirk. Chris couldn’t say if their initial interest had been business or pleasure, but Hawes’s confidence, the sex appeal rolling off him, made the latter impossible for Ferriello’s men to resist. Positioning one on either side of him, Hawes danced with the two men, dividing his attention equally, keeping them both on a string. Leaning his body into the one who wrapped an arm around his waist, under the flaps of his jacket, while turning his face toward the other, who was grinding on his hip. Keeping each soldier’s holstered weapon on the side facing away from him and out toward the crowd, where a Madigan captain could quickly divest them. It was masterful, it was frustrating, and it was sexy as hell.
“Jesus Christ,” Chris muttered, rotating back to the bar and flagging down the bartender. “Something stronger.”
She smirked, sensing his conflict as any good bartender would do. Or she’d seen him adjusting himself. “You were the hottest piece of ass in here,” she said, setting the generous shot of amber liquid in front of him, “until he walked in.”
“No shit.” Chris tossed back the shot of whiskey and let the burn refocus him.
“Feel better?” Holt asked.
“Marginally.”
“Good. Now show me something else. Status on the other targets.”
After a quick check on Hawes, who still had the undivided attention of Ferriello’s guards, Chris searched out Avery and Helena. They were dancing on either side of McKennie, kissing over his shoulder until McKennie insisted on getting in on the action. They took turns kissing him, and by the time Helena was done with him, he was wobbly. And not just in the near-coital kind of way.
“They gave him something.”
“To make him more pliable on the way to his long farewell,” Holt said as Helena and Avery led McKennie toward the stairs.
“They’ve picked up a tail,” Chris reported, tracking a McKennie guard on their heels.
“Remy’s on him,” Holt replied, and Chris looked up to find Pak making her way to intercept the guard. “Showstopper appearing on your six.”
From the kitchen doors behind the bar, Victoria and Alice emerged, now in server uniforms, carrying trays of champagne and cake. They made their way along the perimeter, heading for Ferriello’s two party booths at the end.
“He getting a farewell present too?”
“His will be much shorter.”
“Not if he doesn’t eat or drink,” Chris replied, watching with a sinking feeling as Ferriello brushed off the champagne and cake, his gaze instead trained on Hawes. “Looks like someone was too good a distraction.”
Ferriello scooted out of the booth and made a beeline for Hawes, who was now sandwiched between Ferriello’s guards. “Backup plan?”
“My brother is more than capable of handling this on his own.”
“I know he is, but he shouldn’t have to,” he bit back. “I’m his partner, dammit!”
Silence greeted him, and the gravity of his words, the truth of them, sank into the center of his chest. It could have thrown him for a loop, but it focused him instead, put this operation into tactical terms his brain could use to muffle his possessive heart.
“There are at least four other crews in this club,” Chris said
. “All of them with eyes on Hawes. And Ferriello is carrying.”
“We have our operatives,” Holt replied.
“None of whom are carrying, am I right?” He’d seen no telltale signs of holsters or guns on Alice and Victoria when they’d passed close by a moment ago, nor on Avery and Helena as they’d climbed the stairs with McKennie. He assumed the other captains had likewise foregone the firepower.
“You’re not wrong,” Holt confirmed.
A show of support for Hawes that Chris both appreciated and cursed. “Those other four crews are not as ethical.”
“You’re only there to observe. You don’t have a gun on you either.”
He didn’t, but that was hardly the point. “What part of partner didn’t you understand?” Chris dug a twenty out of his wallet, slapped it on the bar, and began cutting a path through the crowd to Hawes.
As if sensing the volcano about to erupt, Hawes lifted his chin, and his gaze shot past Ferriello’s guard grinding against his front, past Ferriello himself, who was five seconds from ripping his guard out of the place he wanted to be, and clashed with Chris’s.
Chris froze mid-step, a monolith as bodies jostled around and into him. He hardly noticed them, having a silent conversation with Hawes instead. Partners—in life or work—trusted each other to make the right call. If Hawes wanted to handle this himself, Chris had to trust him. This was his call.
Hawes made it, with a come-hither smirk and inviting tilt of his head.
Chris answered the call. Coming unstuck, he forced his posture and his carriage into the casual, loping swagger that had started all of this. Tonight was another of those occasions when he needed to be Dante Perry, not Special Agent Christopher Perri. And thanks to Tran, who’d wisely not mentioned his name or flashed his picture at recent press conferences, no one seemed to recognize him as he cut across the dance floor.
“He’s got a pill. Inner jacket pocket,” Holt told him. “Five minutes, once it hits saliva.”
“Copy that.”
Two more steps and Chris was close enough to overhear Ferriello say to Hawes, “Rumor has it you’ve returned to the dark side.”
Grinning, Hawes slung his right arm over Ferriello’s shoulder. “Don’t believe everything you hear, Nicky.”
Eyes flicking to Chris, Hawes made a circling motion with the hand behind Ferriello’s head and tilted his own head slightly back. A signal. Come around behind me.
Chris continued to listen in as he moved into position.
“If it’s true,” Ferriello said, “we could fuck some shit up together. Wouldn’t mind having some fun with the Prince of Killers.”
Hawes shuddered, and Chris recognized the reaction for what it was—disgust and revulsion, a moniker Hawes hated but used when he had to, like in the present instance. Hawes smiled, playing his shiver off as attraction and excitement. “Not ruling it out,” he answered coyly. “But that’s not the kind of fun I’m looking for tonight.”
“Aw, come on, Madigan,” Ferriello said. “I wasn’t around before you got all pious and shit.”
“Oh, Nicky,” Hawes cajoled, running a finger along the merc’s jaw. “I’m a long way from pious.”
Chris stepped directly behind Hawes and grasped his hip, spreading his fingers and squeezing, the gesture theirs, letting Hawes know it was him. “I can attest to that,” Chris said, loud enough for Ferriello to hear. He cast a cursory glance at the other man, then nuzzled behind Hawes’s ear.
“What’s this?” Ferriello snapped, defensive at being challenged for Hawes’s attention.
“Who, Nicky, and this is Dante Perry.”
Chris smothered his grin in the crook of Hawes’s neck. Partners, indeed.
“You with him?” Ferriello said.
“I am,” Hawes answered.
“He is,” Chris echoed, stretching his good arm around Hawes’s shoulder, over his chest, and inside the opposite lapel of his jacket. A possessive gesture, and one that also gave him access to Hawes’s inner pocket and the pill inside it. “I heard mention of some fun tonight. I’m game.”
Ferriello’s dark eyes flared. Definitely interested. Chris knew he and Hawes looked good together, knew they would be a temptation a playboy like Ferriello wouldn’t be quick to dismiss.
Chris tempted him some more. “What else do you want to do with the Prince of Killers?” He drew Hawes firmly against his chest, then uncurled his arm from around him. Once clear, Hawes, with his arm still over Ferriello’s shoulder, dragged the merc closer. Chris then skated his hand up Hawes’s neck, using it to angle Hawes’s face.
“This maybe?” he said to Ferriello before tilting Hawes’s face and kissing him. Gentle and seductive at first, a show for Ferriello, then hungrily, craving the taste he’d missed since morning, the heat of Hawes’s skin, the way that sharp body melted against his. Hawes groaned, acknowledgment and want, and an opening for the pill to slip from Chris’s palm into Hawes’s mouth. Officially on the clock, Chris reluctantly pulled back and found their audience hooked.
Olive skin flushed, breathing rapid, Ferriello stepped closer, a leg on either side of Hawes’s left thigh. “Yeah,” he panted, skating a hand up Hawes’s chest and neck in a motion that mirrored Chris’s. His eyes roved over Chris. “And I want you to watch.”
Chris braced his right leg on the outside of Hawes’s and wrapped an arm around his middle, under his jacket, flattening his hand against Hawes’s tight stomach. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, moving their lower bodies to the music.
Ferriello swayed with them and brought his mouth to Hawes’s.
Jealousy flared, hot and sharp, in the pit of Chris’s stomach, but it was quickly doused by observation and admiration. Hawes didn’t respond to Ferriello’s kiss the way he had to Chris’s. His skin didn’t heat, his weight didn’t shift, his breath didn’t quicken. No, this kiss was all tactical and executed to perfection. He toyed with Ferriello, giving him several light, teasing kisses that made Ferriello chase for more, before, hand in Ferriello’s hair, Hawes sealed their lips in a deeper kiss. And transferred the pill from one mouth to the other.
Ferriello jerked back. “Hey, what’s—”
Hawes slapped a hand over his mouth. “Just a little something to make it extra fun.”
“Two incoming on your six,” Holt radioed, and Chris drummed his fingers twice against Hawes’s belly.
Hawes removed his hand and cupped Ferriello’s cheek. “Heard you liked to have fun, Nicky. Consider it a birthday gift.” He leaned forward and nipped Ferriello’s ear.
Pretending to be dancing still, Chris shifted them so the incoming guards were at Ferriello’s back, not his and Hawes’s. “Have fun with us, Nicky.”
“Boss!” a guard called out.
Ferriello lifted a hand and glanced over his shoulder. “I’m fine,” he told his men. “We’re just having fun.” They moved a few paces back, not as far as Chris would have liked, but he didn’t have time to dwell, his attention drawn back to Ferriello, who was pushing up on Hawes. He dragged his mouth along Hawes’s neck to his ear. “I cheeked the pill, assholes,” he said, then sharp eyes on Chris again, spit the pill at his chest. It bounced off Chris’s collar, against Hawes’s shoulder, then onto the floor at their feet. “Poison,” Ferriello scoffed. “Fucking woman’s weapon.”
Hawes righted his head and sank back, more fully into Chris and separating them from Ferriello. “The strongest people I know are women.”
The merc smiled, smug like he knew the best secret. And apparently couldn’t keep it. “You know, Hawes, one of those women still wants you dead. A two-million-dollar contract went up tonight, on your head.” He slid his hands up Hawes’s chest, going for his neck. “And guess who’s close enough to pull it off.”
Holt’s “Bitch” echoed Chris’s “Fuck.” Rose had set them—Hawes—up again. But there was no time to wallow in the anger of betrayal, not with Ferriello going for the kill. Knocking aside his hands and wrapping both arms around Hawes�
�s torso, Chris yanked him back, out of Ferriello’s immediate reach. Ferriello raised a hand to signal for his guards to converge and reached the other inside his suit coat for his gun.
“Lift!” Hawes shouted, and Chris shifted his own weight, planting his feet, lowering his center of gravity, and leaning back, lifting Hawes off the ground in front of him. Hawes swung his legs up in a scissoring motion. The first kick knocked the gun out of Ferriello’s hand, the second knocked out Ferriello. The merc sank to the floor like a rag doll, which brought every guard’s gun up on Hawes and Chris. And every one of them found their gun kicked away from behind, a Madigan operative having snuck up on them.
At which point, panic at the disco broke loose. The Madigan and Ferriello crews were engaged in hand-to-hand combat, McKennie’s men caught on to their missing boss, and Volz’s muscle scurried for the exits, thinking their boss gone already and not wanting to get caught in the melee.
Hawes sprang forward, out of Chris’s hold, and spun to face him. “Go!” he shouted.
“Are you fucking kidding? I’m not leaving you.”
“I can’t keep you clean if you stay.”
“And I can’t leave my partner!”
Everything around them was chaos—people shouting, glass breaking, bodies hitting the ground—but Hawes’s smile in that moment was radiant. It silenced the swirling chaos and any remaining conflict between Dante and Chris in Chris’s head. They weren’t separate entities. They were both here, right where he was supposed to be. With Hawes.
“Let’s have some fun, then,” Hawes said, giving him a quick, hard kiss, before spinning back around and engaging the nearest Ferriello guard. Chris fought at his side, working with Hawes to take them down in pairs, until, after they’d dropped their third set, they turned to find only Madigan operatives standing. The club had cleared out, what was left of McKennie’s crew was cornered in a booth by Helena, Avery, and Victoria, and the rest of the dance floor was littered with Ferriello’s guards.
Applause erupted from the far end of the space. “Well played,” Remy said, descending the stairs with several of her soldiers behind her. Her gaze zeroed in on Chris as she approached their group. “And you, Agent Perri, willing to get your hands dirty now, I see.”
