by Kate Kessler
“Long time ago, huh?” came Dash’s voice.
She turned her head as he entered the room, Hank at his heels. “Feels like forever. Remember how drunk we got after?”
“I remember holding your hair while you puked behind the clubhouse.”
Killian winced. “I paid for it the next day. Beaten up and hung over. I was still pretty puffed up over myself.”
“You had every right to be. You kicked ass.” He smiled.
“Dash…” She had to say it, but she wasn’t sure how to make the words mean as much as she wanted. “I’m sorry.”
He nodded, his gaze not quite meeting hers. “I know.”
She opened her mouth to say more, but the sound of bike engines stole the words away. “Jesus, did he bring the whole club with him?”
“No,” Dash replied, his jaw tight. “Just a war party.”
Rank Cirello was a changed man, and it was all because of Killian Delaney.
At one time—oh, about a decade ago—he’d been the kind of man other men wanted to be and women wanted to be with. He’d been rich, handsome, and known for being particularly vicious to those who crossed him. People feared him. Respected him.
Now he still had money, and he was still vicious, but he was no longer handsome, and there were those who thought him more ridiculous than frightening. Unless you were talking about looks, of course. He was pretty scary to look at. Or so he’d been told. He tried not to look in mirrors if he could help it.
He was still in charge, though. Still part of one of the largest criminal enterprises in the tristate area. He just had to work a little harder than he used to. Had to earn back respect, and if he couldn’t earn it, he took it. Violently. It worked on some, but there were those who continued to smirk whenever they looked at him. Took pleasure in reminding him that a woman—a girl—had reduced him to shit and then left him to wallow in it.
Every time he tried to kill her and failed was another reminder of what she’d done to him—made him. People had laughed at him. They still laughed when he couldn’t hear them; he knew it. Did Killian laugh? he wondered. She wouldn’t be laughing soon.
He poured himself a drink from the intricately carved bar and carried it back to his desk. He’d learned quite some time ago how much he could pour into a glass and not have it slosh over when he walked. She’d left one of his legs shorter than the other. Specially made shoes helped correct the problem, but sometimes there was nothing that could help the pain or stiffness.
Rank glanced at the security monitors with his good eye as he sat down. The slightly grainy black-and-white feed showed his old friend Wex standing at the door, impatiently waiting to be let inside. He’d known Wex since they were both kids in Hartford. They’d gone to school together, joined a gang together. Rank had loftier ambitions than to be a bike jockey all his life, so he’d left the club and started his own business early on. When Wex took over as president of the Sons of Bitches, they’d made a lot of deals together. It had been Wex who brought a doctor that night when all Rank wanted to do was die.
He let Wex wait another thirty seconds before pressing the button to release the door lock.
Rank’s stronghold was an old factory off I-84. He thought of it as something of a fortress—with chain-link fencing topped with barbed wire. The security system was made up of electronic surveillance and loyal men who liked his money. No one got through who wasn’t supposed to be there.
Especially women. He didn’t care if they were the goddamn Girl Scouts; no women made it inside without being searched and screened. Men were more honest with their intent to do harm. Women could smile at you even when they despised you, make you feel safe and secure. They could suck your dick then make you dinner, and by the time you felt the poison eating your insides it was already too late.
Killian had been more like a man in her violence, coming at him quick and hard. But because she was a woman he’d let his guard down. A bitter lesson learned, that one. Honestly, he’d thought that because he was a man he could handle her. He’d thought his guys could take care of her. She was a professional fighter jacked up on rage and grief. If she’d been a guy he never would have underestimated her the way he had.
His office was on the second floor. His apartment on the third. His life consisted mostly of those two floors and the large freight elevator that serviced the entire building. Occasionally he went out, but only if he had to, and only at night. He was a disturbing son of a bitch to look at in the dark.
He was downright terrifying in daylight.
Wex didn’t use the elevator—he climbed the old metal stairs from the ground floor, each screech and whine of the bolts and joints a reminder of the fact that Rank would fall down them like a bowling pin if he tried to do the same. Wex didn’t do it on purpose. Rank was the only one with a key to the elevator, and he made everyone else use the stairs; he liked the reminder. It kept him sharp. Kept the embers of his hate stoked.
Rank turned his head so he could watch Wex ascend toward him, even though he knew his milky eye unsettled his old friend. He had to use the tools with which he’d been left.
Wex was average height and build. Bit of a gut. His hair was beginning to gray, and as usual it could stand to be washed. He wore an old leather vest with the SOB patch on the back—a skeletal Grim Reaper with dripping chin poised between a pair of raised, spread legs—a black T-shirt, and a pair of greasy jeans. What the fuck was the guy’s problem with hygiene? Was it so difficult to live the lifestyle and still shower on the regular? When he looked at Rank, he led with one eye, then the other, as though looking at him was too much all at once. As if Wex was any kind of fucking prize. Asshole had a face like a can of worms.
“Well?” Rank demanded. Being looked at with fear was gratifying. Being looked at in disgust was humiliating.
Wex nodded. “She went after the kid today, just like you said she would.”
For the first time in a long time, Rank felt what he assumed was real pleasure. “What did she do to him?”
The other man shrugged. “Busted his knee.”
“That’s it?”
“Banged up his face pretty good. I guess prison made her soft.”
“Mm.” That was a little disappointing. He’d hoped she’d do something vicious and spectacular—send him a message.
“What do you want me to do?”
Beneath the shelter of his desk, Rank stretched his aching left leg. He hadn’t done any yoga for the past couple of days and now he was paying for it. He’d have to take meds later. He hated how foggy they made him. “Watch the kid. If he starts talkin’ I want him taken out.” This was between him and Killian, not the fucking cops or anyone else.
“I meant with the girl.”
His leverage. His prize. “Where is she now?”
“The clubhouse.”
It was a secure enough location. “Hold on to her until I say otherwise. And don’t let any of your fucking goons touch her.”
Wex grimaced. “Don’t you have someplace you could keep her?”
“What?” Rank goaded. “Afraid she’ll come for you?”
“You know she will.”
Rank couldn’t help but smile, even if it pulled the scarred skin of his face. “Then you should be glad she’s gone soft.”
He got a half-assed eye roll in response. “I’m not afraid of some bitch.”
Rank’s smile evaporated. “Then you’re as stupid as you are filthy. Is there no hot water at this clubhouse of yours?”
Dark eyebrows drew together, like caterpillars above Wex’s eyes. “I showered two days ago.”
Jesus Christ. “Where’s Killian now?”
“My guy followed her to Newington. She’s with Clark.”
“Still playing that white-knight shit, is he?”
“Guess so.” Wex scratched his stomach through his dingy shirt. Flakes of something light fell to his feet. Rank’s lip curled. “You know it’s only a matter of time before the Crows get involved.”
Whatever he sent at her, she fought and survived. She was a fighting machine, the bitch. He’d admire her if he didn’t hate her so goddamn much. Hell, he did admire her, and that just pissed him off even more.
Scowling, Wex scratched his head. Bastard probably had lice. “So I don’t want a fucking war because you think kidnapping a little girl is going to get your dick to work again.”
Rank froze. “The fuck did you just say?”
Wex shrugged. “Come on, man. Everyone knows you haven’t been able to get it up since she broke you.” He glanced around as though it was nothing. As if he hadn’t just said the worst thing one man could say to another. “You got anything to drink?”
Rank gestured toward the bar. Anger vibrated through his bones as he rose to his feet. The bastard came into his house, his place of business, and then talked to him like that? With no respect, like Rank was beneath him? He was one of the most powerful men in the tristate area. He had more money than Wex could ever imagine. He had controlled, owned, and ended more lives than Wex’s entire stupid little gang could boast. He could end them all with a snap of his fingers.
Who the fuck had talked? Did everybody know? Shame bloomed, bitter and sour on his tongue. He was aware, because the doctors had told him, that his cock wasn’t really the problem. It was his head. Killian had destroyed his manhood, all right. She’d broken him—destroyed his confidence.
And he fucking wanted it back.
Rank’s cane thumped against the rough wooden floor as he followed his old friend to the bar. He watched the other man pour himself a shot of whiskey and swallow it before bringing the cane up and across Wex’s back like his father used to do when Rank misbehaved as a child. Wex jerked forward over the polished mahogany. The bottle of whiskey slid toward the edge but didn’t fall.
“Fuck!” Wex yelled, turning. This time Rank cracked the cane across his face. Blood spurted from his nose as he slid to the floor. He wasn’t rolling his eyes now, the disrespectful cunt. In fact, he finally looked as wary as Rank wanted. Uncertain. Afraid.
“Talk to me like that again and I’ll fucking bury you,” Rank told him, his lips wet and sweat rolling down his back. His leg throbbed in vicious, sickening agony. “You fucking understand me?”
Wex nodded. Blood dripped onto his shirt and vest. He tried to wipe it away with his hands, but then swiped them against his stomach. Rank snorted in disgust and tossed a towel from the bar at him.
“Clean yourself up and get the fuck out of here.” He limped back to his desk, every step a lesson in pain. He refused to let it show just how much that brief act of violence had cost him. After Wex left he’d have to smoke a bowl just to take the edge off. He didn’t trust anything stronger.
His job—his life—depended on him being able to think straight.
Wex didn’t argue. Didn’t retaliate. Rank didn’t expect him to. Wex had always been one of those guys who couldn’t make a stand without backup. One good kick and he remembered his place in the pack. Everyone would know who marked him. Everyone would know there were still consequences to pissing off Rank Cirello.
He might need Viagra to fuck, but he didn’t need help with violence.
It took all his strength not to groan when he sat down. Not only did his leg hurt, but his shoulder did as well. Still, he forced an expression of calm as he set his cane against the desk and made a point of checking messages on his phone. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he watched as Wex staggered to his feet and tossed the bloody towel on the bar. He said nothing before stomping down the stairs. The guards below spoke to him and he muttered something in response. It didn’t sound polite.
Rank closed his eyes and released a shaky breath when the door slammed.
“You need anything, boss?” came a voice a few seconds later.
Rank opened his eyes and looked at the concerned face of his most loyal employee, Dakwon. He hadn’t even heard the man come upstairs; he’d been so intent on the pain. It had ebbed a little.
“Clean up the blood by the bar, will you? I’ll be upstairs for a few hours—I’ve got phone calls to make. No interruptions unless it’s important, yeah?”
The large bald man nodded. “You got it. Anything else?”
“Yeah. Have Swannie send a couple of her girls over from the parlor.” Shedding blood hadn’t been enough to make him feel like a man again. He’d go upstairs, pop a pill, smoke, and then get a massage and let the girls play on his cock until his body felt loose and relaxed and almost fucking normal. It was amazing, the restorative power of pussy, even if he did have to medicate in order to enjoy it.
“Andi and Leisha?” Dakwon asked, as though they were talking about takeout and not women.
“Yes.” He’d known the two of them for a while. Trusted them. They were good girls who never looked at him with pity or disgust. He paid them well to know their place and play their role. They knew how to make him feel like a god again.
Dakwon nodded and took out his phone to make the call. Rank left him, thumped and lurched across the room, and stepped into the freight elevator that took him up to his living quarters. The doors hadn’t even opened before he started unbuttoning his silk shirt.
Maybe he’d take a go at the girl Wex had taken. Take some pictures of him fucking her over a table and send them to Killian. That would hurt her good. She’d never be able to wipe away the image. Never be able to take it away from her girl. Yes, it was a good idea. Besides, he couldn’t trust Wex not to fuck things up. He’d have the girl delivered to him and then he’d do whatever he wanted to her. And Killian would spend the rest of her life—regardless of how short that might be—with each violation and degradation cataloged for her misery.
Something stirred inside him—the electric pleasure of imminent revenge. It wasn’t so much physically arousing as it was mentally, though there were similar side effects. Maybe he wouldn’t need the Viagra after all. A slow smile curved his lips. It had been a long time since his body worked on its own. He wasn’t impotent anymore.
Nothing turned him on like the thought of destroying Killian Delaney.
Five
It was a war party. A small one, but a group of beautiful bastards ready to fight beside Killian if necessary. Their choppers lined the driveway, each a striking contrast with the others. They were completely custom, and each of them a chrome-and-steel representation of its rider.
It wasn’t difficult to feel genuine love for each of them as they filed into Dash’s house, smelling of leather, sweat, and motor oil. All wore the same patch on their backs—a large crow skull with crossed scythes behind it. She used to wear a smaller version of it on her jacket, marking her as a Crow’s woman. It was probably in one of the boxes she had yet to unpack. She wasn’t in any hurry to open up all those old memories.
Danny Vasquez led the group. At six and a half feet tall he made Dash look short and dwarfed Killian. He came at her like a storm and gathered her up in a hug that lifted her off the floor. His stubbled jaw scraped hers as he pressed a hard kiss to her cheek before setting her down again.
“Damn, girl,” he said in a voice that rumbled up from deep in his chest. “You look good.”
Killian grinned up at him. “So do you.” And he did. He was a mountain of scruffy gorgeousness with a scar through one eyebrow and a charming grin that got him laid on a nearly constant basis. There was a tattoo on his neck that hadn’t been there the last time she saw him, but other than that he looked almost exactly the same. He was a good man—as good as anyone
who embraced a life outside the law could be—and loyal to those he called a friend. She remembered him—all of them—parked across the street from the cemetery the day Jason was buried. His mother didn’t want them there, and they respected that, but they came as close as they could to let the world know they mourned one of their own.
His big hand cupped the back of her head and he pulled her against his chest for another, more gentle embrace. He smelled of Old Spice and tobacco. “It’s fucking awesome to see you, Killy-girl.”
There was no need to tell him she felt the same way. She just hugged him back. It was like hugging a redwood.
This process was repeated in a fashion by each of the club members who came after him. There were six in total, and she knew them all. Had known them since she’d been younger than Shannon. The fact that they showed up for her meant more than any of them could ever know. She still had friends in the world. Others had turned their backs on her when she went after Rank. Not that she blamed them—it wasn’t smart to hang around with someone with an execution order hanging over her head. But not the Crows. They might be an outlaw club—what the biker world referred to as 1 percenters—but they didn’t back down from anyone or anything.
Dash got beers and the group of them moved into the living room. Danny sat near Killian’s chair and put one of his big scarred hands on her knee. On his bare forearm was a tattoo of a crow skull drawn to look like the top of a scythe, and a curved spine as the handle. It had been her suggestion that he get it. Jason had designed it. “The SOBs took your girl?”
“My niece.” Her throat tightened around the words. “Her name is Shannon.”
He smiled gently. “She’s about the same age as Angel, yeah?”
His son. Killian nodded. “Fifteen going on forty.”
“Ain’t they all?” His expression sobered. “Whatever you need to do, we’ve got your back.”
Killian put her hand over his. “Thank you. I don’t even know where Wex took her.”
