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“Very true. Just...do a good job, all right. I didn’t survive my fucking father to watch some tin can with legs destroy us all.”
He saluted me with a grin.
Cheeky bastard.
Travis almost became a pro golfer. When he didn’t, he decided to use some of his trust fund to create one of the top golf courses in the country located just outside of Manhattan.
He didn’t stop there.
Travis added a club to his portfolio—a grown-up’s club, if you get my point. The Alliance Club, named after our underground fight clubs, is a place you’ll find us most Friday nights if I’m not attending work events.
The exclusive membership is outside of most people’s budget, and each person is personally approved by Travis. You won’t find innocent young women like Kyra Fox there, although I’d enjoy watching her face as she stepped inside the door.
Not that I know her, but I can tell by her photo and the submissive way she held herself in the photo.
And I know women.
I’ve fucked enough of them.
Personally, I like strong women who think they like an equal lover. It turns me on to watch them fight and eventually break, submitting to their true nature.
Kyra is way too submissive to get the attention of my cock. Which makes her the perfect prisoner. She will do as I tell her, stay quiet, and not cause any trouble.
Meanwhile, I can torture my father and destroy him piece by piece.
First, I need to go get my bait.
My phone buzzes with the message that I’ve been waiting for since Friday. About fucking time.
I’ve paid a huge sum to get this man’s number and do it anonymously. Apparently, black ops people don’t have websites or TikTok accounts.
Go figure.
“Pierce can enjoy his new toy.”While he still has her.“Meanwhile, I have a company to run. I’ll see all your ugly mugs at Alliance on Friday night.”
It’s time to go catch my fish.
I walk out the door and lift the phone to my ear, spotting my driver two cars away. I wave to Mitch, my driver, and he nods and pushes off the side of the car.
“Maddox Sterling,” I answer, my voice a rumble.
“Mr. Sterling,” the man replies.
I smile darkly. He has a digital layer over his voice so I can’t recognize him. One that my company probably created.
If I wanted, I could trace the call and follow the breadcrumbs back to him.
But I don’t.
“You needn’t have bothered,” I say. “I don’t care who you are. I just want the job done.”
He’s silent.
“I’ll need the first million in the bank in an hour, then the other three when I deliver her.”
I climb into the back of my town car and Mitch shuts the door. He jumps in behind the wheel and we head to my office on Seventh Avenue.
My lips quirk as I spot the coffee cup on the console beside him. Every Wednesday, one of Travis’s waitresses, Jenny, takes him a cappuccino and bagel to eat while the boys and I have breakfast.