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Her words are an invite, one I take. And I grab her hips, digging my fingers in as I fuck up into her hard. I angle her so she’s back slightly, and I can feel the start of her orgasm. Her pussy starts to clench, sending waves through her ass and on my cock, and I move one hand, stroking and pulling at her clit to make her lose her mind.

She does. Lucie cries out, shaking, shuddering, eyes rolling back, and as she shatters, my cock swells. The rush of release shoots down my spine, through my balls and dick, and I throb inside her, spurting ropes of cum deep inside her.

I’m lost, and so is she. I pull her down, take her mouth, and kiss her without any reason other than I need to.

When we’re done, the waves settling, I pull out and get dressed as Lucie gets up to shower. The whining is back, and I go to the door and open it.

I look down.

Arnold.

The black rat of a cat scampers in and Arnold whines again, then looks at me and barks softly, padding in.

With a sigh of resignation, I shut the door behind the menagerie.

“Arnold, I’ll put up with your cockblocking at my door. But that scrap of fur? It has to go.”

And Clawzilla hisses.

George Fabiani is nothing but a small-time outfit. With Russian bratva ties. Just outliers, no one big that I can tell, but still… I’ve sent word I want a meeting.

We’re in deep Brooklyn, checking over shipments. The area’s empty, apart from our people. This shipment isn’t ours, it’s one we’re making.

“When’s thisgobshitemeant to turn up?” Declan asks.

I sign an order form and hand it to the driver. “Good to go.” Then I turn to Dec, and as the driver heads to his truck, I look at my watch. “Half an hour ago.”

“Are we going to wait?”

“Fuck no. We’re finishing our work, and then we’re out of here.”

As we continue sending the trucks out, I know that this Fabiani turning up is a long shot. This has the feel of an assassination. But while I do want to feed him his own dick, it isn’t about the other night. I want to know about ties that aren’t known. Like with Vincent de Rosa. Or say… Paddy. Those are the types of things people might keep under wraps.

I send off the last truck when something prickles against my senses and I pull my gun, holding it low.

“Dec? Get in the car and get down.”

He knows that tone and does what’s asked. Our car’s armored, but?—

There, to the right, across the road from the warehouse and lot, I catch a glint of metal in the sun.

I drop to the ground just as a bullet whizzes by.

Without wasting a moment, I do the one thing the shooter doesn’t expect. I charge, running in a zigzag and shooting, not really aiming to kill or hit, but to stop them from shooting. I reach the van that’s parked right as a bullet shoots up bits of gravel.

I crouch and peer under the vehicle. Boots head my way. I wait. The muzzle of a gun appears, and I slam my gun into it, jumping back, and then I charge again, crashing into the man.

That’s when a bullet hits the man in the head, and he falls to the ground, dead.

“Fuck, Dec. I told you to stay in the car.”

“Oh, sorry for saving your life.”

We both look down as Declan lowers himself to the ground, looking for an ID. There are keys, but the guy’s clean, and the car behind the van is clean, too.

That’s when I see the tattoo.

“Paddy’s little gang,” I mutter as I see the god-awful sickle and four-leaf clover. “Shit.”