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“Yeah, and everyone’s touched your cunt,” I counter. “I don’t owe sluts anything.”
“Ooh, big mean boss man,” she jeers, but the insult doesn’t land, not when she goes all breathless and whiny when I start pumping into her again. I think I’ve quieted her attitude down, but then she wraps her arms around me, hugging me so she can whisper in my ear. “I know you did it because it was the anniversary of his death.”
“Fucking cunt,” I snarl, peeling her off me to flip her back over to spank her hard. Not because she likes it but because Iamfucking pissed, actually. We both know shit about each other that we shouldn’t. She really doesn’t need to know why I’ve removed a piercing from my dick every year, definitely not why on the same date— yesterday, technically, which is probably why I’m so uneasy today— and there’s no fucking way I’m letting her poke at me about it.
Since she’s so hot to put her nose in other people’s business, I grab her by the base of her ponytail and force her face-down into my desk as I slam into her, ignoring her cries as I fuck her until my body finally gives up its protests of ennui and recognizes its baser instinct, ejaculating hard enough my brain crackles like I’ve dumped fizzy candy on it.
I allow myself a breath to screw my head back on before I pull out and snap the condom off my dick. “Get the fuck out of here, Benedetti.”
But she doesn’t. She doesn’t even straighten up. She lifts herself enough to prop her cheek on her hand, shooting me a wry look as she observes me with rich, frustratingly amused brown eyes. In another time line, she would have been a good match for me. A political alliance. She would have given me a run for my money.
“God save us all from emotionally constipated men. We still have business. A little birdie told me Tony’s got a mole in your organization.”
“You?” I snort. I have no delusions about the confidentiality between us; we act like no one knows she’s undercover ATF, but there’s no secret that she divides her time between Los Angeles Bratva and Phoenix Mafia. I trust that she uses good judgment in what she leaks to her family, and I’m not so bold to assume I don’t have cracks in my infrastructure. I am the Hoover Dam. I am too big to not have minor leaks.
“I’m serious! Watch yourself. Tony’s been cagier than usual. People are thinking he’s making a play for something, and you know you’re always in his sights.”
Yeah, sounds right. But Tony’s known for two things: blowing obscene amounts of money at underground sex clubs and gross incompetence. Even if he does have a mole and is plotting something, he’ll fuck it up or run out of money before he can see it through.
“IRA boys were spotted cruising by the Flagstaff print shop yesterday.”
The crackling in my brain this time isn’t nearly so sweet. Melting plastic and sulfur. Meth. Quit that shit years ago now, along with everything else. Traded it all in for a medicine cabinet. But hearing those words coming out of her mouth, today of all days, triggers all kinds of nasty sensations.
All roads lead back to goddamn Flagstaff.
I glance at my reflection in the glass door of the liquor cabinet, well stocked but rarely touched. My tie is slightly skewed, so I adjust it with a quick tug before smoothing a hand over my pale hair. “If you don’t get thefuck out—”
Before I can finish my empty threat, there’s a rapid knock on my door as it’s being opened. Benedetti stands and fixes her clothes but not before Janson gets an eyeful of the handprint on her ass.
He shakes his head as she shimmies her panties up.
“You want a piece of that?” I offer him. “She’s kosher.”
The bland look he gives me speaks volumes. I didn’t have a lot of leverage when I came to LA, worming my way into thepakhan’sinner circle and ultimately taking his spot when he died under circumstances I was absolutely not responsible for, despite the rumors that flew around about my quick ascent to the throne, but I had enough to convince Janson to come with me. The way he tells it, I blackmailed him, but I was doing him a favor. An FBI agent embedded in a skinhead gang? Lame. ArogueFBI agent making bank running security for the Bratva? That’s cool as shit.
And Benedettiiskosher. She’s not a cop. She’s a pseudo-cop. She’s turkey bacon. She’s bacon bits.
I snort, and they both look at me. Fuck them. I own them, at least for now.
“This isn’t a problem that’s going to fix itself,” Benedetti says brusquely as she cleans herself up and packs her suitcase, leaving the mess she made of my desk on the Turkish rug, the only pop of color in the otherwise black wood and matte steel. Even the array of pills tucked into the second drawer of my desk has been transferred into nondescript black jars, discreet labels identifying them as alprazolam, bupropion, clozapine. Benedetti slides that drawer out as though it’s her own personal property and pops open the case at the back of it. “No one’s got a good hold in Flagstaff anymore. You’ve got a skeleton crew there. The Calaveras are dying off. Blazing Hell’s distracted. Take hold. It’s supposed to be your turf, and if you can’t get it back under control, I gotta pull my equipment there.”
Myequipment, but her job is to keep it running. Keep tabs on what we’re printing too, no doubt tracking it all to make sure we fall below whatever threshold the ATF wants us under, and we’re all happy right now. I have to take her threat of pulling out seriously.
She unwraps a pre-filled syringe and slams it on my desk, letting it roll back and forth as I bare my teeth at her one last time before she spins away and exits my office swiftly, Janson’s eyes following her.
The door slams, Janson and I both wait a beat, and then we flop down in the chairs on opposite sides of the desk. “You two are going to end up either killing each other or marrying each other,” Janson chuckles as he nudges the syringe my way, babysitting me every bit as much as Benedetti does. Joke’s on them, though; I’ve had babysitters my entire life. The only difference now is that I’m the one paying them.
I pull up the untucked side of my dress shirt, not just a fashion but a convenience for me, and stick myself in the abdomen with the syringe. Janson flinches more than I do, which is funny because I’ve watched him sit for several of his stick and poke tattoos, including the ones on his skull that I’m sure he got with the intention he’d grow his hair back out one day. He’s maintained his shaved head since LA, though, and I think he just owns them now. He’s not a skinhead; never was. But it gives him the credentials he needs to do his job.
“Feel better now?” he asks with a quirked brow as I dump the used syringe into the sharps container I keep in the drawer below.
“It doesn’t work like that,” I growl as I pop a lorazepam to actually take the edge off, but his grin tells me he knows that.
“We do need to talk about Flagstaff.”
“Fuuuuuuuck.Can you at least sit on my dick when you say that, like Benedetti does?”
“Bro, Idon’t want to go back there any more than you do.”