Page 20 of The Kingpin’s Omega Lover (River City Omegas #2)

NINE

Malori was in King’s spacious bathroom, brushing his teeth over the marble and chrome sink, when King’s phone went off in the bedroom.

He’d spent quite some time enjoying King’s naked body, licking and kissing and exploring, tasting every inch of skin he could, working up his nerve to suck King’s cock again.

This wasn’t in the heat of the moment; this wasn’t Malori getting King worked up and ready to be fucked.

This time, taking King’s cock into his mouth was a revelation in control and desire, sharing an act he’d never truly enjoyed before King.

Giving his lover pleasure, thanking him for everything King had done and was still doing for Malori.

Malori also found pleasure and power for himself in the act, and while he wanted to continue reveling in what they’d done, he also didn’t want to face his friends with dick-breath.

Good friends he sometimes didn’t believe were real, especially not after Kensley and Bishop’s complete and immediate acceptance of Malori and King as a couple.

Not that Malori expected anything less, not really; he was simply used to life disappointing him at every turn.

He wanted this to be different, but he didn’t expect it to be.

So, he would enjoy this life, fight like hell to find and collect his kids, and then let the chips fall where they may.

If King tired of him and longed for a relationship with someone else, with a woman eager to have his children—no, Malori wasn’t going there.

No attempting to guess, no expecting the worst, not this time.

His feelings for King were undefinable and soul-deep and terrifying.

And wonderful. Feelings he’d fight for, the same way he fought daily to get his children back.

The phone stopped ringing. “Yeah?” King said. “Meet me there in a few minutes.”

Malori spat toothpaste foam, then used a ceramic cup to rinse his mouth out. King poked his head through the doorway. “Bishop has information?” Malori asked.

“Yes. Ready to go?”

“Where?”

King chuckled. “To the living room. No need to upgrade from my sweats.”

Good. Malori loved how big and cozy King’s sweatpants and t-shirt were compared to his own clothes. Not that his clothes weren’t comfortable but these were…his lover’s clothes.

Kensley was sprawled on the couch with his feet elevated on a pillow. King led Malori over to the love seat. Bishop stood near the windows with his tablet, and he was swiping furiously.

“Please, do keep us in suspense over here,” King drawled.

Kensley snorted. “I said the same thing, but he wouldn’t tell me what he found out, the jerk.”

“That’s because the jerk wanted to verify one final thing with Ziggy before making a statement,” Bishop said as he lowered the tablet.

“Malori, I don’t know which outcome you were hoping for, but I’m reasonably sure that the man who was killed in Oklahoma two days ago is not the man you know as Aleks Yovenko. ”

Malori’s chest constricted as he tried to absorb the statement.

Aleks deserved to have his throat slit, and Malori would have cheered had the Oklahoma victim been his tormentor.

But that sort of swift death was also too good for Aleks, and he still believed Aleks was too smart for someone to get him like that.

“What’s reasonably sure mean?” King asked, his left hand a warm, comforting weight on Malori’s knee.

“It means I was able to speak to a local reporter who knew a coworker of Alexie, and that coworker gave me a fairly detailed work history of the man. He’s worked a demolition crew for the last seven years, never takes time off except when ordered, and he had no enemies that the coworker knew of. He texted me a photo of them together.”

Bishop handed over the tablet. Two men of similar heights and builds were at a bar, sharing what looked like mugs of beer.

A sliver of a retirement banner hung in the background.

One man was a stranger; the other was not Aleks Yovenko.

The face was similar enough, but his eyes…

this man’s eyes were different. Exhausted but coping.

Aleks’s eyes had fooled Malori many times, but he recognized them now for what they were—cold, black, empty. “That’s not Aleks,” Malori said.

“Thought so. And that’s not all,” Bishop continued.

“Ziggy sent me more info on the work ID with Yovenko’s picture and Yovani Alexie’s name.

The company on the name badge is a shell corporation, briefly used to funnel money from a federal nonprofit contract into someone else’s pocket. It hasn’t operated in four years.”

“Is Ziggy tracking down who laundered the money?” King asked.

“He’s working on it, but that’s not the biggest mind-fuck of this entire discovery. The ID? It wasn’t available online until three days ago. The first notable cache on the image is the day before the real Yovani Alexie was killed.”

“But why?” Malori wasn’t a sleuth, a detective, or a hacker. He had no idea what any of this meant or how it connected to him, and it was starting to give him a headache.

“He’s taunting us,” King replied with a growl.

“Telling us that he knows we’re looking for him and that he’s three steps ahead.

He makes the fake ID photo available, has Alexie murdered knowing we’ll learn of it, knowing we’ll connect it to this shell corporation.

I’ll wager ten grand that Ziggy can’t find anything tangible on the shell or who the money went to. ”

“But we know it was likely Yovenko or an associate of his,” Bishop added. “He wants us chasing our tails.”

“Exactly.”

“But why?” Malori asked. This was miles beyond his wheelhouse, and he needed it explained like he was a six-year-old.

“It’s a macho man thing,” Kensley piped up.

He’d been listening with a pensive expression, and now he simply looked irritated.

“Or cat and mouse, if you rather. Whipping out the measuring stick. I saw it all the time as a priest, especially when it was my turn to hear confession. Men doing whatever it takes to prove to other men that they’re the smartest, most powerful, most dominant.

” He grunted and rubbed his belly. “In my experience, those men are either pathetic losers, or they’re absolute psychopaths who will stop at nothing. ”

“Astute observations, brother,” King said. “What do your instincts tell you about Yovenko?”

“Psychopath. The way he lied to Malori and the way he’s taunting us now? He’s dangerous, because it’s all a game. People are pawns, not human beings.” He frowned at Malori. “I’m so sorry.”

Malori swallowed several times, his mouth dry, as truths he’d tried to ignore slammed into the present, angry and harsh and undeniable.

“You’re right. I was a pawn, a plaything.

My son was just collateral damage.” Agony knifed him in the chest. “What if my baby was a pawn, too? What if Aleks…left him somewhere? What if he died alone and screaming in terror, because his daddy abandoned him? Fuck, what if both of my children are dead?”

Instead of grief, a new, white-hot fury blinded Malori, and he released a noise of sheer hatred.

Not a scream, not a wail, but pure negative emotion.

For his kids, for himself, for everyone who’d been taken, used, and disposed of by the Farm, and by other men and women like Aleks Yovenko.

People who took without asking, discarded without caring.

People with no soul who thrived on evil intentions.

“I’ve got you, angel.” King’s voice was all around him, his body a firm constant as Malori tried to regain control.

To come out of his furious fog and angry ranting.

He was kneeling on the floor, King wrapped around him from behind, Kensley hugging him from the front.

His throat hurt from screaming, and he kind of wanted to vomit.

But as he controlled his breathing, his mind felt clearer. His soul a fraction lighter for having released this burden. For truly acknowledging the worst possible outcome, and for reshaping that fear into something else: purpose.

Vengeance is mine, sayeth thy Lord.

Mine.

“I’m okay,” Malori rasped. “I’m okay, I promise.”

“That was scary, friend,” Kensley said as he pulled back, his cheeks streaked with tears.

“I’m sorry, everything hit me at once. I couldn’t turn it off.”

“Letting the bad stuff out is healthy. Ask me how I know?” Kensley winked then wiped his cheeks. “Please, believe your children are alive and waiting for you. Please, don’t give up that hope?”

Malori wasn’t sure how to believe for himself, but he could try for his friend’s sake. His friend, who was due to give birth in two more months, and who needed those reassurances. “I promise I’ll try.”

“Good enough.”

Once everyone was off the floor and standing in a protective huddle—a family of four, soon to be five—Malori turned to King. “What’s next?”

“Keep your finger on the trigger guard until you’re preparing to shoot,” King said. “If it’s on the outside, you can’t accidentally squeeze off a shot.”

“Makes sense.”

Malori hadn’t expected his “What’s next?

” question to be answered with gun safety and shooting lessons, but he was enjoying the experience.

King had acquired use of a private range for two hours, supervised by an instructor King trusted, so Malori could ask questions and gain some personal defense training.

He’d been surprised by how heavy a real pistol was, even a small one, and the rubber practice gun wasn’t much lighter.

They’d gone through the proper stances, how to hold the weapon with both hands, and figuring out that Malori was right-eye dominant when it came to aiming.

To squeeze the trigger instead of pulling, so you didn’t pull your aim off target.

So many details Malori had never considered but that made perfect sense.