Page 4 of The Kingpin’s Omega Lover (River City Omegas #2)

But Kensley’s attempted kidnapping had led to an almost-month-long ordeal that ended in a second, successful kidnapping by a woman named Marta.

King had personally deleted the man in his organization who’d sold Bishop and Kensley’s location out to Marta, and then given that traitor’s assets to the people who dimed him out as their reward. But that was weeks after.

After Marta sold Kensley to a place called the Farm, where Kensley met the omega male he would be replacing: Malori Cann. Malori had been raped and tortured at the Farm for three years, and had likely been minutes from death when King, Bishop, and their men raided the place.

They had freed nine prisoners, including one other omega male and two alpha females. Everyone except Kensley and Malori had been relocated to new locations. Kensley and Bishop were in love and having a baby in about two more months, while Malori was…surviving.

King had never been as drawn to another human being in his life as he was to Malori, male or female, it didn’t matter. He’d promised Malori that everyone who’d wronged him would be punished. It had been slow going so far, but having Landau here, now, was one more step toward righting those wrongs.

“There’s gotta be something you want,” Landau whined. “Is there something I can give you so you’ll spare my life?”

“No. You have four questions left.”

“Uh, will you let me live if I never ask the final question?”

Bishop snorted laughter then shifted his weight, a familiar sign of his boredom. He wanted to use the water pistol more, and King would let him. Soon.

“I appreciate clever thinkers,” King replied, “but no. Your fate was sealed the minute you paid to rape Malori Cann, Mr. Landau. However, you might be able to make your death quick and far less painful than it has to be.”

“How?”

Not a yes or no question, but King held up a staying hand before Bishop could squirt him. “Tell me everything you know about a man named Aleks Yovenko.”

“Who?”

King waved. Bishop sprayed water directly at Landau’s groin.

Landau shrieked, the pained noise echoing in the small space like gunshot reports.

Landau writhed, feet barely keeping him upright as his body contorted, desperate to protect his most sensitive area, which was currently under attack by forming ice.

King grabbed Landau’s chin, which was not unlike gripping a block of ice. He held Landau’s wide, wild eyes and said, “Aleks Yovenko. Fast or slow, Mr. Landau. Your choice.”

In the end, Norris Landau gave up nothing about Aleks Yovenko—either because Landau genuinely knew nothing of the man, or because Yovenko had leverage over Landau, even under threat of death.

Landau also knew nothing about Marta (the woman who kidnapped and sold Kensley to the Farm), the inner workings of the Farm itself, or anyone else who’d paid to use their services.

By the time Landau passed out from the cold and pain, he had the first knuckle of two fingers and a piece of frozen foreskin on the floor by his frost-bitten toes.

King and Bishop stepped outside the freezer and into thick, warm air.

King shrugged out of the parka and tossed it at Bishop, who hugged it close to his half-frozen body, instead of putting it on, the stubborn jerk.

Bishop’s lips were blue, but he refused to show signs of weakness; he’d always been that way, even as young teens.

“Have both fingertips bagged up and sent to the Denver PD,” King said.

“They’ll never find the rest of the body, but it’ll get the word out that something happened to Norris Landau.

Even if his shady dealings were limited to seven transactions with the Farm, and he doesn’t have any other connections, word will eventually get back to Marta and her people. ”

“Are you sure?” Bishop asked.

King nodded, not at all annoyed that Bishop had questioned his order.

Typically, they did everything possible to dispose of bodies so the authorities did not discover them.

But their entire mission to bring down Yovenko, and Marta and her trafficking organization, was personal.

King wanted Marta to know she wasn’t safe, she was being sought out, and that she would never find a secure location to set up operations again.

Not if word got out that former clients of the now-defunct Farm kept showing up dead.

Or at least, pieces of them kept showing up. Landau would be victim number three, a number much lower than King had hoped, but he needed to be sure. The last thing King ever wanted to do was victimize another innocent person—not even in the pursuit of personal justice.

No more innocent lives destroyed because of King.

“What about the rest of the body?” Bishop asked.

“Compass it, and then we were never here.”

“Understood.” Bishop un-holstered his favored pistol and checked the chamber. “I’ll take care of it.”

King nodded, forever grateful for the shorthand he had with Bishop.

“Compass it” meant to make sure the body was distributed in at least four locations, at points north, south, east and west of the city, which made it more difficult to find the rest of the body on the slight chance authorities ever discovered one piece.

Not that local authorities would ever be looking for Norris Landau, since his fingers were going back to Denver, while the rest of him was staying in northern Pennsylvania.

“We were never here” simply meant the freezer and corridor would be cleaned and sanitized and never used again by their people.

Bishop started to go back into the freezer.

“Wait.” King pulled his own weapon from its back holster and stepped inside the freezer.

He rarely did this part himself, and even though he knew Landau was close to death, if not dead already from cold and shock, King couldn’t walk away without knowing.

He needed to be able to look Malori in the eyes and know Landau was dead.

He raised his right hand, steadied it with his left, aimed with practiced precision, and squeezed the trigger. The noise was painfully loud, the splatter contained by the cold. Landau barely jerked, his limp, blue body nothing more than a frozen cube of useless meat.

Back outside the freezer, Bishop’s expression was curiously unreadable. “Will you be home later?” he asked blandly.

King nodded. “Of course.” He’d already promised Kensley he’d be home for dinner at seven, and the last time King had been an hour late without calling, Kensley hadn’t spoken directly to him for a week. He adored his little brother’s stubborn streak. “See you then.”

He turned and strode back down the corridor, unease clinging to his skin like frost now clung to Landau’s.

This wasn’t the first time King had killed, and it wouldn’t be the last. This was the life he’d chosen, the life he’d worked hard to protect.

The life he’d tried in vain to protect Kensley from for the last fourteen years, until the day violent men tried to take Kensley away and use him against King.

That was why Kensley now lived with King and Bishop in King’s heavily protected penthouse.

So did Malori.

Sweet, damaged, incredibly strong Malori, whose pain walked beside him like a grim shadow, ready to lash out at any moment, but always oddly silent. Still.

The stillness wouldn’t last, though, of that King had no doubts. One day, Malori would want to break free and live his life again, and King would let him go. He would let Malori go, because King was a killer. King was dangerous.

Malori deserved better than him. So, for now, King would continue avenging Malori’s anguish and do his best to find the men who’d stolen Malori’s children. What happened after that was up to Malori.

King stepped outside into the humid, late summer sunshine and strode to his car, cell phone already out and dialing, prepared to tackle the next thing on his packed, carefully balanced plate.

A kingpin’s job was never done.