Page 1 of Meow

Chapter One

Duffield

One second, I'm instructing my enforcers on how to encase my competitor's feet in concrete before sending him to the bottom of the Detroit River, and the next?

Every inch of thick Irish meat I’m packing is granite-hard, the thrill of planning my enemy's demise slithering down my spine and out of the room in search of coffee.

What the fuck did I just see?

No, that’s not the right question.

What the fuck did I just feel?

"Who the fuck is that and why is she wearing cat ears?" I growl at my sister, stabbing a thick index finger toward the hall.

Ingrid is sitting across the wide walnut conference table, doodling shockingly accurate images of our enemies, alongside creative methods for dismemberment, on a legal pad—proof our muscle followed through on our orders.

My teeth clench at the sound of some pop princess song about girl power coming through the ceiling speakers as shepauses and nods toward the glass wall separating our conference room at Bark and Purr Pet Supply from the hallway.

"That?" She shrugs, circling something on her macabre grocery list. "Probably another replacement candidate for your assistant. You've interviewed fourteen this month. Can't findonesuitable girl to fetch your coffee and suck your dick?"

I resist standing for a better view of the pink-haired flash topped with sparkly cat ears heading toward my office suite. Another candidate unable to meet my eyes, let alone agree to work for me.

But there’s something different about this one. With barely a glance as she passed, heat presses upward from my core, a bead of sweat trickling down my spine.

Ingrid sneers as my heart thunders. Rocko and Pauly, two of my best enforcers, sit stone-faced to my left, their gazes set forward, anxious to begin their day's work. They enjoy their jobs, and I reward loyalty generously. After ten years in my employ, they know to stay silent unless directly questioned or delivering someone's severed ear.

I've built an empire on body parts and intimidation, evolving into a hybrid of legitimate businesses and underworld dealings. Our most successful recent venture? A chain of upscale pet supply stores. People empty their fucking wallets for their pets. I should know. And I'm here for every cent.

It’s a prime set up for cleaning dirty money as well. Our dumpsters are full of ‘expired’ or otherwise unsalable food, and other ‘damaged’ goods, which sets up some nice losses and keeps our bookkeeping creative but plausible.

That's why I spend more time in our sleek Plymouth Avenue office these days than O'Hanley's Pub's grimy backroom on Gratiot—my unofficial headquarters for the last three decades. The darkness of my grandfather's bar suited me. Our familylegacy set into every dented wall and every bleach-cleaned surface.

I wasn't built for the pretty world. My mother told me I was born a monster both inside and out. She never forgave me for arriving at thirteen pounds and twenty-three inches. In her telling, even the medical staff offered condolences instead of congratulations.

Over the years, I grew somewhat into my Cro-Magnon forehead, but my twisted face and hulking body have always either horrified or intimidated, especially the fairer sex. But I’m not a man to beg, not even in my horniest teenage years. I’ve never taken a knee to anyone, and especially not for pussy.

So I became what I am—a man without carnal desires. Numbness settled into my DNA and turned me into the monster my visage embodies.

I don’t desire a wife or a soft place to put my dick. Never has the urge to procreate nipped at my heels. I live, breathe, shit and dream about my business empire. It is my life. I have nothing else.

Except Seymour and Delilah.

Two kittens that I found in a rusty garbage can into which I was preparing to throw an enemy’s head. They were doing that little kitty squeak that isn’t quite a meow yet, looking up at me with eyes the color of four leaf clovers. I tossed the head into the open sewer grate instead, gave my hands a good cleaning with the bottle of hand sanitizer I keep in my inside suit pocket, scooped them up as the freezing rain came down, soaking their little heads as they nipped at my fingers and used their razor-like paws on the backs of my hands.

The rest is a rags-to-riches history for them.

Only Ingrid knows about my two four-legged roommates. In my world, weaknesses stay hidden, or they become weapons against you.

If anyone threatened my cats? There'd be no body parts to deliver. I’d turn them into a bloody milkshake of revenge one body part at a time, keeping them alive as long as possible as each appendage and pound of flesh was severed, and I’d let Seymour and Delilah watch.

"I don't get my dick sucked by assistants," I snap at my sister, the silence in the room starting to pulse. She pauses her doodling to toss me a quizzical look, then grins like she can see the filthy thought bubble above my head which right now is playing a little scene of me sitting behind my desk, one hand petting that silky soft pink hair I just saw walk by, watching those cat ears bob up and down as she services all twelve inches of the Irish sausage I’ve saved for her.

Ingrid smirks on a snort, sunlight catching her shocking blue eyes—one legacy from our father we both share—while her permanent devious smile mirrors our mother's humor.

Muted sounds of laughter seep through the walls from the offices adjacent to the conference room as I struggle to ground myself back into the work of the day. But the sound reminds me I don’t remember my last laugh. Or smile.

"Sure about that dick-sucking thing?" Ingrid raises a perfectly microbladed black eyebrow. She’s in yellow today, which makes her look a goth, runway model bumblebee, with her onyx black hair slicked back in her signature bun, two-inch fang shaped black fingernails tipping every finger and matching matte black Morticia-style lipstick.

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