Page 20 of Meow

"Be careful, sis," I warn, my tone leaving no room for debate.

Ingrid glances from me to the screen, surprise shifting to scrutiny as her eyes narrow. "You like her," she accuses, jabbing a manicured finger my way. A smile tugs at her lips. "Is thislikelike, or are you just enjoying the kitty's kitty?"

I growl, and she laughs—a sound I haven't heard since her tenth birthday. I remember that day vividly: her opening my gift, a make-your-own unicorn kit. All I could afford then.Her infectious laugh, her room-brightening smile. Her unicorn obsession.

I wonder where that little sister went.

Though I know exactly where. She disappeared the day one of our rivals tried to rape her. Tried. Failed. It was a month after our father was found behind our bar with a bullet in his head.

Someone was making a statement, but I ended up being the one with the megaphone.

I made sure the head of the family that sent their goon to rape my sister suffered—cutting off fingers, tongue, eyes—before finally slitting his throat and dumping what remained in the river.

Then, I got more creative with his brothers. His muscle. And finally, his father. That was the statement that needed to be made. I took my position that day in our city, and bloodshed has just become part of the game, not of just surviving in underworld businesses, but rising to the top.

But even with all my noble revenge, my baby sister vanished forever after that, replaced by a woman determined to never be hurt again.

Now, for a fleeting moment, I glimpse the girl I lost.

"Hey, if you like her, you like her." She turns back to business, the soft moment lost in a poof. "If she lasts longer than the last one, I'll be pleased. Right now, we need to discuss reprisals."

"Who?" I shift into work mode.

For the next hour, we strategize. Our empire operates like any business—with employees, rivals, investments, liabilities, profits, and losses. Money. Black market goods. Real estate. I stay away from drugs. Never touched the skin game. But there’s guns, too. Cars. Truckloads of ‘missing’ merchandise from any number of hot markets that might be trending at the moment.Also, making sure we keep the right people on our side. Judges. Cops. City officials.

Today's problem: a new gang, showing off, disrespecting us, encroaching on our territory. Violence isn't always necessary, but it's always an option.

"I still say we grab that douche one with the sparkly jeans, cut his balls off and send them to his mother. It sends a message." Ingrid doodles on her notepad as we talk, as usual. "These three guys are weak. We spank them, they'll get the—" She stops, staring past me, raising her pen and poking it in the air over my shoulder. "She's sleeping."

I turn to the monitor where Tabby lies curled on my desk, nose to tail, one hand shielding her eyes from the light. The filing job half-finished.

I laugh. It feels strange, like an appendage that’s been left unused for too long.

God, she's fucking perfect.

"Whoa. This is new. You're laughingandsmiling." Ingrid looks stunned but happy. Light. "The Duffield I know would fire her ass so fast her feet—should I say paws?—wouldn't touch ground."

I shrug. "It's cute."

"Cute?Fucking cute? What are you, twelve?" She bristles. "You need to train her. Show her who's boss. Want me to do it? Woman to..." Her eyes narrow. "I'll make sure she knows she needs to—"

"Calm the fuck down," I interrupt. "She’s tired. If she needs a fucking nap, she gets to nap." I don't give a fuck. I only have her working to keep her near me. Mental note: order a human-sized cat bed. "Besides," I add, recalling Tabby's words, "you can't train a cat."

She gapes as I stand and start toward the door. "Can't train a... Where are you going?"

I ignore her, heading for my office while remembering the pet blankets we over-ordered last year. They're still stashed in storage.

Minutes later, I'm draping a pink furry blanket with blue embroidered tiny fish over my sleeping kitten. She makes a soft mewling sound, shifting without waking, and my cock instantly hardens.

She's impossible to resist.

I flick the lock on my door, text Ingrid to handle the Mackay brothers however she sees fit, and switch my intercom to "busy."

Standing over her sleeping form, I'm overcome with possessive hunger. Mine. All mine. I stroke her pink hair, marveling at its silky texture between my fingers.

She stirs but doesn't wake as I lean down, inhaling her sweet vanilla scent. My lips brush her exposed neck, tasting her warm skin.

"Kitty," I whisper against her ear. "Wake up."

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