Page 36 of Indulge
“Yes,” I answer honestly. I never lie to my brother.
“I knew it.” He grins.
“I ain’t going to stop her if that’s what she wants,” he says quietly, like he hates himself for saying it.
“She is very open about her sexuality. And I have no doubt she has needs that I won’t be able to satisfy as part of our arrangement. So yeah, if you’re what she needs to scratch that itch. Then fine.”
I blink at him, this feels different than normal. In Inferno, we meet a woman, we sign on the dotted line, and we share. At the same time.
Not separately.
“That sounds too messy, bro. She’s your fiancée. Plenty of other women that are waiting for me at the club,” I tell him.
And it’s a kick to the gut.
“Then don’t do it. I’m not giving you permission to chase after her. I’m saying, if she comes to you and that’s what she needs, just for the love of God, do not do anything stupid like fall in love with her.”
I can’t tell if he’s being serious or not. This whole conversation is just, not Reggie.
“I feel like I need this in writing.”
He doesn’t reply.
We pull up outside the church just as the service is ending—hymns still echoing inside while parishioners drift out, laughing, shaking hands, and kids darting around their legs. It’s all so clean, so holy. If only they knew.
Conan’s Range Rover is parked discreetly in the side lot, engine humming. He gives us a nod when we approach, calm as ever.
The priest spots us from the steps. Father Byrne. Old family friend. Gray hair, kindly smile, eyes sharp as glass. He doesn’t miss a trick. He gives a small, subtle gesture toward the side door of the church.
Our guy is here.
The one tied to the bastard who torched our warehouse.
Reggie and I slip inside, the cool air of the church wrapping around us. Incense and candle wax, the faint hush of voices outside. Father Byrne leads us down a narrow hallway, nodding politely at a nun as she passes. He stops at a side room, hand on the door.
“He’s inside. Said he’d stay behind to talk business with me,” the priest murmurs. “I told him I had to fetch the accounts books.”
“Good man,” Conan mutters, taking point as he joins us.
Byrne blesses himself, but the smirk he hides in his collar tells me he knows exactly what game he’s playing. He slips away, leaving us to our work.
Reggie pushes the door open.
Our target sits on a wooden chair, checking his watch like he’s late for brunch. He looks up, confusion flashing when he sees us instead of the priest.
“Hello, sunshine,” I say, stepping inside, voice bright. “Service treat you well?”
His mouth opens, but Reggie’s on him before he can make a sound. One sharp twist of his arm behind his back and he’s pinned.
“Up,” Reggie snaps.
Conan is already pulling the side door open to the lot. The Rover waits with its tinted windows and leather seats, hungry.
I clap the guy on the shoulder as we drag him out. “Don’t worry, mate. This is just a little chat. God’ll forgive you.”
His feet skid against the stone floor, but it doesn’t matter. Between Reggie’s grip and Conan’s size, he’s nothing but cargo.
We shove him into the back of the Range Rover, the door slamming shut behind him.
