Page 47 of The Boss
“He might like that,” Terrance threw in.
Conall flipped Forrest the bird, before turning it on Terrance, making them laugh.
“Howisit getting fucked by Sloan Killough anyway?” Forrest whispered, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. Conall didn’t offer him an answer, instead he gestured to the hallway.
“Show me what Tormey’s done.”
Chapter Ten
What Tormey had done was pretty damn amazing, if Conall was being honest. He’d changed things that Conall never would have thought about. He brought in rules and regulations that whores had to abide by, as well as contacting some people he knew, promoting the Virtue as the place to go for a warm bed and tight arse or pussy for the high-end players. What surprised Conall the most was how much control he had over the staff. They practically bent over backward to please him, which made Conall wonder what he’d done to instill the loyalty.
Whatever it was, Terrance and Forrest weren’t letting him in on the secret.
“You worry about pleasing Killough, we’ll work on the Virtue,” Terrance said with a shake of his head after Conall asked.
“Fuck that, tell me.” He glared at Terrance, poking him in the chest. They’d moved to one of the long corridors, but the guards weren’t far behind them, hovering near the door to the foyer. They watched Terrance carefully, as though he’d decide to attack Conall again.
“Nope.” Terrance held his hands behind his back, standing tall. “We can’t talk business with you.”
“Said who?” Conall gritted his teeth. If Killough or Tormey told Terrance not to talk to him about the Virtue, he’d cut off their balls. He didn’t give a damn if it put him in the grave.
Terrance opened his mouth to say something, but the sound of sharp gunshots sliced through the silence of the brothel. Acting on instinct, Conall ducked and scampered into the nearest doorway, which happened to lead to Terrance’s office. His heart raced in his chest, strong beats that almost rattled his ribs as adrenaline spiked his blood pressure.
Terrance and Forrest rushed in after him, and he slammed the door shut, drowning out loud screams.
“What the fuck?” Terrance hissed. He stood too close to the door, and Conall grabbed his arm, dragging him away from it. “Who would be stupid enough to shoot up a brothel belonging to the Killough Company?”
“Who the fuck cares about that? Where’s the guns?” Conall snapped.
It earned him a glare from Terrance. “Where do you think they are? In the armory. I don’t carry.”
He resisted the urge to snort because he’d always told Terrance what an idiot he was for not having a gun on him. They were a brothel, which meant they were going to have trouble eventually.
Another round of shots forced Conall to dive behind Terrance’s desk where Forrest was already hiding. He grabbed his brother, dragging him under it as well so the three of them were pressed tightly against one another. They didn’t have a gun to defend themselves, so it was safer to hide.
Round after round, automatic bullets vibrated the walls around them. Conall could feel each gunshot in his bones, like fingernails on a chalkboard. The screams drowned into each other, making who they belonged to indecipherable.
“Should we go out there?” Terrance stared at Conall with wide eyes. “We need to help them.”
“Help them with what?” he hissed in response, glaring. “We don’t have any weapons because you’re the idiot who doesn’t carry one on you.”
The doorknob twisted and Conall pressed his finger over his mouth, gesturing for Forrest and Terrance to shut the fuck up. Heavy footsteps filled the silence of the room and Conall held his breath.
“I smell a coward,” a thick Italian voice said, because of course it was a fucking Italian. It would have been either them or the Russians. “Come out, little mousey.”
Conall glanced at Forrest. His eyes were wide, his shoulder trembling, and his throat worked around a swallow. He was a whore, he wasn’t used to this kind of fear. Neither was Conall, but something urged him to protect his brother and Forrest.
He fiddled with his collar, taking it off and throwing it to Forrest before he shoved himself to his feet and met the stare of the smirking Italian. “I’m not a fucking coward.”
The other man raised his dark eyebrows and laughed. “Who are you?” He had an automatic rifle clutched in his hands, probably an AR-15 or M-16, not that Conall knew much about guns. He’d never needed to carry a gun—that’s why the Virtue had hired guards, to protect them from imbecile clients. Except this guy wasn’t a client behaving badly.
“I’m Conall Morrissey, provocateur here at the Exotic Virtue. Why are you attacking my establishment?” He crossed his arms over his chest. Even though he attempted to look confident, he felt anything but. The hair on his arms rose, fear clenching at his stomach. He wasn’t going to show this arsehole how scared he felt, though. If it was his time, he’d go with his pride intact.
“Well, then, Mr. Morrissey, any last words before I put a bullet in your head?” He stepped closer, the gun raised and aimed right at Conall’s chest.
Conall lifted his chin, jaw tight. He spread his arms, daring the Italian to make a move. “Do it. Shoot an unarmed man. Who’s the coward then?”
The other man hesitated, his thick brows fusing together in thought. Conall had never had much experience dealing with the Italian mob, but if they were anything like the Irish, being called a coward was the worst insult.
