Page 63 of The Boss
The Italian snorted. “Wow. What kind of men is Killough training? No manners at all.”
Ronan attempted to snort, but it sounded strained, as though he was still waking up from his unconscious state. “Fuck off,please. Is that better for you?”
Conall chuckled. “Sloan likes us using our manners, Ronan.”
They both broke into laughter. The Italian glared and landed a punch into Ronan’s stomach, making the soldier gasp and groan.
“Oi, leave him alone,” Conall snapped. “It’s me you want, right? That’s why I’m here? Because I belong to Sloan.”
The other men at the table went back to their game of cards, clearly not interested in what was happening to their prisoners. The Italian, now standing back in front of Conall, pulled a gun from a holster under his jacket. It was silver and glinted under the bright hanging lights of the warehouse. If it’d been months ago, before Conall met Sloan, he might have been afraid of the way the Italian pointed it at his forehead, but he’d seen too much death and blood over the last few months. He wasn’t afraid anymore. A part of him expected to die, like Sloan’s other pets.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shoot you,” his captor hissed, pressing the muzzle of the gun harder against Conall’s forehead.
Conall smirked. “Can’t think of one. I’dloveto see what Sloan would do to you if you kill me. It’ll make my ghost very happy. I can already imagine how he’ll torture you, though. He’ll probably start with cutting off your cock. I’ve heard he loves cutting off the cocks of men who hurt his pets. Do you like yours attached?”
The Italian hesitated, the gun wavering, before he gained his senses again. He shoved the muzzle harder against Conall’s forehead. “Don’t push your luck, whore.”
Conall rolled his eyes. “I’m getting really sick and tired of being called a whore. I was never a whore, I’m apet.”
He frowned. “There’s no difference.”
“Actually, there is. Whores are sex workers. They fuck their clients for money. The workers at the Virtue are whores,” Conall said.
“And a pet?”
“A pet has sex, sure, but I also keep Sloan company. I get to drive his cars and live in his mansion.”
“And a whore can’t do that?” The pressure of the gun released slightly.
Conall took his chance. He landed his foot right in his captor’s crotch. The Italian let out an agonized howl and fell to his knees, the gun clattering to the floor as he keeled over while grabbing his crown jewels, as though holding them would somehow make them feel better.
The other men in the room shot to their feet, guns in hand as they headed toward Conall and their leader, eyebrows furrowed with sympathy once they worked out what’d happened.
Conall smirked at them. “Who’s next?”
One of them hit the butt of his gun against Conall’s head, successfully breaking the skin and making blood spurt from the wound. Agony throbbed at his forehead, and he groaned at the sudden onslaught of pain, but his glare on them didn’t falter. He kicked at the one who hit him, but the man grabbed his foot, twisting his ankle until Conall heard the snap of bone. He couldn’t hold back a scream.
Ronan struggled against his bonds. “Hey, don’t touch him! I’ll fucking kill you.”
The men laughed, but they didn’t turn away from Conall. Another took the chance to sucker punch him in the chest, and Conall let out a choked breath, his heart stopping for a scary moment. His lungs tightened, and he thought this was the end because he couldn’t suck in any air—he wasn’t breathing—but then his lungs released and managed to work again.
His ears buzzed and the world tilted, his vision blurring. Fuck. That hurt.
“Don’t do this!” Ronan yelled. “You want a punching bag? You have one. Me. If you hurt him before you contact our boss, you’ll never get what you want.”
The Italian who Conall had kneed gave himself a final soothing rub, before he straightened, or tried to. His knees were still slightly bent, his hand still cupping his cock as though he was afraid it’d be a target again. His jaw tightened and he pointed at Ronan. “We will get what we want becausethisis our orders. We’re going to make your boss hurt by making his pet hurt.”
As if to prove a point, he tugged a flip knife out of a pocket in his pants.
Conall’s arms trembled from where he hung, and he pursed his lips to keep himself steady. His entire body hurt but he wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of begging. He’d never fucking beg. He would take whatever torture they’d inflict on him.
The Italian stepped forward, his pale lips twisted in pleasure. “I’m going to make you hurt for that.”
Conall snorted. “You were always going to, I just wanted to make sure I got my own shots in. How is your cock feeling right about now?” His gaze dropped to the Italian’s crotch. “I wouldn’t come too close if I was you. I still have an uninjured foot.”
“We can fix that,” he hissed angrily. He nodded at one of his bigger buddies, a bulky bastard with a big beard and a mean look in his eye. Conall held his breath, but as the monster stepped toward him, the warehouse doors opened, making everyone pause.
Conall didn’t know the newcomer, but clearly the Italians did because they scampered away from him and made a path for the stranger. He reminded Conall of Folliero and Elio, and it didn’t take much deducing to realize who this was—Toscani, the bastard son behind all of this.
