Page 66 of The Boss
“We need them as a distraction. George knows what to do.” Sloan tugged open the wobbly door buried in the ground and it nearly fell off its hinges. It looked like it hadn’t been opened in a few years at least. There were stairs right beneath it, and Sloan didn’t give Fionn a chance to say anything before he descended them and pulled out a flashlight he’d brought along.
The narrow passageway was only big enough to walk in a single line. He didn’t have to wait for Fionn, because he knew he’d be right behind him. Moving further into the darkness, he avoided some hanging vines and weaved past spiderwebs. Fionn cursed behind him, muttering about spiders being useless creatures. It nearly made Sloan laugh.
The uneven ground nearly caught Sloan tripping a few times, but he managed to keep himself on his feet. When they made it to the end, Sloan pressed his finger to his lips, warning Fionn to be quiet. He ascended the small ladder the Russians had left behind and pressed his arm against the wooden door that would lead them into the warehouse. He listened for voices but heard nothing.
Cracking it open, Sloan peered out of the small slit he’d made. He couldn’t see anyone. He shoved it open and slowly laid it on the ground, before he slid into the tiny room that looked like it might have been an office once upon a time. Everything was covered in a layer of dust now, though, with cobwebs filling every corner of the room. The desk had a sheet thrown over it, and the chair behind it looked old enough that if someone sat in it, it’d break under their weight. There was barely any decoration to the room, with only one painting of an old man smiling. He wasn’t anyone recognizable.
Fionn followed Sloan out of the passageway and frowned around the room. “Now what?” he whispered.
“Now we get my pet back.” Sloan shifted to the only door in the room and twisted the knob as slowly and quietly as he could. He opened it slightly, looking out into the larger room. What he saw made his blood hot with anger. His pet, as well as Ronan, were hanging from ropes attached to the beams of the room, their bodies stretched and bleeding with wounds. His pet looked worse than Ronan, but as Sloan listened carefully, he could tell why. Conall’s snippy responses made Sloan smile. Torture hadn’t changed his boy.
Sloan wasn’t close enough to hear what Toscani was saying, but when Conall spat at him, the back of Toscani’s hand met his cheek.
Fionn grasped Sloan’s arm when Sloan rocked forward. “Not yet, uncle.”
Fuck. Fionn was right. Not yet. He needed to wait for his soldiers to get into position. He didn’t have to wait long. One of the Italians near the front door was surprised when a rag full of chloroform covered his face. He struggled silently, before his eyes closed and he fell into unconsciousness. Sloan’s solider dragged him out of the room before the other Italians noticed.
Sloan watched as his men slid through the front door, moving as silent as mice on a mission. Even with their size, they’d been taught to walk as though they were the weight of a feather.
By the time the seven Italians realized what was happening, it was too late. Sloan’s men had already taken out their scouts outside, and it was now seven against thirty. The Italians pulled out their guns, but the soldiers were ready with their silenced handguns. Two went down without their hands touching their own weapons, and another two were grabbed around the neck, strangled until they lost consciousness.
Toscani reared back in shock, then had his own gun in his palm, pointing it straight at Conall’s head. “Don’t move or I’ll kill your boss’s slut.”
Sloan’s men stopped, taking slow, measured steps toward Toscani.
“I said stop!” Toscani’s voice was laced with madness, bordering on hysterical. He never would have made a good mob boss, whose job it was to remain calm and steady.
Sloan decided he was bored with this game. Spying a pitchfork leaning against the wall of the warehouse, he slid along the length of it to grab it. Fionn followed him, back pressed against the rotting wood.
Sloan held up his hand, gesturing for Fionn to stay there, and crept forward. He turned the pitchfork so he was holding the end with the spikes. Toscani was focused on Sloan’s men, so he didn’t see him coming until Sloan had slammed the wood across his head.
Toscani dropped his gun and fell to his side. Sloan’s men moved into action, two of them dropping on top of the Italian, using their weight to keep him still. With all the Italians restrained, Sloan turned to Conall, who glared at him.
“What took you so long, sir?” he muttered.
Sloan paused, taking in the sight of his pet. Blood covered the side of his face, some of his chest sliced and bleeding. He had a knife sticking out of his right shoulder, and his breath was labored in short, pain-filled pants.
Rage like Sloan hadn’t felt before surged through him and he clicked his fingers. “Get them down. Now.” He didn’t wait to see if his men would follow his orders because he knew they would. He headed to Toscani, who had blood pouring from his mouth. Clearly one of Sloan’s soldiers had aimed a well-deserved punch to his face.
“How did you find us?” Toscani hissed, spitting some of the blood on the ground beside him.
“His collar.” Sloan made a gesture, telling his soldiers to lift Toscani to his feet. He waited until they’d done it before his fist landed on Toscani’s cheek, making the Italian fly straight back to the ground. “Get him up.”
Sloan stood there for five minutes, punching Toscani, until his fists were sore and the Italian’s face was covered in blood. Toscani cried out with every hit, and it was only when Conall called Sloan’s name that he stopped.
Toscani laughed, but it shook. “This isn’t over, Killough.”
“Oh, it’s over.” Sloan glanced at the men holding him. “Take him to our special place. Take themall.”
His men dragged Toscani and the rest of the Italians away.
Sloan spun on his heel, striding back to Conall, only stopping when he had his pet in his arms, shaking like a leaf in the wind. “Pet, I found you.”
Conall’s deep breathing had subsided, his trembling slowly disappearing. The distinct smell of blood, his pet’s blood, made Sloan sick to his stomach. He’d told Conall this wouldn’t happen, yet it had. His pet had been taken from him,again.
“It’s all right.” Conall glanced up at him, his beautiful dark eyes hazy with pain. “I handled it.”
Sloan’s gaze slid down Conall’s body, taking in the damage. He still wore his jeans, untouched by the look of them, but his chest and stomach were riddled with injuries. The knife had been taken out of his shoulder, a pressure bandage and some tape applied to it, but the blood continued to soak through. His skin was dirty, marred with grime, and his face had dark bruises forming on his beautiful tanned skin. His ankle was twisted at an awkward angle, bones clearly broken.
