Page 3 of The Boss
“Irish,” Conall said, like it explained everything. It did.
Forrest sighed and poked him in the chest. “I bet he’s a better fuck than you anyway.”
“If you win his favor, you might find out. Now get the fuck out.”
Forrest huffed and stalked from the room, his bubbly arse jiggling as he slammed the door behind him. Conall snorted, chuckling as he grabbed the clothes he’d laid out on the opposite side of the bed. He’d quickly come to learn that whores were dramatic. When they started earning cash, they thought they were irreplaceable. What they forgot was there was always another arse out in the streets, and it was fun to remind them how much power he and Terrance had over them.
He dressed in the one suit he owned. It was dark blue, custom made for his dad’s funeral. It was tighter than he remembered, but that could have been because the funeral was three years ago, and Conall had packed on some muscle since then.
He styled his light brown hair, giving it a messy look, and when he was satisfied, he headed downstairs. Terrance was already pacing the foyer, looking elegant in the black suit he kept for occasions like this. Except if he paced like that, he’d end up wearing a hole in his dress shoes.
Conall rolled his eyes when he came to a stop near the line of whores. They ranged in height, weight, and skin and hair colors. The Virtue had something for everyone—whether the clients preferred the same sex or the opposite, they had it all.
“Terrance, you’re ruining the floor,” Conall snapped.
His brother spun on him, eyes narrowed and furious. “Do you remember the last time he visited,brother?”
He shrugged. “He’s never visited.”
“Precisely. There’s a reason he’s coming.” Terrance’s glare moved to the whores. “Impress him. If he wants you to do some weird shit, you do it. We want to keep him happy, do you hear me?”
They nodded obediently, although Alice had some attitude with hers. She could get away with it, though. Conall supposed that’s what happened when you fucked the provocateur. Terrance enjoyed her pussy too much to call her out.
A knock echoed through the foyer and Terrance exhaled deeply. He tugged at the lapels of his suit and shot the gathering another glare, before he opened the door. He did a weird bow as two burly men entered. They reminded Conall of something out of aMen in Blackmovie, with their pitch-black suits and sunglasses, except they had the size too. They towered over Terrance, which said something because he was six two.
One of the men spoke into something in his hand. “It’s clear. Send the boss in.”
Conall raised his brows and bit his lip to stop himself from saying something smart about a big, tough mob boss needing security. Terrance would kill him.
A group of men moved through the double doorway. They were big too, some more than the others, and had guns strapped to their body under their suits. A few familiar faces appeared, including O’Riley. Conall called him their handler, but O’Riley hated that term, so Conall made sure to call him that whenever he could.
O’Riley was a tall man with a dark bushy beard. He was at least a decade older than Terrance and had the wrinkles around his eyes to prove it. He had a scar that ran around the base of his neck—according to O’Riley, he’d been bombarded by the Italians, and they slit his throat and left him there, expecting he’d bleed out. He didn’t.
Conall didn’t believe the story, but the women ate it up and practically jumped on his cock. Conall didn’t know if they were gullible or wanted a reason to fuck someone in the mob.
Another man walked through the doors, and the room fell to silence. No one had to guess who Killough was. His presence dominated the room, not only because of his handsome face and wide shoulders, but because of the way he stood and stared. He demanded compliance, and anyone who still had their senses would fall on their knees to please him.
He wasn’t what Conall imagined, though. He’d expected an old, fat guy with weathered skin and a strong Irish accent—the kind Conall’s dad had. Sloan Killough definitely wasn’t fat or old. He looked no older than thirty-five, with a square jaw and bright eyes the color of the sea off Hawaii, or at least what Conall imagined it would look like. He had never seen eyes like that before; there wasn’t anything fake about them, they weren’t contacts. Killough was tall, too, probably as tall as his security, and he had a large scar running over his left eye, which ended at the bottom of his cheek, just above his beard growth.
Conall could almost hear the whore’s panties get wet. The wide eyes and sighs certainly weren’t unexpected. Even Forrest licked his lips, eyes darkening with lust as his gaze trailed over the boss’s body.
Conall rolled his eyes. Predictable. But he didn’t blame them, either. His own body took notice, and his stomach made a weird flipping movement he wasn’t used to. He blamed it on being left horny after Forrest’s short visit.
Terrance floundered, nearly tripping over his feet as he shuffled closer, bowing. “Sir! It’s a pleasure to have you here.”
Killough’s eyes swept around the room, running over each of the whores like he was assessing a piece of art. He didn’t bother to give Terrance so much as a nod. It was almost as though Terrance wasn’t there to begin with.
His gaze stopped on Conall, that deep turquoise stare trailing from the top of his head to his feet, causing a tingling sensation under Conall’s skin, and he balled up his fists, ready to put an end to the ridiculous reaction.
“Sir?” Terrance shifted closer, but an arm from one of the guards shot out, stopping him.
Killough glanced at him. “Who are you?” He didn’t have the Irish accent either, which probably meant he was born in America, unlike Terrance and Conall. The difference was that Conall had been raised in New York since he was only a month old, whereas Terrance was seven when they moved, so he still had traces of the accent.
“I’m Terrance Morrissey, sir. The provocateur of the Exotic Virtue.” Terrance bowed again.
Conall wanted to cringe in embarrassment. His brother was coming on too strong, and he could see the backlash brewing because of it. Conall needed to stop this before Terrance made a bigger fool of their establishment.
He stepped forward, earning Killough’s attention again. “Sir, I’m Conall Morrissey, Terrance’s brother.” He bowed, but it was a shallow bend of his back, nothing as dramatic as Terrance’s. “Welcome to the Exotic Virtue. If you’re here to test your product, we’ve made certain that you have a wide range of selection.” He waved toward the whores.
