Page 22 of Vengeful King

Right.

I’ll deal with her later. For now, I have this man to handle. He’s obviously drunk; I can smell it.

I can immediately tell he probably doesn’t belong on this side of town, as much as he may want to. He may be rough, but he has the polished edge of a man that grew up behind a picket fence and looked with longing eyes toward muddier pastures.

He probably thinks he’s hot shit. Most of them do.

“Hey, cool it, man,” he says, trying to pull away from me.

I almost laugh. Bold of him to think I’m going to just let him go, after the scene he caused. “What’s your name?”

“What? Casey. Look, man, you know how—”

“Casey.”

I stop as I say his name; we’re standing in the alley behind the club, right next to the door to the back hall and the offices. It’s easy to access.

Back in my father’s day, there was someone that had to be disposed of. He was shot right here and after, as retainers took care of the body, my father walked through that back door and into the bathroom to wash his hands.

I’m hoping I won’t have to resort to that. I’d hate to get blood on my suit.

“Listen, Casey,” I begin calmly. “You fucked with what belongs to the O’Reilly family. And we don’t allow people to pull shit like that in our club.”

I say it like it’s a fact because it is. Like gravity, there are facts about my family territory. This is one of them.

You don’t fuck with what’s ours. And if you do, God help your miserable soul.

Casey is getting pale, but the flush of alcohol at the high points of his cheeks remains. He’s sobering up because of the situation, but the drink still clings to him. It’s probably whispering sweet, foolish words in his ear. Telling him to run.

He wouldn’t get past the back door.

“Katrina’s my ex,” Casey says, bolstering himself like it makes a damn difference.

It doesn’t. But the name surprises me. Katrina, not Kate. Similar enough—she might have given it as the nickname she’s used to hearing, the name she’s comfortable with.

But I’m not giving the benefit of the doubt to anyone in this situation. So I make a note of the fact for later, when I go back in to deal with her.

If she’s even still there.

“She’s a whore for dancing for money,” Casey says. He’s shaking his head slowly, like he’s been concussed. “You know what kind of a woman does that?”

I don’t answer. Part of me is disconnected the way it always is with business, watching from behind myself, emotions locked away. The part of me that’s present is methodical. Thinking. I’m calculating everything he says, every reason he may have to disrupt my club.

None of them are satisfactory.

Casey’s on a roll. I can see it, the steam building, his confidence billowing like a sail in the wind. He’s stepping closer to me,a mistake,and he’s waving his hands. He thinks he has an audience.

He’s in front of judge, jury, and executioner. There is no audience. Not anymore.

“A lazy slut,” Casey says, savoring each word. “Good-for-nothing piece of ass. She might have been good when I had her, but she thought she was hot shit. She left me, thinking she could find something better, and now what is she doing? Dancing in some hole in the fucking wall.”

My jaw clenches, my fingers curling and uncurling. A smarter man might pick up on those warning signs, but the asshole in front of me clearly doesn’t notice.

“She had a taste of my cock, and she couldn’t handle it,” Casey says, grinning. “And now what? She’s shaking her ass in front of every filthy street rat, trying to fill up like the whore she is. I bet she isn’t even tight anymore. I bet she already let you have your way with her.”

Something snaps. I can almost hear it. That part of me that’s distant, the part that feels, is still in the background. Still locked behind a gate.

But something breaks, and the coolness of my control, my business façade, shatters. I can’t listen to him any longer.

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