3. Maddox

THREE

MADDOX

I don't have to beat anyone up anymore.

That doesn't mean I don't, or that I'm squeamish, or that I never get my hands dirty, but for the most part, my men handle that for me. They wouldn't respect me if they hadn't seen me come up in the ranks, and to do that, I'd had to do some questionable things.

All right, there had been nothing questionable about what I'd done. I'd hurt people, a lot of people, and I'd done it with a distance that everyone had read as coldness. Brutality.

It's not like I go home and cry at night, fretting over what I've done. I don't. I used to care a lot more than I did, but these days?

I don't lose sleep over it.

Lance works the guy over, and I watch, leaning against the doorway.

I can't feel too bad for the fool who'd stolen from the boss. He should've known better than to think we wouldn't notice a missing weapon. I count everything meticulously. Silvano depends on me for it, and I have no intention of failing him again.

I'm already starting to plan what I'll do to the assholes who stole the most recent shipment when I get my hands on them.

"What do you think, boss?" Lance asks, pausing with his bloodied fist just a few inches from the guy's face. "Has he learned his lesson?"

Arthur Mason probably hasn't learned his lesson, and he probably never will. He'll end up in another gang, where he'll try the same sort of thing.

That isn't my problem.

"Break his nose," I tell him, pushing away from the door frame I'd been leaning against.

Lance obliges, punching Arthur's face—the face that had been so smug when he'd thought he'd gotten away with it, the face that had shown such fear when we'd shown up on his door.

Idiot.

"All right," I say when Lance drops Arthur to the ground. "Here's what's gonna happen, Arthur. You're gonna get that gun back, and you're gonna bring it to me. You do that, we'll call it square."

There's blood running down the guy's face, but I don't bat an eye.

Arthur nods frantically. Tears mix in with the blood, making a complete mess of his face. "I promise."

Lance kicks Arthur's side. "Don't even think of running. We got people watching your house, fuckwad."

I think there's panic in Arthur's face. He probably has no idea how to get the gun back. "I have no problem coming back if you don't show up in the next three days," I warn him. "So I'd get moving if I were you." I look at Lance. "Let's go. We don't need him wasting any more of our time."

Lance nods. He glares down at Arthur, then spits on him before turning to follow me.

Arthur's whimpers and sobs follow us out of the building.

Once we're out on the street, Lance grins at me. "That went well, yeah, boss?"

I'm still getting used to the men calling me boss. Despite how hard I've worked over the past several years, I'd never thought I'd become a capo who reports directly to Silvano Cresci.

Some days, I can hardly believe it.

"Yeah," I say, nodding to him as I slide into the driver's seat of the car. "I think that's all for today. I'll drive you home."

"Thanks, boss." Lance gets into the passenger seat and immediately starts fiddling with his phone. We drive in relative silence, until he suddenly says, "So, is it true that you're going to do a mission with that dickface? Forks or Spoons, or whatever dumb name he's using."

I tense up at the mention, though I can't help but crack a slight smile. "Knives," I say, wanting to defend the name even though Knives wouldn't thank me for it.

I'm not going to argue about whether Knives is ridiculous or not.

I wish I could still call him Nayeem , as I had all those years ago when we'd still been teenagers and life hadn't yet fucked us over.

"But yeah," I say, the amusement fading. "It's fine. I'm doing my thing, he's doing his thing, and we'll… figure it out." We have to. I can't stay on Silvano's shit list forever, and I'm not going to let Knives drag me down. It doesn't matter that he doesn't want to do anything with me except fuck me in broom closets. We're going to get this done.

"So what's the boss-boss thinking with that?" Lance asks, still tapping on his phone. "He's got to know that Forks isn't good for anything but punching people when they're down."

Forks . I wish I could tell Knives about that particular nickname. He'd get a kick out of it.

Or would he? Has he changed so much that he doesn't have a sense of humor anymore? Or maybe the name is too personal now.

I hate admitting that I don't know why he chose it.

It doesn't matter right now, so I focus on Lance's question. I have all sorts of theories about why Silvano put us together, and the biggest among them is that he's fully aware of our… thing.

Whatever it is.

Lance doesn't know that, though. He doesn't know that Nayeem and I have a history that goes back over a decade, for all that it was punctuated by years of distance. He doesn't know much about me at all, and it's easier that way.

Easier, but lonelier. Sometimes I wish I could talk to him, or one of the others, but now that I'm capo, I can't risk losing their respect by whining to them about relationship problems.

Past relationship problems. I don't even know what to call what we've become.

"I don't know," I say. "I guess he figures it'll be dangerous."

"But you can handle yourself," Lance asserts without hesitation. "You don't need a bodyguard. You have us. Me and the rest of the men, you know we've always got your back."

I do have them. I worked my way up, fair and square, and I earned their loyalty and respect… for now, at least.

If they knew I was getting shamefully dicked in the closet by Knives, they might not respect me anymore.

"Maybe he wants to bridge a gap between our… um…" I try to think of what to call it. In another job, we'd be different departments , but that doesn't fit here. "Areas of expertise," I settle on.

Lance gives me a look that implies he doesn't believe me. I expect another rebuke, but instead he says, "Sally says I should invite you over for dinner. Like, tonight. To thank you for all the ways you've helped us." He holds up his phone like he expects me to read it.

I give him a sideways glance before focusing on the road again. "So, are you inviting me?"

Lance shrugs. "If you want. It's gotta be better than whatever else you were gonna do tonight."

Sally is Lance's girlfriend. She's pregnant, and they were both having trouble making rent until I lent them the cash to cover them for a few months. I would have done it for any of my men who were having problems, and Sally's excessive gratitude is getting uncomfortable.

"I actually have plans with a friend," I lie. As far as Lance knows, I do have other friends. But no one's close to me. I haven't let anyone, not since Nayeem.

Knives .

My heart just can't take it anymore.

"So give her my thanks and a rain check, yeah?" I make a turn just before the light turns red. "I need to report back to the boss anyway."

"Okay." Lance hmms pointedly. "She'll be disappointed. And you'll miss out on feeling the baby kick."

The last thing I want to do is feel the baby kick. I don't want to put my hand on a pregnant woman's stomach and pretend to care about the new life growing inside of her. "Another time," I lie again, knowing perfectly well I'm going to find an excuse to get out of it until he finally corners me into it. I pull up in front of his apartment building, not caring that I'm blocking traffic.

Lance gets out, but he doesn't shut the door yet. "We'll be home all night, if you change your mind. Sally won't care."

The car behind me starts honking, and somebody curses at us.

"Just go enjoy some alone time with your girlfriend," I say. I have no plans to interrupt them, especially not when I'm in this mood.

I drive off, briefly considering going home and immediately discarding the idea. I can't be alone with my thoughts tonight.

I'll find someone to hurt me.

They can turn the emotional pain into something physical… into something manageable.

Call Knives . The insidious thought catches me off guard, and I grit my teeth to keep from reacting to it.

No. I'm not going to admit to him how desperately I need the pain, especially when he's the reason for it. At the next light, I text my favorite Dom, who's the closest to a friend I have. When he confirms he's going to be at the Club Alpha tonight, I breathe out a sigh of relief. After he works me over, I'll have a few hours of peace.

Carl is already waiting for me in the lounge, and his gruff look softens when he sees me. He envelops me in a hug, pulling me close. "What's wrong, Mads?" he asks.

I wish I could tell him.

He'd understand, I think. Out of everyone I know, he's the one who wouldn't turn his back on me after finding out how badly I'd betrayed Nayeem.

I can't risk it, though.

"Just work stuff," I say, pulling away from him.

Carl gives me a hard stare. "You know what I say about work-life balance."

It's a lecture he'd shared during one of our first meetings, about how work wasn't worth it if you didn't have a life, and any work that was detrimental for your life needed to get dumped. He thinks I work freelance, though, and I could never tell him I actually work for one of the biggest mafia families in New Bristol.

"I know." He doesn't stop staring at me, and I sigh. "I do know. Just have to make ends meet, you know? I'll take a short vacation when I'm done with this job."

He shakes his head, making some of his blond hair fall over his eyes. "I don't think it's healthy. If you were my boy…" Carl trails off.

I avoid his gaze. We've talked about this before, about me being his boy, and I can't lie and say I've never thought about it. Having someone to take care of me at the end of a long day would be nice…

But I don't want gentle and caring.

I want someone to fuck me up.

"Never mind. You want to play tonight? Or just chat? I could find somebody else if you want to watch," he says.

I glance back at him. "I want to play," I say steadily.

I need to.

Carl nods. "All right. Go find the tools I'm using tonight. I'm thinking of giving everybody a show. Does that sound good to you, boy ?"

The idea sends a throb of arousal straight to my dick. "Yeah," I say, swallowing hard. He might be more careful if we're giving a show than he would be if it was just the two of us, but it'll probably last longer. I can't deny that I love doing these things in public and having everybody's eyes on me.

I take off my shirt and put it in my locker, already anticipating the feeling of pain, of having this horrible craving satisfied. It's not that I want Carl to fuck me—I don't—but pain transcends that. It's better, somehow.

And it doesn't remind me of Knives .

Forks.

I stifle a bitter chuckle, then head deeper into the club. In the supply room, I find my favorite flogger. It's the right amount of thud with a little bit of a sting, and Carl knows just how to wield it.

I head back to him, dipping my head in submission as I offer it out to him.

"Good," Carl says, taking the flogger. He runs the tails of it along my jaw, then forces me to tip my chin up. "How many lashes am I giving you tonight?"

I let out a slow breath, staring up at him as the first waves of tranquility start to relax my shoulders. I wish I could tell him to go as hard as he wants, as many as he wants, but he always sees that as a sign not to play. "Twenty-five?" I hazard a guess at what he might think is right. Enough, but not too much. And maybe I can talk him into more.

"Acceptable." Carl gets up and leads me toward the public play areas of the club. One of the regulars waves to me as I pass her.

"You seen Cristiano lately?" she asks, following us to one of the St. Andrew's crosses. "I've missed him."

Carl rolls his eyes. "Cristiano canceled his membership, Heather. He's not coming back."

Heather pouts. "I bet it's because of that little redhead," she says, shaking her head. "Cristiano acted so strange with him. Luke is still traumatized, by the way."

I don't know who Luke is or why he'd be traumatized, and I glance at Carl.

"Cristiano is unhinged anyway," Carl mutters, shaking his head. "You don't need to play with somebody that dangerous." He taps the flogger against my shoulder. "That applies to you, too, Mads. Stay away from psychopaths like Cristiano if he shows back up."

It's a damn good thing he doesn't know Cristiano Fiore is pretty much my manager, right under Silvano Cresci himself. "Yeah," I say, letting Carl secure my left wrist to the cross. I lean against the cool wood, inhaling deeply. It's so familiar, so good, and I offer out my right wrist. He binds that, too, and I close my eyes.

I ignore Heather now as she chatters to Carl, already starting to sink into that place where I don't care about anyone or anything but pain and submission.

"We'll start slow," Carl says, trailing the tails of the flogger along my back. He turns away from me and toward the other people who have come to watch. "The boy is going to take twenty-five lashes. Let's see if he can handle it."

I wish he'd get started already, but Carl is a bit of a showman. It's fine. I can deal with that, because Carl is pretty good with a flogger, and I know he won't go easy on me, even if he starts slow.

Knives would be better. He never starts slow when he fucks me, and I doubt he'd start slow with a flogger either.

I squeeze my eyes shut. No, I'm not going to think about him.

"Here we go," Carl says before the first lash hits my back.

I shiver at the touch of the flogger on my skin, wishing it was harder, faster. It'll get there. Carl will ramp up before long. I just have to wait for him to grandstand for the audience, then he'll get into the zone as surely as I will.

He doesn't make me count the lashes like some Doms, which I'm grateful for. I want to sink into submission, not focus on numbers that keep me from going so deep. I know others enjoy it, but it's not for me.

I hear Carl saying something, but the next lash is finally harder. The pain zings across my skin, and I hiss sharply before it turns into pleasure. It's like a jolt of electricity, one I feel throughout my entire body.

Each subsequent lash drives me deeper and deeper under the surface, until I feel like I'm drifting.

I want this to continue forever.

No more worrying about the thoughts swirling around in my head, the ache in my heart, or the constant guilt I've been dealing with ever since Knives popped back into my life.

Just pain.

Just bliss.

"What the fuck is this?" a dark voice asks in the distance.

I ignore it and relax, anticipating the next lash, but nothing comes.

"Buddy, it's what it looks like. A public lashing," Carl says. "Now let go of the flogger so I can keep going."

"What gives you the right to touch him?" the voice says.

Not just a voice.

That's Knives, I realize.

I don't know why he's here, but it starts to pull me out of subspace. I let out a little whine, not wanting to come back to reality—especially not when it means I have to face Knives, who hates me and doesn't want me to feel pleasure.

"It's all consensual," Carl says.

I try to nod, but I feel like I'm moving through quicksand. Fuck, I don't want to come back to this. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, and I fight the urge to cry. I'm always so emotional when I'm down this deep, and tonight is no exception.

"Well, back off," Knives growls.

I struggle against my bonds, and I can only barely turn my head to see what's going on. Carl is between me and Knives. Other members of the club are standing around, whispering to each other.

"Friend, he asked me to do it," Carl says. "Find somebody else to play with."

This isn't fair.

All I wanted was a night off from thinking about Knives, not to have a scene meant to wipe him from my thoughts crashed like this.

"Forks," I choke out, a hysterical little giggle escaping me as I sag against the cross. "Of course. Of course you have to come here and fuck this up for me. Only fair, right? I fuck everything up for you."

I shouldn't be saying this. I should know better. But I feel too high to hold back.

"Forks?" Carl asks. "Hold up, Maddox, I'll get you down." He moves closer to me, but before he can touch me, Knives yanks him away.

"Fuck off." Knives goes for the restraints. "This is how you spend your free time, Maddox? You just let anyone fuck you up?"

The words hurt. A lot.

I recoil from them, from him .

Why did he have to ruin the one safe place I have?

If I say one word, Carl will call security, and security will toss Knives out on his ass. I'm surprised they haven't already, but I can't bring myself to care.

I don't fight as Knives gets me off the cross. For a few moments, I stare down at my wrists—which are barely even bruised—until Knives grabs my arm.

"Let's go," Knives says. "You don't belong here."

It's hard to think. Everything is blurring together. I can hear Carl arguing, I can see people starting to close in around us. Knives must not understand that Club Alpha isn't a corrupt place where he can throw his weight around. There are rules here, for fuck's sake. It's meant to be safe for normal folks to get their kink on.

"Listen, tough guy, just because you've got muscles doesn't give you the right to boss anybody around. Especially not if they haven't consented to it. So fuck off," Carl says. He tries to get between me and Knives.

I don't have time to tell him that that's a bad idea.

Knives sneers and grabs Carl's arm, shoving him aside with ease. "Mind your own fucking business," Knives snarls. "This is between me and Maddox."

Fuck. I need to break through this. I'm going to drop hard after it's all said and done, and I'm going to have to deal with it on my own. I grit my teeth, trying to shake off the endorphins. Now isn't the time to be pathetic. It's bad enough that I never stand up to Knives in private.

In public, though?

I can't let people see me as weak. If that got back to my men…

They wouldn't understand any of this.

I straighten, narrowing my eyes at Knives. "You can fuck right off," I tell him. My voice isn't as steady as I want it to be, but I lean against the cross as I start to find my bearings. "This is my night off, and I'll do whatever the fuck I want."

"I'm calling security," Carl announces.

I quickly shake my head. "No. I can handle it." He looks like he's about to protest, but I give him a look. "If you call security, I'm out. No aftercare, nothing."

He's too responsible to let me do something like that, and even though I know I'm playing dirty, it's the only way I know how to try to get this situation defused.

Knives crosses his arms and glares at me. "Handle it? You can't handle shit, Gray. You're letting some soft pretty boy whip you because you can't handle a real man."

"You're just jealous it isn't you," I snap back at him.

His eyes widen, and I wonder for a second if that's actually true.

Then he starts laughing. "Because you're such a catch. Why would I want a guy who gives up when there's a little bit of trouble? I'd rather find a real pain slut."

"A real pain slut would never trust someone like you," I retort. "You're immature and out of control." I rub my wrists, shaking my head when Carl tries to get closer to me. My head is starting to clear, but all the shame and anger and guilt threaten to make it fuzzy again.

"You're a master of control though," Knives barks back. "Always making sure your own image is?—"

"Excuse you?" I interrupt him. "You don't get to waltz into this building, crash my scene, treat my dom like shit, and insult me. You just don't."

I don't care that Knives is bigger than me, bigger than Carl, and ten times more dangerous.

The fact that he invaded something I'd needed so desperately, ruining my entire fucking evening, has me too furious to care.

"Your dom." Knives's sneer gets even meaner. "You let that stringbean claim you?"

I don't even know why I called Carl my dom. It's going to hurt Carl when he realizes I didn't really mean it, that I was just trying to goad Knives even though I knew it was a bad idea.

"I let him flog me," I say, my own voice dark and steadier than I'd thought possible. "I let him do all sorts of things to me, Knives. And guess what? He doesn't treat me like I'm trash ."

And I'm not.

I'd made a mistake years ago. Years .

All right, so maybe it had been a major mistake. It could've really hurt Knives. The fact that he'd come out of it only with jail time had been a miracle.

But I'd been young and stupid, and I'm not the same person I'd been back then.

I'd never put him, or anyone, in danger like I had. Never again.

Now Knives snorts with derision. "I shoulda guessed. You can't handle anything hard. You give up after just a little bit of pain. No wonder you need somebody like him ."

"Better than someone like you!" I snarl back at him, and all of the anger, all of the pain, coalesces into a moment where I can't even stand to look at his smug face anymore. "Now get the fuck out of here before I lay you out on the fucking floor."

Knives bursts out laughing. "You couldn't even if you wanted to."

We've drawn a crowd, and I think I hear somebody shouting for help, but all of my focus is on Knives and his fucking everything.

I'm tired of taking all this shit from him. I'm tired of letting him get away with his petty, childish nonsense.

And hell, maybe I'm tired of letting other people do all the dirty work for me.

So I punch him in the goddamn face.

He must not have thought I'd actually throw a punch at him, and he wasn't exactly off the mark. I've put up with so much, so fucking much, from the people around me. I don't react out of anger.

I'm not like him.

But I take another swing anyway.

I dimly hear Carl shouting my name, but I don't care. I'm at my breaking point, and Knives is the reason for it. He's pushed me too far, and I'm not taking it anymore.

Knives grunts and stumbles back, clutching his face. He looks at me with wide eyes before he straightens and gets into a defensive stance. "You fucking asked for it." He lunges forward, driving his fist into my side.

I'm not as fast as I used to be. I'm out of practice, maybe, but I'm not going to just stand here and take it. I grunt when his punch lands, but I swing again, lashing out with my fists because hell, lashing out with my words hadn't done a damn thing except make him fucking laugh .

He grapples me, and we crash into the hard floor. I get another punch in too, and knee him as best I can.

It's hard to keep track of what's going on. There's more shouting, Knives grunting and throwing punches, the pain that follows.

"Fucking little bitch," Knives growls as he lands another hit on me.

I hiss through the blow and manage to slam my palm into his chin next. He heaves, his breath washing over my face.

I think I can feel his erection against my body.

Before I have time to process that, somebody pulls at my shoulders, and I'm forced away from Knives.

There are two big security guys on us now, keeping between us.

A woman stands there with her phone in hand, watching us warily. "Do I need to call the cops?" she asks. Her gaze flits between us, then she adds, "Or an ambulance?"

"No," I tell her, breathing heavily as I stare at Knives.

"Good. Then get out. You're both banned," she says, and I realize she's the manager.

My heart drops into my stomach.

I try to take another swing at Knives, wanting to make him hurt for taking one more thing away from me—the only outlet I fucking have—but the security guy holding me tightens his grip.

I'm breathing hard, fast, and my eyes find Carl in the crowd.

He looks stunned, and I realize I've probably lost him, too.

I've lost everything all over again.

If I could pound Knives into the fucking floor, I would.

"I will call the cops if the two of you don't stop and get out right now," the manager says looking between us.

I shake my head in a jerky motion. "You don't need to call the cops," I say, my voice ragged.

Knives wipes at his mouth. One of his eyes is bruised, and I feel vicious satisfaction that I did that to him. He yanks his arm away from the guard and straightens his shirt. "This club is just for weak little pussies, anyway."

This club had been my safe place.

Maybe that makes me a pussy, but I don't fucking care.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly.

The manager nods, but her face is still hard. There's no appealing this. They won't risk this kind of thing happening here again. Her word is final.

The security guy holding me relaxes his grip, and I nod curtly to him when he lets me go. I stalk toward the door, avoiding Carl's gaze on the way. I stop only long enough to grab my shirt and phone from my locker.

Knives follows me out, and of fucking course his car is parked next to mine.

I ignore him, going for my own, but he grabs my arm.

I nearly swing at him again, but the last thing I need is for the manager to call the cops after all.

"Don't you ever, ever put your hands on me again," I hiss, jerking out of his grasp.

Because if he does, I don't know what I'll do to him.

Knives grabs my head, and I ready myself for another blow.

I have no idea what to do when he kisses me instead.