CHAPTER FOUR

"Please, Killian." The pathetic accountant grabs his ribs, a meek attempt at shielding himself from my shoe. "Stop, it hurts."

"It's Mr. Murdock to you," I growl from over him, rolling the sleeves of my black dress shirt up my forearm. "We're not friends."

Three kicks to his lower abdomen earn me more of Preston's screams. Tears drip on the dark, hardwood floors. I think I see snot.

Good thing I soundproofed the backroom of my office when I built the place. Just like I did with my home.

No sounds coming in. No ear-piercing screams going out.

The guests won't be disturbed by the obnoxious howling. They're either killing people on a daily basis or have grown accustomed to being around worse.

Still, I prefer our hotel runs as quietly and as smoothly as possible.

Carter and I have survived by keeping it that way.

For years, Voltage has been a safe place for the proverbial shit stain on the white underwear of this world.

Our members are filthy, and we give them a safe haven. The cops don't come near the six-story building in downtown Manhattan. No one does.

But we do more than keep them safe. With years of experience under my belt and our connections, Carter and I help these useless fucks by being their trusted mediators.

That's how we maintain the peace around here.

Unless, of course, they break our rules.

Rule number one is—if you're not a member, you better not show up here unannounced. A vetted member has to come to us first. Our private detectives prepare us a thick, nice folder on them.

Only once we have incriminating material on them and make sure they're not rapists or pedophiles—even the underworld has standards—do we invite them here.

Then there's rule number two. While on hotel turf, no one's allowed to kill, steal, hurt, and/or spy on any other members, me or Carter, nor our hotel staff and suppliers.

That's it.

Those who don't abide by the rules…

Let's just say, they either have a world of pain coming their way. From there, it's up to Carter's and my discretion whether they keep feeling anything at all, period.

Two rules.

Two.

You'd think these two should be easy enough to memorize, right?

Wrong.

"Please," Preston whimpers.

A plea I ignore.

My eyes rake over the dark mahogany wood panels lining the walls of the torture room beneath our office. From there, I trail my gaze over the one piece of furniture on the back wall—the pristine white dresser where our torturing devices lie.

I won't be using any of them on Mr. Richards tonight, though. They're reserved for those who actually have tolerance.

This weak, slobbering idiot would go into shock and die in a second. I don't want him dead. His biggest client—Christopher Boroughs, a known hitman—is one we appreciate here at the hotel. Thanks to him, the asshole's life will be spared.

"I'm begging you." There it is, more snot running down his top lip.

Repulsive.

"Jesus fuck. Grow a fucking pair, Preston." I cross my arms over my chest, staring right through him. Showing him exactly what he means to me. Nothing.

"I haven't brought anyone else here." He spits while he talks. Fucking embarrassment. "I swear on my mother's life."

"You have to understand something. I have nowhere else better to be other than here. Nothing better to do than make you bleed and break your bones." I crouch next to the incompetent piece of shit, placing my hands on my knees. "You, on the other hand, would like to leave this room. In one piece, I'd imagine."

His blue eyes widen, his chin quivering. "Y-yes, Mr. Murdock, but I—"

"No more begging," I cut him off, pulling on his blond hair before releasing him to the floor.

His head makes a loud thudding sound. Preston sheds a tear. Ugh, some people here are plain losers.

"You opened your mouth, Preston. I don't give a fuck that it was your brother-in-law you brought over here. Could've been the pope for all I care. You broke rule number one." I grab his chin, forcing his eyes on mine. "That means we have a problem here. I can't trust you not to spring other surprise visitors on us anymore. So, I'll ask this one more time and you better give me the answer I need. Who. Else. Have. You. Told?"

"No one."

I release him. Momentarily. My fist connects with his chin, and he cries out in agony. He'll have a nasty bruise in the morning. Serves him fucking right.

"I'll find out, you have my word," I growl. "When I do, you can count on one thing. And that's me not being as understanding as I am right now."

He flinches, thinking another blow is coming his way. Each and every one of the men and women I've put in this position does.

We have nothing to fear. We don't show mercy to anyone who fucks with us.

Carter and I own them.

They know we do. They've heard the rumors. We look the part of the grim reapers, too.

To a stranger, we couldn't have been any more different, Carter and me. Carter's hair is black, while mine is sandy blond. His eyes are gray, while mine are a dark shade of brown. Carter tends to smile—his psycho grin, but still. I keep my expression stern.

Those who look closer see something that terrifies them.

Neither of us will lose sleep over killing people. Not a fucking wink. While it's not our job to do that, we won't hesitate.

Anything to keep the peace and our hold of power.

Nevertheless, these people are fucking savages. No wonder Carter refuses to go public with his and Amara's relationship. Why he treats the little florist like any other supplier whenever she does deliveries to our hotel.

"No one," Preston repeats.

His ribs are cracked—heard that happen an hour ago. A mean bruise starts swelling on his cheek. He's drooling and crying.

I reach the disappointing conclusion that this is over. More blows to this pathetic bag of bones will get me nowhere.

Had Carter been here, he would've continued. Would've kicked him for the heck of it.

Playing with his metaphorical food is my stepson's thing. He smiles wide when beating someone up. Gets off on watching our unruly members beg for their lives.

A smirk stretches across my lips at the memories.

But Carter's not here. There's not a hint of his sandalwood cologne in the room. He's not around to make fun of Preston's misery.

That shuts down any hint of amusement. I suck in a long breath through my nose, inhaling the stench of Preston's fear. Smelling this miserable accountant's blood on my knuckles.

"You have to believe me, please," the pathetic lowlife begs, despite my order. "I told you, Jake came from Chicago and he needed a place for his meetings. I didn't think it would be such a big deal."

Carter would've enjoyed this next part.

BAM!

A new layer of blood coats my knuckles when my fist meets Preston's nose.

Yes, Carter would've definitely loved that. The sound of bone cracking. The coppery scent that follows. The miserable howls of pain. His desire for blood and inflicting pain never fails to get my cock inappropriately hard.

He belongs to Amara.

It's the worst moment to think of either of them. I should be happy they're together tonight and stop complaining, even in my own head. Besides, he stayed longer than he should've. Was late to meet her like he was late to their Valentine's Day dinner.

Because of me.

They're great together. But if I could only be with them—

No, I shake my head. Never.

I haven't loved another man or woman in my life. Not even Joelle Steele, Carter's mom. She was a good woman, like Amara. Kind and funny. Taking care of her son was the first and last good deed I've ever done. I just didn't love her.

Carter, however, loves Amara. Won't admit to it, but he does. And I, in my own way, love them both.

They deserve to be happy.

Without me.

Shut up.

"Ask Christopher, he'll vouch for me." Preston's lame scream sucks me back into the present moment. "You know he monitors my every move."

It's my business to know that, just like I know everything about our members.

Except for the shit Preston pulled. We were blindsided by the betrayal when Jake demanded our concierge and assistant, Luna, to book him a room. A man who wasn't registered in our database.

"I do." My low, intimidating voice has him cringing from me. "But he hasn't told us about your little stunt. Didn't warn us. I don't trust him. Don't trust anyone."

"He had a busy week." Preston, in a terribly unwise move, puts a dent in my plans to head home. "But ask him now and he'll tell you."

I'm looking forward to washing this filth off me. The new Albert Anastasia book I've had on my shelf for too long is far more interesting than this fucker over here.

Watching Carter when he enters our penthouse tonight will be even better. He said he'll come back after his date, and fuck, I can't wait to see him enter through the elevator doors.

His hair will be messy from having Amara's fingers raking through it. His lips will glisten and his scent will be a mixture of him and her arousal.

I'll be jealous as fuck. And equally aroused.

It'll remind me of all the times I walked in on them banging on our counter. Spied on them in silence. Jerked off to Carter's massive cock and how red Amara's ass was from the spanking.

If people realize how sick I am… If Carter does, he'll never forgive me. He'll move out. He might be so repulsed that he'll sell me his part of the business and disappear.

It'd make sense. I raised him. Called him kid. Drove him to school. Watched him grow up before my eyes.

I'd never even looked at him like that until three years ago, around the time he turned twenty-two. That wouldn't matter.

He'll think the worst of me.

Shut the fuck up.

Those memories don't help. They remind me how fucked in the head I am. That only serves to eviscerate what little patience I have left.

"Don't get me wrong." I seethe. "We value Christopher as a member here. But now you're both high up on our shit list."

Preston sees the underlying threat for what it is. "Please, I don't want to die."

"I won't kill you." I straighten myself, wiping his blood on a cloth I have tucked in my pants pocket. "Not today."

"Thank you, thank you." He scrambles to get to his feet, stumbles like the pathetic fuck he is, then manages to stand up. "It won't happen again."

"No, it won't." I don't shake his offered hand. Instead, I fix him with a deadly stare and point at the door that leads upstairs and to his freedom. "Your membership is revoked. You'll do well to remember that next time anyone shows up here and says you sent him, you're fucking dead, Preston."

I'll have one of our private eyes stalk him too, just in case.

"What, Mr. Murdock, I—"

"Get the fuck out of our hotel. Don't ever return. You and Christopher can hold your meetings somewhere else." I narrow my eyes. "Where they don't value discretion."

"But—" He has the nerve to contradict me a second time.

"No buts." My voice is low, gruff, and ominous. Preston cowers at it. "Out. Of. Our. Hotel."

I can tell he considers how clever it'll be to try and negotiate again.

It's moments like these that tell me I made the right decision by not sending Carter away to college. For all of Preston's education, he has nothing on the experience and harsh life lessons Carter has learned by working alongside me.

"Don't." I cut my eyes to the torture devices we have out in the open. When I look back at Preston, the snot and blood stain his quivering chin. "Another second here and I won't be as forgiving."

With a hand plastered over his bleeding nose, Preston Richards drags himself out of Voltage for the last time.

Finally, I get to go home.