LINCOLN
Leaning back in my booth, rapping the bottom of my empty shot glass against the tabletop, I watch my second out of the corner of my eye.
It’s the smirk pulling on his too-fucking-pretty face. He’s up to something, and I’m not in the mood to find out what. My single shot of whiskey hasn’t done a damn thing to take the edge off today, and the last thing I need is for any of his bullshit.
After knowing “Rolls” Royce McIntyre for these last ten years, I’ve gotten pretty good at telling when he’s in “underboss” mode, and when he’s pushing his luck and testing me.
In the whole damn world, there are only two people who can get away with that without fear that Devil will retaliate: Royce and—
Gritting my teeth, stretching my arm across the top of the leather seat behind me, I look out into the glitz and grit that highlight every inch of my playground. From the crowded dance floor in the middle, to the private booths just like the one I’m sitting in with Royce, and the wraparound bar doing more business than every other joint in Springfield combined, it’s a monument to everything I’ve accomplished in my thirty-five years—and a reminder of the price I paid to have it.
Even now, all this time later, I can hear her asking me why…
I need another shot. Fuck, I need something. The bass of the music pumping out of the nearby speakers seems to pulse in time to the throb at the back of my skull, and the button-down shirt I stretched over my chest for my dinner meeting earlier makes me feel like a stuffed sausage.
Knocking the shot glass away from me with my knuckles, I grumble under my breath and yank at the tie. Once I can breathe a little easier, I flick open the first two buttons on my shirt and exhale.
A little better, though I squint through the haze of the club, trying to fight back against my headache.
Usually, I don’t mind the noise. My customers expect it, and the racket adds to the atmosphere. No one comes to the Devil’s Playground for quiet contemplation. My club is about drinking yourself stupid, losing all your money at the tables near the back, and getting laid by one of the club girls upstairs if you can still afford it.
It wasn’t always like this. Before I bought the place out, it used to be called Jimmy’s Bar, but I changed the name shortly after I cobbled together the Sinners Syndicate. We needed a headquarters, a place to conduct business, and an establishment that would get the cash rolling in while we worked on bigger deals and better scores. Nowadays, the Playground is the syndicate’s main form of income—thanks to the gambling and the girls—and I know damn well most of the bit players in Springfield as well as some wannabes only come by because they’re dying to get a glimpse of the Devil himself.
Good luck. On my better nights, I’ll prowl around the floor, letting them wonder what it is about me that made me a legend in town. I’m sure they’ve heard the rumors. Most of the stories about me are true, and the ones that aren’t probably pale in comparison to the shit I’ve done for the syndicate. To see me, to look in Devil’s black eyes, to see his black soul… it’s to fear him, and I deserve it.
Tonight’s not one of my better nights, though. I got word that my rival on the East End, the head of the Libellula crime family, is trying to break out of being the main drug pusher in town and going into my business. Part of the unspoken deal we’ve got between us is that the Sinners Syndicate deals in the three Gs: guns, girls, and gambling. Damien gets drugs and dough, including a pretty fit counterfeiting operation and a money-laundering op that does the Family well.
I don’t mess with his business. Damien’s not supposed to mess with mine. It’s been that way for way too fucking long to change up now, but the whispers my guys have heard around the city tell me that he’s pushing his luck.
Good thing I push back.
Which is why, when Royce flags down one of the newest waitresses, I know exactly what his bullshit is about tonight—and I’m ready for it.
Objectively, she’s fucking stunning. All the girls at the Playground are. Wallets don’t want to look at a jacked-up face when we’re serving them fantasies unless she’s got a massive set of tits or an ass that would have every joker nearly coming in his pants when she turns around. The tiny skirts and tight tops designed to draw a wandering eye toward their cleavage doesn’t hurt, either.
A waitress can walk out of the Playground with a grand, easy, if she knows how to play the customers. One of the girls upstairs can triple that in half the amount of time if they’re willing to take clients into the private rooms and do whatever the fuck the wallet wants. For a fifteen perfect cut straight to the club, we provide the men, the space, and the protection, and the girls keep customers coming back for more.
This beauty is new meat. She doesn’t have her mark yet, and if she sticks around, I doubt she’s the type who’ll ever go from serving drinks to serving cunt, at least not for any regular customer. That’s fine. We need all types here, even if I don’t.
She’s a redhead. Her curls are a deep, blood-red, the color so vivid it has to come from a salon, and they barely hit her shoulders. The style’s on purpose, I’d bet. You can’t miss the way the curls bounce or her tits jiggle as she curves her arm around her empty tray, nearly vibrating in place at the edge of our table.
Her eyes are brown. Good. For all his faults, Royce knows better than to shove a pair of green eyes in front of me, and whether the red is a dye-job or not, I’d had a moment’s pause as she stepped beneath the meager light that lets me see out while keeping most of my face in shadow.
She knows who she’s facing. Even if Royce didn’t already prime her—and I’d put a hundred bucks down he did—every one of my employees knows this booth belongs to me.
I’ll give her some credit. Despite her obvious nerves and my shitty mood, her voice is a tremor-free purr as she asks, “Is there something I can get for you two gentlemen?”
Royce slides his gaze right toward me. “I’m good, but maybe Devil—”
“No.” I flick my fingers at the waitress. It’s pointless to order another shot since I know damn well that’s not what she’s offering. “I’m not interested.”
Her eyes dart to Royce. In the same light, his styled blond hair is almost golden, and his teeth as he offers her a smile fucking gleam. “Thanks, Tessa. But that’ll be all.”
She nods quickly, curls and tits both bouncing wildly, before she flips her tray up and scampers away.
I should probably be offended at the stink of relief that clings to her. She must’ve thought for a moment that, after all the girls Royce has thrown at me, she’d be the one to tempt me enough to be chosen by the head Sinner.
Some of them actually wanted to fuck me. Others were probably willing to take one for the team, fucking me for either the money, the power, or because they could say they tamed Devil. And then there were those who thought they might be able to go through with it before realizing just who they were propositioning.
I already know which one she was. Tessa was so scared of my reputation, I’d wager she’d faint before I even got my cock out. And while somnophilia used to be an admitted kink of mine, I’ve only ever stuck my dick inside of a pussy I had permission to use whenever I wanted to.
Since I don’t, she has nothing to worry about. Lucky for her and every other girl Royce tosses my way, the poor bastard is staying right where he is: trapped in my boxer briefs, waiting for my hand to give it a quick stroke whenever I can spare a few minutes away from business.
As gorgeous as she was, there’s not a single twitch coming from down below. Maybe it’s the headache, maybe it’s the noise, and maybe it’s knowing that she only approached the table because my second told her to, but I don’t have the slightest urge to whack one out in my personal bathroom.
For some reason, that pisses me off even more.
“Royce.” My voice comes out like a low growl. “You gotta stop with this shit.”
Smart guy. He doesn’t try to pretend not to know what I’m talking about.
“Can’t help it. I’m worried about you, boss.”
I snort. “Just because I’m not fucking a different girl every week like some of the men, doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with me. One of us has gotta run the syndicate with our brains, not our cocks.”
“True, but getting laid every now and then won’t hurt, either. Think of it as a way to blow off steam so you don’t blow off one of our heads.”
Dropping my hand to my lap, I run my thumb over the handle of my holstered Sig Sauer P365, my everyday carry. “I only kill those who deserve to die these days.”
Royce is also smart enough not to have a comment about the ‘these days’ part of my statement, especially when he knows that I always have my firearm within reach.
I can’t blame him for trying. He’s got shit of his own he’s trying to work out, and losing himself in a willing pussy for a night has helped him more times than I can count. He’s not the only one in the syndicate who can’t understand why I’m still single after all this time—why I don’t take a mistress since I’ve made it clear I don’t want a wife—even if he knows exactly why I’m the way I am.
It’s for the same reason why he won’t dangle a green-eyed, soft-spoken brunette on a hook in front of me to see if I’ll take the bait. I won’t, and it’s not worth the fallout if I lose my temper.
Bad things happen when the Devil’s grip on his control slackens, and my second knows that better than anyone.
“Yeah,” he says after a moment, light flashing off his expensive watch as he runs his fingers through his hair. “Sorry ‘bout that, boss. I just thought—”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Royce’s teeth click as he snaps his mouth closed. He’s a smart ass, yeah, but he’s also an intuitive member of the syndicate. When he hears that snarl in my voice, he doesn’t hesitate to obey.
I heard the buzz right before I felt the vibration coming from deep in the front pocket of my pants. The sensation is so unexpected that I completely tune out everything around me after I tell Royce to shut up. I can’t do a damn thing about the untz untz untz of the music blaring around me, but here in the privacy of our booth, I can’t focus with Royce yapping.
And, holy shit, I need to focus.
Because the buzz? It’s not coming from the phone I placed face-down on the tabletop in front of me. It’s in my pocket, and that means only one thing: the phone I’ve carried around for fifteen fucking years without it ringing once in the last thirteen or so is going off.
My heart stops for a beat before it starts to pound louder than the dance song playing.
Tanner set this phone up for me. I don’t have any contacts in it, and every single number in the world except for two are blocked. I’ve kept it charged since I was a lovesick twenty-year-old, never changing the number even though I’ve had at least ten different business lines over the years. Anyone who wanted to reach me could find a way, but this number?
It’s for one person only, and it’s configured so that her personal cell and the landline she rarely uses could reach me if she wanted to.
And it’s ringing.
I dip my fingers into my pocket, prepared for some spam caller to have found its way around Tanner’s blocks. I know better than to get my hopes up. As much as I’ve never forgotten the one that got away, the last time Ava Monroe dialed my number, she told me she never wanted to see me again.
So she hasn’t. Of course, that just means I got really good at watching her without her knowing I’m there, but though I held onto this phone—stubbornly transferring the line over the years just in case—I never honestly thought I’d see her phone number popping up on the screen.
I stare, not believing this is really happening.
Royce clears his throat. “Hey, Link?”
Just like how Royce is one of only two people who can push me without me pushing back, it’s the same for calling me by my given name instead of the name given to me. He’s earned that right, and he’s the only one who ever dares to shorten my name from ‘Lincoln’ down to ‘Link’, except for—
Ava.
I squeeze my phone so tightly, I nearly crack the screen.
“Watch the club,” I order. “I got to take this.”
“Sure thing.”
