Make Me Beg, Daddy

Chapter 13

Tell your audience what you’re gonna tell them.

Tell it to them.

Then tell them what you just told them.

So that’s exactly what I plan to do. It all comes to a rushing head as I finish with one triumphant, disgusted crescendo.

“So there you have it. My husband has been sleeping with my sister for over a year. The night of my father’s funeral, they lied so they could go f**k some more. And now, my husband has given away my life’s work as collateral for money I never saw a penny of. How’s that for holiday cheer?”

I exhale the last of the tension. I did it. It came out exactly how I wanted it to. It was maybe even good. Vicious and heartfelt, if nothing else.

“Alright,” I whisper to myself. “You can do this.”

I reach for the doorknob.

But then I freeze.

Because, from behind me—as in, from inside of the dark pantry—someone has started to clap.

Clap.

Clap.

Clap.

I turn around.

There’s a man standing back there.

He’s tall enough that the top shelf is at his shoulder. His ankle-length coat is still on. The only light is being squeezed through the tiny sliver under the door, so I can’t see much of him, but I do see that his eyes are so violently green that they sparkle even in the dark.

One thing’s for sure: This man is not family.

He’s not a cousin or one of Connor’s skeezy uncles.

Another thing is also for sure: He just heard every word I said.

Which leaves two very important questions unanswered.

Who the hell is he…

And what is he going to do next?

A LITTLE WHILE EARLIER

Nobody ever stops me at the door at these things. It baffles me.

So many times, I’ve come unannounced and uninvited to kill a man, or blackmail him, or torture him into giving me things or answers I need.

And never once does anyone think to ask, Who are you and why are you here?

Tonight might be the closest I’ve ever gotten to getting turned away. A woman who has clearly drunk far too much eggnog comes wobbling up to me.

“Are you Dorsey side or Boyd side?” she slurs, eyes crossing.

“His.”

“Aren’t you handsome?” She pats my arm and goes tottering off.

I stand in the doorway and take in the scene. There are at least fifty people here, weaving around and chattering among one another.

I only give a f**k about one of them.

I’m sure he wishes I didn’t. Connor Boyd might’ve thought he could take my money and disappear, but if so, he thought wrong.

I came tonight because I’ve learned, in my many years as pakhan of the Makov Bratva, that men among their family tend to yield much faster than they do when they’re all alone.

When you have them in a dank dungeon cell or cornered in a filthy alley, they get their hackles up and try to fight—or worse, to negotiate.

But when Grandma is one room away and she’d hear you scream if I started to fillet you with the serrated knife I keep in my boot?

Things go much more smoothly.

All I need is ten minutes with Connor in a quiet corner.

Luckily, I’ve just spotted him.

Unluckily, he’s in the middle of a throng of people. I clench my teeth in disgust at the sight of him. He’s happily chatting, waving a full drink around to underscore the punchlines of the story he’s telling.

He looks too f*****g happy.

A man who owes me four million dollars ought to be sweating into his collar and glancing fearfully at every patch of shadow.

I’ll have to wait to get to him; he’s too far in right now. At least he hasn’t seen me yet. I want to be the one to sneak up on him.

So for the time being, I slink into a corner, pour myself a drink from the bar, and wait.

But as people finish eating and the tide of the party shifts toward me, I decide that I’m better off finding a more secluded hiding spot. I don’t want to answer any questions or, God forbid, have that drunk woman come pawing at me again and making f**k-me eyes in front of all her friends and family.

I look around me and find the perfect spot.

Just off the kitchen, there’s a pantry door with good sightlines into the rest of the house. I snatch up the entire bottle of whiskey to bring it with me for safekeeping.

Then I duck inside.

It’s dark and quiet in here, with an L-shaped bend in the floor plan that gives me a place to duck further out of sight if the need arises.

For a while, I sit, drink, and muse about something that’s been bothering me.

It’s not a concrete sort of something. Nothing I can kill with my bare hands.

More of a gnawing, indistinct sense of dissatisfaction in my gut.

It’s something like this, more or less:

I haven’t felt alive in far too f*****g long.

Over the last decade, my territory has quadrupled, my revenue has multiplied by millions on millions, and my enemies have tucked tail and run to greener pastures.

I’ve acquired almost all of the building blocks of what will be the next phase of my empire, a strip of waterfront property along the harbor. As soon as I complete the last of my purchases, I’ll own the most valuable square mile in Brooklyn.

If Forbes kept track of the wealth of men like me, they’d have to make a whole new list just to keep up.

So with all that under my belt and the future as bright as it can f*****g get… why am I not satisfied?

Fuck knows I’ve tried all the other normal ways.

I’d never snort or smoke or inject anything—those were my father’s vices, not mine—but I’ve drank myself stupid. I’ve gambled. I’ve fought bare-knuckled in poorly lit arenas that have no name. I’ve taken woman after woman to bed in search of someone who doesn’t meekly kneel or bend over at the snap of my fingers, fawning to please me.

None of it worked.

Especially not the last one.

Half of those women got kicked out of my penthouse before I ever removed a stitch of clothing.

How am I supposed to get hard for the human equivalent of a doormat? I want someone with fire.

True fire.

Not an influencer with daddy issues or a desperate actress looking for a leg up.

I want a taste of the kind of sweetness no money can buy.

I’m lost in thought, wondering where the hell I can find that, when the door opens again.

Somebody comes in and shuts it, but does not turn on the light.

I quickly step back behind the bend to stay hidden.

I can tell by the breathing and the scent that it’s a woman. She rests her back against the shelves on the other side, just a few feet from me, and lets out a ragged, nervous breath.

“Okay,” she whispers. “From the top.”

And then she starts to talk.

Instantly, I’m f*****g mesmerized.

It’s clear that I’m hearing something I’m not supposed to hear. But it’s the most captivating s**t I’ve heard in a long time.

The anger in her voice—the fire—grows and grows the longer she talks.

I hear about a thieving sister, a cowardly husband. f*****g on the night of her father’s funeral? Christ, shame has no limits, does it?

“… And now, my husband has given away my life’s work as collateral for money I never saw a penny of.”

Just like that, it all snaps into place.

It’s one of those moments where life or the universe or whoever the f**k is in charge of this existence arranges things so beautifully that I can only laugh.

The woman on the other side of these shelves is Connor Boyd’s wife.

Boyd borrowed my money and pledged her building to get it. I knew what he was doing—planned it, orchestrated the whole f*****g thing—but I didn’t know that this was who he was doing it to.

I’m not offended on her behalf. I don’t have that particular emotional capacity.

But I am definitely amused.

I had plans of my own when I got here tonight. In a nutshell, it was something like this:

Get Boyd alone, clamp my hand on the back of his neck, and let him understand what he owes and how soon.

This feisty little thing has a much better version.

Get him alone? Find a quiet corner? f**k that.

Eviscerating him in front of everyone he’s ever known is much, much better.

So I put my cup down on the shelf and I applaud her.

Clap.

Clap.

Clap.

She turns around. In the dark, she’s nothing more than a curvy shape and the shine of her eyes.

“Who the hell are you?” she says in alarm.

“I’d say I’m your newest fan,” I reply.

She doesn’t seem as flattered as she should. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to hear that you have a very interesting evening ahead of you.”

She sucks in a sharp breath. I hear fear in it, and anger, and fire.

“Are you going to tell anyone?” she asks.

“And ruin what’s about to be the performance of a lifetime? Hell no.”