Celt. (Den of Mercenaries Book 2) (15 page)

T
here was
a name given to the woman that wore patent leather Louboutin heels and a cold smile, but anyone that valued their life never spoke this name in Elora Coillette’s presence.

Most that crossed paths with her simply called her the Mistress, not for her taste in S&M, but because she had managed to make being a mistress a full-time occupation.

Despite her notorious attitude, Elora had been able to quell that rebellious spirit inside of herself, changing into the carefully polished woman that society’s elite haunted in upscale bars and restaurants.

Which was how Braxton Montenegro found her.

He had been different, her Braxton. With a degree in business administration from Yale, many had expected the youngest Montenegro to join in the family trade, but he had ultimately chosen a different path, one that led him into unsavory business practices with men that one should never consort with.

They were on top of the world, and for once in her life, Elora felt like she was finally receiving everything she was owed.

At least until he betrayed her by trying to bring in a girl that was half her age as a new play toy.

That just wouldn’t do.

Elora often wondered if he had forgotten what an avid learner she was—how despite his penchant for having business stay between men, she had learned how to do what he did best by watching him work.

So when he chose to shatter her trust, she did the only thing she knew how.

She got rid of him.

And even as she watched his face go blue as he gasped for breath, spittle running from his lips as he reached for her, instead of being horrified, Elora was … fascinated.

Hours after, she had grieved his loss, wishing that it had been anyone other than her Braxton that had thought to make a fool out of her, but as quickly as she mourned the life she had taken, she was more concerned with the loss of the life she had become accustomed.

But she didn’t worry for long …

Within days, she was the new Mrs. Erickson.

Then Porter.

Mitchell.

Fitzgerald.

The list was endless, but she grew bored of living under the thumbs of men. She was no longer content with having them rut on top of her, only to accept a stipend at the beginning of each month.

No, she wanted more than that.

She wanted to
be
more.

And if there was one thing Elora was good at, it was getting her way.

Soon, she was starting an empire that rivaled any man’s, and she had done this by making sure that no one,
no one
, would ever try and cross her again.

So if Gabriel Monte thought she would merely roll over once she received that forgery she had spent more money on than anything in her collection, he was sorely mistaken.

“Please, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. Just—”

Gabriel’s begging was cut off as a hammer slammed down onto his knee, shattering bone instantly. His cry of pain was so loud that Elora was sure it shook the walls.

But she was unmoved by the broken blood vessels beneath his flesh, turning his skin from ghostly pale to a shade of muddled red that looked delightfully painful.

“There, there Gabriel,” she said, tugging her gloves off and passing them off to one of the men that was covered in blood spatter. “I’ve come to offer you the opportunity to make things right.”

He opened his mouth to speak again, the tears that had been welling in his eyes now freely spilling down bruised and bleeding cheeks, but Elora put a finger to his lips before he could say a word.

“You’ll die in this room,” she assured him with a flick of her wrist at their surroundings, “but the question you need to ask yourself is whether or not you want to die alone.”

Pain, Elora had learned, could show a man what he was really worth. Some were better than others, dying before her men had gotten the chance to extract the information from them, but most—and she was sure Gabriel would fall in this category—didn’t die gracefully. They gave up their partners fairly quickly because they were such selfish creatures.

She despised men like this.

“E-Elliot," he stammered out, blood dribbling from his lips. "Elliot Hamilton.”

Elora almost smiled. “Tell me of your plan."

His gaze darted around the room. “The original was stolen the day of the auction. We didn’t—we couldn’t have known it would be taken. There was a safe guard in place."

The forgery, Elora assumed, but she didn't voice this thought aloud.

"Once we realized it was gone … I had every intention of telling you about the theft, but Elliot convinced me it was better to give you the replica as opposed to nothing at all. The money had already been wired and he didn't want to back out on the sale.”

Had he not so gleefully struck at the opportunity to spill the secrets of his scam, she might have let him live—though not without making sure he understood the gravity of his mistake.

But he had made his choice.

“Elliot Hamilton, you said?” Elora asked.

“He owns Cedar Art Gallery. It’s—”

She waved her hand for him to stop speaking. A name was enough for her to find everything she needed. “And the forger, tell me about her?”

At this, Gabriel looked slightly frightened. “She works for Elliot. I don’t know much about her.”

Probably because he hadn’t felt she was important enough to learn about—or perhaps that was what Elliot had been for. Maybe he would be able to answer questions his partner hadn’t.

Pulling her sunglasses from her purse, Elora donned them, looking to one of the men wearing the rubber apron and heavy black boots. “Make sure he’ll be unidentifiable by the time you finish. And do take your time.”

As she left that building, the sound of a saw starting up, Elora was already thinking about her next victim.

K
yrnon’s arm
tightened around Amber as he came awake, the vibrations of his phone jarring him from sleep. Easing away from her, he felt around the floor for the jeans he had tossed there the night before, digging his phone out.

He didn’t check the caller ID, not caring who was calling, but wondering why the fuck it couldn’t wait until a decent hour. Putting the phone to his ear, he barked, “
What
?”

There was a pause before an accented voice said, “Suite 710, Madison Place. One hour. The Kingmaker is waiting.”

Kyrnon didn’t even get the chance to process that it was the Kingmaker’s assistant calling him before the call was dropped and he was squeezing his phone so hard he was afraid it would break.

Three-thirty in the morning …

Arsehole.

Dragging himself out of bed, he grabbed the same jeans he had discarded earlier, pulling them on swiftly, though careful to make as little noise as possible so as not to wake Amber, who was still slumbering peacefully in his bed. Finding a shirt and pulling that on next, he used the guest bathroom before heading out the door and climbing onto his bike.

Plugging the address into his phone, he listened to the directions come through the speakers in his helmet as he took off, cruising through the quiet and almost barren streets.

He’d been expecting a hotel, or someplace pretentious that only people like the Kingmaker liked to stay in, but Kyrnon found himself at an office building in the Bronx, one that was currently under maintenance, judging from the signs and visible beams on the building.

Parking his bike, he easily slipped past the chain-link fence—the padlock having already been cut and left on the rubble nearby—crossing the short distance to what would eventually be the front doors of the building.

Entering the lift that was very much like the one in his loft, Kyrnon rode it up, digging his hands into his pockets as he listened to the soft hum of gears turning before a bell sounded and he stopped.

Up on the seventh floor, he could see faint light reflecting off the plastic tarps that covered the floor and the walls. And while he could understand the need for them considering how much construction still needed to be completed, it was the streak of blood, as though someone had been dragged across the floor that grabbed his attention.

Following the trail, he walked through three rooms before he finally reached the dead man on the floor … or what he suspected was a man. His face had been beaten to a pulp, his naked body a mess of bruises and wounds.

Someone had tortured the hell out of him.

Off to the side, his face shielded by shadows, the Kingmaker said, “You know … I’ve never been overly fond of those that make mistakes. Mistakes are what get you killed after all.” He shifted forward, his hands clasped behind his back as his unwavering stare landed on Kyrnon. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Had it come from someone else, Kyrnon might have considered answering, but he was in no mood to play word games with a man that excelled at them. It was late—or early depending on how one looked at it—and he was already ready to get home and back in his bed with Amber.

“What were you trying to get out of him?” Kyrnon asked, looking back to the body at his feet.

Beneath the blood, bruises, and swelling, he thought the man looked … familiar. But he couldn’t be sure, and identification would be nearly impossible since the man’s hands and feet were missing.

Not to mention the frozen scream reflected on his face made it clear that the man’s teeth had all been removed as well.

Fucking grisly.

“This isn’t my work,” the Kingmaker said casually, not moved in the slightest by the violence they were both looking upon. As he came closer, he looked at the body like it was his first time seeing it. “I wouldn’t have left a body behind.”

“Why am I here?” Kyrnon asked instead.

“I already told you,” the Kingmaker said with a blink. “You made a mistake.”

“What mistake?”

As far as Kyrnon was concerned, his last job had been done with very little fuss when it came down to it. Even after receiving his last payment from the Kingmaker after he delivered
L’amant Flétrie
, he still double-checked, making sure that no word had spread about the painting’s theft.

The Kingmaker gestured to the dead man. “You’re looking at it.”

This was his mistake? “I don’t even know
who
this is.”

And he was pretty sure that had he tortured someone to this extent, he would have remembered it.

“Gabriel Monte.”

Shite
.

He might not have known what his mistake was just yet, but he did know that the Kingmaker was right.

Somewhere, he
had
made a mistake.

“Not too long after you brought me my painting, another
L’amant Flétrie
was sold. Surprising, isn’t it—considering, I have the original.”

That could only mean that Gabriel had chosen to fleece the one Amber had painted as the real thing.

Shite.
That wasn’t good.

And that explained why he hadn’t heard anything. There was no word on the theft because had Gabriel mentioned one, he wouldn’t have been able to move the forgery. He should have paid closer attention, looked into it further when nothing had come up.

“Who was the buyer?” Kyrnon asked, crouching down to get a better look at the body.

With as much death as he had seen in the world, the sight of Gabriel’s mutilated corpse did nothing for him. He merely scanned the wounds, looking for any signatures that might have been left behind.

Everyone left their own distinct mark.

“I haven’t a single idea.”

Kyrnon looked to him and didn’t doubt for a second that the Kingmaker knew exactly who had done this. “What’s your game? Eh? While you fuck about, we take care of whatever petty grievances you throw at us?”

That disinterest that had always been present on the Kingmaker’s face disappeared, shifting to something that was as much a warning as it was a reflection of his mood. “Careful, Irishman. I came here offering you a gift, and here you stand, spitting at my feet.”

Kyrnon laughed without humor as he got up. “You consider this a gift? Then you don’t know the meaning of the word.”

“Tell me how, exactly, would it benefit me in any way by coming here and bringing your attention to Gabriel’s fate?”

He was ready to reply, a sharp retort at the tip of his tongue, but he realized, considering the Kingmaker’s words, that there was no benefit to the man. After all, he had gotten what he wanted.

“Zachariah coddled you too much,” the Kingmaker went on. “He treated you lot like you were more than just employees, and perhaps that is where you got the ridiculous notion that I give a single shit about what happens to you. Let me rectify that now—I don’t. You mean nothing to me, and have I not a need for you at a future date, you would be dead and incinerated before you could leave this property.”

The Kingmaker’s rage was not like others’. His was contained, still locked behind a sharp suit and a silent demeanor, but Kyrnon could feel it, and when he looked close enough, he could see it reflected in how the man’s mood shifted entirely.

“I’m not your parent, nor should I have to fix your wrongs because you’re too busy thinking with your cock. You made a mistake, Irishman. Fix it. If the buyer was willing to do this to the man that sold them a forgery, what do you think they will do to that pretty, little forger you’ve brought into your home?”

Kyrnon shouldn’t have been surprised that the Kingmaker knew about Amber—the man seemed to know everything while revealing nothing.

Glancing down at the Rolex on his arm, the Kingmaker added, “I suggest you get a move on considering whoever’s done this has a head start on you.”

Kyrnon didn’t waste time arguing, knowing that the Kingmaker was right.

The problem was, how in the hell was he going to protect Amber from a threat he couldn’t see?

And worse, how was he going to explain that she was in danger because of him?

He should’ve just taken the forgery when he stole the original, but he hadn’t thought for a moment that Gabriel would have done this. The man was, quite obviously, not the brightest.

Now he would need to play catch up before it was too late.

But, he had an idea where to start.

Elliot Hamilton.

He was the only connection between Amber and Gabriel, and if he could get to Elliot first, then perhaps he could find the buyer before anything happened to Amber.

Digging out his phone, Kyrnon dialed a number, sighing when the Russian answered. “Red, I need a favor.”