The Devil’s Keepsake by Somme Sketcher

Lorcan

I should be waking up with Poppy’s juices glistening on my cock. Instead, I’m in my own bed with a bottle of The Smugglers Club under my arm and a banging headache.

Glancing at the Audemars Piguet on the bedside table, I groan. I got so much shit to do today, and I’m not in the mood to deal with Antoin’s attitude if I don’t get it done.

I leap out of bed and all but crawl to the shower. The hot steam melts away my sins, leaving room for the one question that bubbles in my brain.

Why didn’t you fuck her?

I could have had exactly what I wanted. Poppy Murphy in my arms, under my body, her wet cunt begging me to slide my cock into her.

Then I saw it in her eyes. A flash of fear, right before she closed them. If I’d blinked, I would have missed it, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

Something in my cold, dead heart is cracking and I don’t fucking like it. Her body might have responded but her eyes didn’t.

As I emerge from the steam of the en suite, my cell is blowing up. I stab the green button and put it on speaker. “Speak.”

Antoin’s voice is wary. “You awake?”

“Yeah, dumbass. Why?”

“‘Cause I saw the smashed cabinet in your office.”

“Yeah. Call someone to get that fixed.”

He sighs a long sigh, one that warrants my hand around his fucking throat the next time I see him. “You sticking with the plan today?”

“Uh-huh,” I say, sliding on a shirt. “On my way to pick up protection payments now. And you?”

“I’ve got a meeting with the Peruvians,” he says, lowering his voice. “Specifically, Qari Chavez. We might have a new supplier by the end of the day.”

I grin at my reflection as I slick back my hair. “Fair play, Antoin. I’d like to be in that meeting.”

He sounds surprised when he says, “Really?”

“You don’t agree that the head of the Quinn family should be meeting with the new potential cocaine supplier for the whole of Boston?”

He laughs down the line. “Of course I fuckin’ do. Just surprised you’re up for it.”

My jaw hardens and my back straightens. Seeing Murphy yesterday lit a fire under my ass. My family isn’t going down and out like him. We will win this war and rise up stronger than ever, even if it means I have to swallow my pride and put down my gun.

“Rearrange it for the afternoon. I’ll call when I’m on the way to the office.”

I stroll over to the window as I’m fastening my cufflinks. Only glass, grass, and cobbled walls stand between me and Poppy Murphy. I wonder what she’s doing, and if I spooked her last night.

The desire to see her burns deep in my stomach. As I make my way into the lobby, I should go straight through the front door and into the waiting Bentley. Instead, my feet make a right, past the dining room and out a side door. A few minutes later, I’m standing outside the locked bedroom door in the Museum.

My key brushes against the lock, then I pause. Instead, I knock. Might as well try and get her on my side right from the jump.

Poppy’s soft voice floats under the door crack. “Come in.”

Her eyes widen when she sees me, the half-eaten croissant hovering mid-air.

“Good, you’re up and dressed,” I say, trying to keep my tone even and brisk. “We’re going out.”

I stride over and take the croissant from her hand and take a big bite. Her wide eyes narrow into disgust. “That’s gross.”

“We were swapping spit last night,” I challenge her, “and now you care that I took a bite of your croissant?”

I love how quick she is to blush. From her plump lips to her rosy cheeks and doe-like eyes, her beautiful face is an open book, every emotion that crosses her heart is mirrored on her expression. “Where are we going?”

“To finish what we started last week.”

Poppy thinks for a moment, before a scowl darkens her pretty features. “Oh, hell no.”

“Hell yes, Miss Murphy.” When she stalks back to the window and turns her scowl towards the garden and beyond, I soften my approach. “No deaths this time. I promise.”

Nothing.

“Hey,” I murmur, closing the gap between us and touching her arm. Goosebumps ripple up her soft skin as a reaction to my fingertips. “I could really use your help. You have a great eye for bullshit. And like I said, I promise it’ll be a lot less gruesome this time.”

She lets out something of a grunt. “And if I say no?”

“Not an option.”

A pause. “Fine. Only, try not to point a gun at me this time.”

With another huff, she pushes past me and into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her.

I sink down on the bed, running my hands over the fine Egyptian sheets. One of her long, copper hairs tangles around my thumb and forefinger. As I scan the rest of the room, I see my reflection in the mirror and my expression catches me off guard. It’s deranged. My lips are stretched wide across my cheeks, my eyes small and squinty.

I’m smiling.

I rearrange my features and throw in my signature scowl for good measure before Poppy emerges from the bathroom, bringing a fresh wave of vanilla and bubblegum with her.

God, how I want to ruin her.

Instead, I keep my mouth shut and my scowl fixed as we walk through the museum and to the waiting car at the front of the estate. Although making a conscious effort not to look at her, I can feel every inch of her presence, hear every footstep and breath as she tries to keep pace next to me. So, I feel it when she slows down to a halt.

“Uh, are we going to war?”

The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. How the fuck does she know? I glance up and follow her gaze, then breathe a sigh of relief.

The bulletproof cladding of the Rezvani Tank X glistens in the sun. Two Range Rovers flank the front and back of it, and a cluster of my men, all-black uniforms, rifles, and earpieces all intact, surround the fleet. “We amped up security a little,” I say briskly, snaking an arm around her waist to push her towards the Rezvani. One of my men opens the passenger door for her. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

That pretty little head faces away from me for the whole journey into downtown. Her ankles crossed, her fingers locked in her lap, and her pale shoulders peeking out from under her hair.

For the first time, I wonder what’s going on in that pretty little head. What are you thinking about, China Doll?

My mouth opens but closes as quickly. She’s probably thinking about the life she’s left behind. Maybe even her pussy of a boyfriend.

Silence is safer.

Thirty minutes later we’re outside Ruby Blue’s Gentleman’s Club. Inside is dark and seedy, cigar smoke swirling between the sapphire booths and stripper poles. Poppy uses the hem of her skirt to wipe down a bar stool, before sitting down and staring into space until my meeting with O’Donnel is done. He’s a fellow Irishman who’s owned this joint longer than I’ve been alive. He shakes my hand with the largest grin I’ve ever seen from him — probably something to do with the fact his main competitor, Mickey, is now chilling six feet under.

Then we cross the street to Goldmine bookies, where the soured liquor sticks to the floor and regular gamblers prop up the fruit machines. Poppy folds her arms across her chest and stands in the corner, making eye contact only with the white light strip across the ceiling. When one of the punters draws his eyes away from The Racing Post and to Poppy for longer than half a second, my hand instinctively curls around the grip of my gun. But then I remember my promise to her, and I breathe out my anger in a deep grumble.

“I feel like I need a shower followed by a long bible session,” Poppy moans as we step out of Movers and Shakers nightclub into the midday sun.

“I’ll join you.”

She raises an eyebrow and says, “You? Bible session? You’d go up in flames.”

I guide her across the busy road, stopping cars with nothing but a glare. “Then I’ll settle just for the shower.”

“Do you really have investments in every business in town?”

“Only the ones making money.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t think I can deal with going into another strip joint.”

“Good thing I’m not taking you to one then.”

I’ve saved the best till last.

We step down a side street that opens up to Copley Square. I stop outside a glass window with Gatsby’s Brasserie hanging in copper letters above it. I rap, tap, tap on the glass, before turning to Poppy.

“This is Quinn Capital’s latest investment. And probably the only establishment that I’d be caught dead in in daylight.”

I flash her a grin as the door opens, and Ricardo appears.

“Mr. Quinn?” he queries, smoothing down the breast of his purple velvet suit and giving the silk pocket square a quick plump-up. “And to what do I owe this pleasure?”

I push Poppy inside and follow her in, taking Ricardo to the side. “I was in the neighborhood—”

A squeal interrupts us, and we both turn to the source. Poppy is sliding into a velvet green booth, cupping the lamp at the center of the table. “Is this real?” she gasps, her big doe-eyes glancing up at Ricardo.

He’s startled. He glances at me, twirls the curl of his mustache and blinks. “Y-yes. Authenticated at Christie’s.”

I’m fascinated by how my china doll has come alive. She’s opened up like a stubborn flower that had previously refused to bloom. I ignore Ricardo and turn all of my attention to her. Watching how her big emerald eyes shine with excitement, how her delicate fingers roll over the stained glass patterns.

I break away from Ricardo and slide onto the bench opposite her. “The Tiffany Wisteria table lamp,” I say, not taking my eyes off her. “Made in 1901.”

Poppy breaks her gaze away from the antique long enough to ask me, “but what’s it doing here?”

“I bought it from a collector in England. He… owed me a favor.”

“So, this is your restaurant?”

I follow her eye line as it sweeps around the restaurant. The scent of fresh paint still lingers in the air, but there’s nothing else new about this joint. Tiffany lamps take pride of place in the center of every booth, and art deco lamps sourced from Paris hang above them.

I don’t supply drugs to Gatsby’s Brassiere, I supply fine things. I’ve filled the dining hall with the most exclusive antiques from the Roaring Twenties, and I fill the kitchen with the finest, rarest, and often most illegal ingredients in the world. Diners can come here to step back in time, all while eating delicacies like Queen Conch salads and swan steaks.

I met Ricardo while dining at his flamboyant restaurant in Buenos Aires, and over Havana cigars and 1926 Macallan whiskey, the idea of Gatsby’s was born.

I brush her off by saying, “It’s an investment,” and then turn back to Ricardo. “Let’s talk.”

He glances towards Poppy. “In front of the lady?”

I turn back to her. “The office is on the second door to the left. It’s packed floor-to-ceiling with antiques that we haven’t put out yet.” She nods, a semblance of a smile on her face, and trots off out of the dining hall.

Ricardo is quick to slide into her place. “I have heard about the troubles,” he says, with a tone so low you wouldn’t know the restaurant was closed.

I cut him off with a hand. “Forget about it. We don’t use a third party to source the ingredients, we go direct.”

A sly grin spreads across his withered face and he pulls out a crumpled piece of paper from his breast pocket. “Then, perhaps we could talk about next week’s menu?”

Twenty minutes later, I have a list of illegal ingredients burning in my back pocket and collect Poppy from the office.

We slide into the back of the armored car. “All done,” I say, scrolling through my phone contacts to find the only fisherman insane enough to bring his boat out to the Norwegian Sea in the harsh winter months. “I need to go to the office. The driver will take you back to the estate.”

When I hear nothing in response, I drag my attention from my cell. “I’m talking to you.”

She tears away from gazing out the window and faces me, brows knitted. “Can I ask you a question?”

“I suppose.”

“The restaurant gives you ten percent of its earnings at the end of every quarter.”

“And how do you know that?”

“You left me in the office and I’m nosy,” she says with a deadpan stare. “Anyway, they give you ten percent of their earnings, netting you an average of a million dollars a quarter. Four million dollars a year. However, you have a clause in the contract that says you’ll cover the costs of all ingredients, which is currently eating up half of your profit.”

“I sent you into the office to look at antiques, not to pour over accounts,” I growl.

“If you bought Ricardo out, you’d make what you do in a quarter in under a month.”

She sits back with a satisfied smile lingering on her lips.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t stunned. It’s enough of a surprise to push away my annoyance. Just like she came alive at the sight of a million-dollar Tiffany lamp, she comes alive wrapping her lips around numbers. “Not just a pretty face, Miss Murphy,” I murmur.

The pale space below the hem of her skirt is calling my name. I run my fingertips from her knee up to the inside of her thigh, pushing back the silky fabric.

She tries to stay still, holding my gaze, even though the way her stomach tenses betrays her. “I’m studying—was, studying, at Stanford Business School, Mr. Quinn,” she retorts. “So no, I’m not just a pretty face. And please,” she says, gritting her teeth. “I’m not Miss Murphy. My last name is Valentina.”

I ignore the words coming out of her mouth.

My fingers brush against the lace of her panties, emitting a gasp from her and a shiver from my cock. Her pale cheeks flush and she glances towards the driver. I know she wants to tell me to stop, to squeal and bat my hand away, but she’s trying to hang onto her pride. To hold her ground. I trail my fingers a little higher knowing that I’ve hit her most sensitive spot when she buckles back in the seat. The tick of her jaw, the way she scrunches her button nose. She wants it, but she hates how much she wants it.

I pull away and look out the window.

“You’ll come to the office with me and look over the numbers for the rest of my businesses.”

Her voice is still strained, “Pardon?”

“I don’t repeat myself.”

“Once again, not a question, And it sounds like you’re trying to get me to work for free, Mr. Quinn.”

There goes that shiver in my cock again. I’ve always hated being called Mr. Quinn. It was my father’s name, and it’s a reminder that he’s not here anymore. But coming from her velvet mouth makes me rock hard.

I turn to pin her with my stare. “Oh, I’ll pay you all right.” Then I slide on my sunglasses and go back to scrolling through my cell, unable to think about anything but fucking her over my desk.