The Devil’s Keepsake by Somme Sketcher

Lorcan

My study is a six-minute walk from the museum. Not short enough.

The second I step inside, I slam the door, lock it, and pull out the silk hankie from my breast pocket and my cock from my zipper.

Fuck.

My cock is throbbing with missed opportunity, and I waste no time furiously fucking my fist, imaging it’s Poppy’s tight cunt.

I should have taken her as I told her I would. Telling me to fuck off was reason enough to get her on her hands and knees and take what’s mine.

I slam my hand on my desk to steady myself, tightening my grip on my girth. Those big, innocent eyes and ruby-red lips… I could have at least fucked her face, enjoying watching her eyes water as I slide my length down her throat.

The thought of Poppy on her knees gagging on my cock is enough to send me over the edge. Thick, hot ropes of cum land in my silk hankie. When I get my breath back, I toss it in the trash can, tuck myself away and sink into my Herman Miller chair.

“Fuck,” I groan, smoothing down my pants and stretching my neck over the top of the chair.

Is it too early for a drink?The sun has barely come up, so I’ll take it that it’s late, not early. It’s only too early if you ever sleep, and I rarely do.

I grab a bottle of The Smugglers Club from the cabinet, pour it neat and knock it back in one gulp.

The liquor soothes my body and the post-nut clarity clears my brain. Enough for me to truly assess my new possession.

Poppy Murphy.

Fuck me.

When I claimed her when she was only fifteen, she was nothing but a debt. A one-up on her bastard of a father. Yes, incredibly rare, but I had no intentions of using her for anything other than a pawn in my long-term game. I’m a cruel bastard, but I’m not a sick one.

But in just four years she’s aged like the fine whiskey in my hand. She’s even rarer; a completely different kind of artifact. That porcelain skin… it’ll break under my heavy touch. That tumbling copper hair, shimmering like a penny, and those emerald eyes that give away all of her secrets.

And when she slipped off that robe…

She has the grace and elegance of a Victorian queen, but the curves of a 1950‘s pin-up. My two favorite time periods rolled into one.

I pour another drink, one to sip this time.

And the fact she remains untouched… my cock prickles again with excitement.

She’s priceless.

My only regret is that I didn’t collect my wares sooner. But then again, I wouldn’t have gotten to enjoy the surprise on her delicate face had I showed up on her eighteenth birthday.

I guess I’ve always had a passion for the eccentric.

I’m staring at the empty bottom of my tumbler when there’s a sharp knock on the door.

There’s only one man on God’s green earth that would dare knock on my door with such force.

“Enter,” I grunt, tugging at my suit pants to hide my bulge.

Antoin flies through the threshold and slams his palms against my desk. “We have a big fuckin’ problem.”

“Careful,” I growl, swatting his hands away. “This desk belonged to Roosevelt. It didn’t sit in the Oval Office for five fucking Presidencies for an oaf from Boston to break it.”

Antoin ignores my brief history lesson. “One of the Bratnovs is dead.”

I take another swig of whiskey and swill it around my mouth, pretending to be lost in thought. “The Bratnovs…” I mutter, “Hmm, name rings a bell.”

“Don’t play games with me Lorc, it’s way too fuckin’ early and I’m way too fuckin’ stressed.”

Of course I know who the Bratnovs are. The Russian mob has run New York City for decades, and we’ve had a treaty with them for just as long. They supply Boston’s clubs, strip joints, and bars with enough party drugs to keep revelers juiced up every weekend, and we take a heavy cut of the profit.

“Donnacha said you ordered the hit.”

Donnacha Quinn, you fucking snake,I think to myself. I pay you to shoot bullets, not run your mouth. A sigh escapes my lungs as I stand and move over to the window. In the reflection, I can see Antoin scowling at the back of my head.

“Oh, I remember now,” I drawl. “Yes, I did. The kid was on our territory.”

“He was on a run. Donnacha shot him right outside Mickey’s strip joint.”

“Yeah. I guess I forgot to tell you. I’m cutting the treaty. No more dirty Bratnovs on our turf.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Antoin hisses, thumping his fist against my desk again. I decide to let it slide this time. “You’re gonna start a war, Lorc.”

Good. Something to excite my cold, dead heart.

“Then let’s go to war,” I say simply, striding to the drink’s cabinet to fill up my glass. “Drink?”

Antoin eyeballs my tumbler, disgust curling on his lips. “It’s not even eight a.m.”

I ignore his jibe and fill my glass to the brim. “Boston is our turf. Those Russian roaches shouldn’t be supplying our businesses.”

Antoin rubs a hand over his sharp jaw. A girl I was fucking once said to me that you could spot a Quinn a mile away, no matter how distant they were to the main bloodline. Jet-black hair, amber eyes, and cheekbones that could slice through glass. Cut us open, we bleed green, because we’re Irish through and through.

Antoin’s my first cousin, but if he didn’t sport a menacing buzz cut and clean-shaven face, we’d pass as brothers.

I watch him as he strides up and down the length of my office. Up to the bay window and back to the bookshelf. It’s what Antoin does when he’s thinking. His Gucci loafers move as fast as his brain.

“I’d wish you’d do your pacing in the hallway,” I grumble, “these tiles are from the Palace of Versailles.”

“Okay,” he eventually says, coming to a halt. “We can fix this. You’ll reach out to Igor Bratnov. You say it was a mistake by a low-level henchman who needs his fucking eyes tested, whatever. Go see him in person—bring a few of our men, ‘cause there’s a high chance he’ll be ready to slit your throat. And we don’t take our cut for six months.” He nods, satisfied with his solution. “And the body. We’ll return it and pay for the funeral. Where is it?”

My eyes drift towards the bay window, and I stop the smirk that tugs at my lips. “Under the rose bed.”

I’m laughing into the bottom of my tumbler when Antoin snatches it from my hand and hurls it at the wall above my head. Deathly calm, I turn to access the damage. Sticky, brown liquid slides down the Les Guerres D’Independence wallpaper. A 19th Century battle scene from the War of Independence that took Zuber a year to paint. Ironic, really, that Antoin destroyed the thing I’m trying to strive for. Independence from all these fucking treaties my father signed.

“The most expensive wallpaper in the entire world,” I muse, scratching my chin. “You should learn to control your temper.”

But Antoin isn’t listening. “You and your fucking drinking,” he snarls, “In the four years since you became Boss, all you’ve done is drink and ruin the Quinn family reputation. If your father could see you—”

Antoin doesn’t get to finish his sentence. I’m inches from him in a few strides, my hand around his neck, choking out the last few words. I slam him into the bookcase, not caring that my collection of first editions comes crashing to the floor around us.

“Keep my father’s name out of your mouth,” I snarl. Antoin clenches his jaw, refusing to show his struggle. But the blood is rushing to his face, and his lips are turning blue. Only when I hear the gurgle at the back of his throat do I let him go.

I can’t kill Antoin. I need him.

“Get out of my office,” I bark, turning my back on my heaving cousin. In the reflection of the window, I see him straighten his shirt collar, dust down his suit pants, and slink out of the room without another word.

Antoin Quinn. He’s thinking what everyone in the goddamn family is thinking, including me.

It should have been him that took my father’s place.

But tradition rules this family with an iron fist. There’s a strict hierarchy, spanning back over a century, and there’s no tragedy big enough to break it.

At the heart of the network is the main bloodline, direct descendants from my great, great, grandfather, Earnest Quinn. Only we can become Boss. The title is passed from father to eldest son, and so forth. First cousins are on the next rung of the ladder. They help run the business at the top, and the eldest will step in as Boss only if the entire main bloodline is wiped out. Antoin is my right-hand man, and his brother, Donnacha, is head of the henchmen. That’s the network of second and third cousins that are on the ground getting their hands dirty.

This was never meant to be my life. The title was meant for Eamon, my eldest brother. He was only months away from taking over from my father and had been training for that moment since he was in diapers. It was his destiny to take the title, but by some cruel twist of fate, the Quinn Claddagh ring was forced onto my finger instead.

I spent my life enjoying the perks of my last name, without undertaking any of the responsibility. Before the explosion, I spent my days traveling the world. Sourcing antiques from Europe and hookers from Brazil. Tanning on my yacht in Monaco one week, snorting lines from a stripper’s ass cheek in Paraguay the next. Only when I was burnt, broke, and bored would I come back to Boston, break a few noses and end a few lives in The Tunnels, before getting right back on my jet.

I run a hand through my hair and turn to the lone photo on my desk. It’s of my father, Eamon, and my other brother, Fergus, at some fundraiser a few years before they died. They glare back at me with those signature Quinn eyes. I raise my glass in their direction. “Cheers,” I mutter, before downing my drink.

Four years ago, I was plunged into the biggest gig of my life. And for four years, they’ve been watching me from their mahogany frame, watching me drown.

I reach for the bottle for another top-up.

Today, I’d rather drown in whiskey than responsibility.