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  Owned by The Beast

  R E B E C C A H O W A R D

  Copyright © 2020 Rebecca Howard

  All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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  My favorite part of her?

  Her curves.

  Charlotte is a baker.

  We’re total opposites.

  She’s sweet and sexy.

  And me?

  I’m a ruthless detective.

  Still, I’m nothing if not utterly obsessed with her.

  She turns my world upside down.

  And all I want to do is pleasure her.

  Charlotte doesn’t think she’s worthy of my love.

  What she doesn’t know is that she has me.

  Now and forever.

  And I’m about to show her just how far I’d go to win her over.

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  Sara wants a man killed.

  And I’m the only one who can help her get revenge.

  We run a tight operation at the Cleveland Outfit.

  Nothing is off-limits, except for trafficking and drugs.

  The man Sara wants dead might have killed her friend.

  I know all about losing a loved one to murder.

  Sara brings back a part of me that I’d rather forget.

  She’s also the only one who can heal me.

  But I can’t trust her.

  She won’t even tell me her real name.

  But I will save her from being destroyed twice, even if it costs me my own life.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Duncan

  Chapter 2: Aria

  Chapter 3: Duncan

  Chapter 4: Aria

  Chapter 5: Duncan

  Chapter 6: Aria

  Chapter 7: Duncan

  Chapter 8: Duncan

  Chapter 9: Aria

  Chapter 10: Duncan

  Chapter 11: Aria

  Chapter 12: Duncan

  Chapter 13: Aria

  Chapter 14: Duncan

  Chapter 15: Aria

  Chapter 16: Duncan

  Chapter 17: Aria

  Chapter 18: Duncan

  Chapter 19: Aria

  Chapter 20: Duncan

  Chapter 21: Aria

  Chapter 22: Duncan

  Chapter 23: Aria

  Chapter 24: Duncan

  Chapter 25: Aria

  Chapter 1

  Duncan

  I knew what it meant when Dario Moretti slid the manila folder across his desk to me. It meant the same thing it always did when someone gave me a folder: the person inside it was going to die, and I would be the one who killed him.

  But this time it was different. This time, the folder was coming from someone outside of The Outfit which meant it was coming from someone I didn’t trust.

  Moretti raised his eyebrows at me. The disrespect in that look was unmistakeable.

  “Problem?” he asked.

  “No problem at all,” Gael Flanagan said from his seat next to me, placing a hand on my shoulder. “I told you, Duncan Canavan is the best there is.” He paused, then added, “Do you not trust me, is that it?”

  Moretti’s reaction was barely perceptible, but I’ve learned how to read faces over the years and I saw it as plain as day. He was scared of Gael. That was smart: everyone should be scared of Gael. Hell, he raised me as his own son, and even I was scared of Gael.

  “Hold on, hold on,” said Moretti, spreading his hands wide and plastering on a fake grin. “We’re all friends here, right? Nah, I don’t got a problem with your boy.”

  I could feel Gael stiffen in his chair. “Call Duncan a boy again and see what happens,” he said, his voice icy. “I guarantee you won’t like it.”

  He was right. If it had been anyone else in that office with us, things would have gotten ugly at that point. But Moretti was the boss of Cleveland’s Italian Syndicate, and as such, he had something like diplomatic immunity. I couldn’t do anything to him without harming The Outfit—and Gael—and that was something I would never have done.

  Of course, that was before I met Aria. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  I saw a couple of beads of sweat appear on the olive skin of Moretti’s high forehead before Gael smiled and barked a laugh. I let my guard down, but just a little.

  “I’m just fucking with you,” said Gael. “Of course, we’re all friends here. And Duncan will be happy to take care of business for you. Right, Duncan?”

  I nodded. “Whatever you say, boss.”

  Gael was right. I’d do whatever he told me to, simple as that. If he told me to kill the guy in the folder, I’d kill the guy in the folder. If he had told me to kill Moretti, I would have walked around the desk and broken his neck. Sure, I would have wondered why he told me to do it, but I would have done it. The thought of questioning Gael’s orders never entered my head back then.

  I flipped open the folder to find a dossier and a handful of grainy photos. They had obviously been taken from a distance in less-than-ideal conditions, but I could make out the guy’s face well enough. Looked about forty, wavy hair combed back from his brow, with cold eyes and a serious expression. Two of the shots were of him sitting at a table outside a restaurant that I recognized. It was downtown, near the university and a few blocks from the waterfront. The other photos were taken through a window and showed the guy sitting in an office of some sort.

  The dossier gave me the guy’s name—I’d never heard of him, not that it would have made a difference—along with some information about his routine and an address. That was all I needed to know about him. Like all of my targets over the years, this guy had chosen the life he lived, and the rewards that came with it. That meant he’d chosen the consequences, too.

  “Loud or quiet?” I asked, flipping the folder closed and sliding it back across to Moretti. I’d memorized everything I needed to remember.

  Moretti frowned at me. “What?”

  “Loud or quiet,” I said again, more pointedly. “You want him to disappear or you want him to send a message?”

  Moretti glanced at Gael, who just shrugged. “Duncan is the best in the business,” he said. “He’s like a specialist, except instead of saving lives, he takes them. He can do it any number of ways. So, answer his question, all right?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Moretti sat back in his chair, trying to look casual, but I knew I’d thrown him off his game. “We want this to be a nice, simple hit. Just take him out, get rid of the body and make sure the scene is clean afterwards. No evidence left behind.”

  “That’s what I meant by quiet,” I sneered. Fucking clown trying to tell me my job. Then I felt Gael’s hand on my shoulder and suddenly I wondered if I’d crossed the line with his new partner.

  “Consider it done,” he told Moretti. “Now, we have other things to talk about.”

  “We sure do.” Moretti chucked his chin in my direction. “Get outta here, kid.”

  “Stay where you are,” Gael countered. He glared at the Italian. “Duncan is my right-hand man. He stays beside me at all times. You got that?”

  Moretti chewed that over for a few seconds before finally shrugging.

  “All right, fine,” he said, opening his laptop. “Whate
ver it takes to get this shit over with. I got all the numbers right here, so let’s get down to business.”

  I let my attention drift as Gael leaned forward to look at the screen. He and Moretti were deep in discussion, but I filtered it out. I didn’t give a fuck about numbers, or anything else to do with that side of the business. I did wet work; it’s what Gael trained me to do, ever since he’d first brought me home with him when I was a kid.

  ***

  That day will be seared in my mind forever. It was late July of the summer I turned thirteen, and I’d already lost track of how many foster homes I’d lived in over the nine years since my parents died in a car accident. It was back in Boston, and I was living in Dorchester with a smelly old woman named Esther who couldn’t care less what I did as long as the checks from the county kept coming in.

  A couple of buddies and I had filched a carton of Camels from the corner store around sunset and we were smoking them in an old overgrown lot a few blocks from Esther’s apartment. We were minding our own business when a gang of shitheels from the local high school happened to come along. They started pushing us around and tried to grab the smokes away from us. I’d been in enough scrapes in my life that I wasn’t afraid of anyone, so I put up a hell of a fight, but the guy who was on me was probably five years older and fifty pounds heavier than me.

  My pals weren’t quite as tough as I was, and the next thing I knew, they were on the ground with the other two older guys on top of them, pummeling them good. That was when I lost it. The guy I was taking on had me in a headlock, so I drove my elbow into his crotch with every ounce of strength I had. He let me go and I dashed over to the other two, tackling them off of my friends. I kept my arms clamped around their necks as we rolled across the asphalt and gravel, tearing out little pieces of flesh on my knees and elbows as we did. When we came to a stop, I leapt to my feet and faced both of them, fists raised. They rushed me, but I fooled them good, dropping to my ass on the ground and driving my feet right into their knees as they got close.

  Both of them collapsed, groaning and cursing at me as they clutched their legs. I saw my buddies taking off and I was about to join them when I heard a voice coming from the sidewalk next to the lot.

  “You just gonna let them get away?” asked a male voice with a slight Southie drawl.

  When I turned, all I could see was the silhouette of a man standing with the setting sun behind him. At first I didn’t know what he meant, so I just stood and watched him as he walked toward me. As he got closer, I could make out a little more of him: he was in his thirties, lean, with a hard look in his eyes. He was wearing a black suit that, even as young as I was, I realized must have cost a shitload of money.

  “Fuck off, mister,” I said. “This isn’t any of your business.”

  I thought maybe he would yell at me or try to cuff me for giving him lip, but instead he gave me a wide grin.

  “Well, aren’t you just a little gangster?” he said. For a second, I thought he was making fun of me, but the look he was giving me told me he was more intrigued than offended by my defiance.

  “Maybe I am,” I said, wiping the blood off my knees with my hands. “What about it?”

  Behind me, the teenagers were starting to struggle to their feet. The two I had tackled were limping badly, and the other guy was still doubled over, clutching his nuts.

  “I’ll ask you again.” The man wasn’t smiling anymore. Now he was peering at me intently, his arms folded over his chest. “Are you going to let them get away?”

  I frowned at him, wondering what he was talking about. Did he mean my friends? Of course I let them get away, that was the whole point of me going after the shitheels. I would have done anything to protect my pals.

  Then it dawned on me: the guy was talking about the shitheels.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  He pointed to the three high schoolers. “You did a good job of teaching them not to fuck with you. But you didn’t finish the job.”

  “Finish the job, how?”

  “Hey, fuck you!” groaned the kid whose testicles I’d thumped. He was shambling towards us with the other two following behind him. One of them had pulled a bike chain from his pocket. “This little bastard is dead meat! Get outta here or we’ll take you out, too!”

  The man ignored them and just raised his eyebrows at me. Well? that look said.

  Suddenly I understood what he was trying to tell me. There was something about him, about the way he was talking to me, that was different from any other adult I’d ever encountered in my short life. All my foster parents, all the cops that had busted me, all the social workers and teachers who’d lectured me over the years—they all told me not to do things. Don’t give in to your temper, don’t act out, don’t get into fights. What it all added up to was don’t be yourself.

  But this guy… this was an adult who was telling me to go ahead and do it. To give in to my instincts and be myself.

  So, I turned and faced the trio of teenagers. On the ground next to me I saw the busted handle of an old hockey stick on the ground, and I picked it up. The three had just enough time to look surprised before I knocked the teeth out of their mouths. The chain dropped from the one kid’s hand as he stumbled backward. Then I swung for their knees like I was a lumberjack taking down a tree. Then, when they were on the ground, I made like Manny Ramirez from the Sox and swung for the fences on their skulls.

  I finally stopped when I heard the guy behind me laughing and clapping.

  “Bravo!” he cried. “Holy shit, little man, that was even better than I could have hoped!”

  I was breathing hard and looking down at the shitheels. Each of them was surrounded by a pool of blood that looked black against the asphalt in the setting sun. None of them were moving.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, swallowing hard. I was already starting to think about the cops. I would be in serious trouble over this, as in straight-to-juvenile-hall, do-not-pass-go.

  “Oh, I think you know.” The man was next to me now, his hand on my shoulder. His cologne smelled expensive, not like the eye-watering body spray that all my buddies used. “I saw it the moment I laid eyes on you. What’s your name, kid?”

  “Duncan,” I said, and I immediately regretted it. What if this guy was a cop? I’d just given him my name!

  It wasn’t long before I realized he wasn’t a cop. He was whatever the polar opposite of a cop is.

  “My name is Gael.” He extended his hand and I shook it. Most adults never tried to shake my hand, they just tried to tell me what to do.

  “Nice to meet you,” I mumbled.

  “And you. Say, are you hungry?”

  “Starving.” It was true; I couldn’t stand the shit Esther made, always full of canned meat and other stuff I didn’t like.

  “Well then, let’s get a burger in you,” Gael said with a wide grin. “And while we eat, we can talk about things. I see a lot of potential in you, Duncan, and I think we can help each other.”

  My stomach dropped and I readied myself to fight again. “You a fucking pervert?”

  I wasn’t sure how he was going to react—it wasn’t the first time I’d asked a man that—but I sure as hell didn’t expect what happened next.

  He laughed and clapped me on the shoulder.

  “You don’t have to worry about anything like that from me, my friend. I like grown-up women, preferably ones with big tits.”

  “Sorry,” I said as we walked toward the street. “It’s just that when a grown-up tells me they want to help me—”

  “I get it. But you can trust me, Duncan. I’m going to make you this promise right now.” He stopped me and turned so that we were facing each other. “I’ll always have your back, as long as you have mine. Is that a deal?”

  Part of me couldn’t believe this was happening, but I could see in Gael’s eyes that he meant exactly what he said. That was the kind of guy I wanted to be. This time, I was the
one who extended his hand. Gael took it and gave it a hard pump, the way a man would with another man, not with a kid.

  “Deal,” I said. “I promise, I’ll always have your back, as long as you have mine.”

  He took me to a place called the Fat Badger and bought me a burger and a beer, and nobody in the place even looked at him funny for ordering a beer for a kid. The burger was the best I’d ever had in my life, and the beer was cold and yeasty and made me feel goofy, like I wanted to laugh. Everyone in the Fat Badger knew Gael, and they all showed him respect.

  He took me to his own place afterwards, a townhouse in Telegraph Hill that was easily three times the size of any other place I’d ever stayed in my life. He gave me a room all to myself, and I used his phone to call Esther and tell her that I was sleeping over at a friend’s place. She didn’t give a shit.

  By the time I fell asleep that night, I knew that I would do anything for Gael Flanagan.

  ***

  “All right, then we’re done.” Gael rose from his chair. Across the desk, Dario Moretti did the same. I pulled myself out of my memories and followed suit, handing Moretti my cell phone.

  “Program in a number,” I said. “I’ll message you when the job is done.”

  Gael grabbed the phone out of Moretti’s hand and gave it back to me, replacing it with his own. “Let’s go through me on this,” he said. “It’s cleaner that way.”

  Moretti put in a number and handed it back. Then the two men shook hands.

  “This is the start of something big,” Gael said with his trademark thousand-watt smile. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you.”

  “Likewise,” said Moretti, but with a lot less enthusiasm.

  Gael and I turned and walked into the private elevator that led to Moretti’s office. As the doors slid shut, the smile immediately vanished from Gael’s face.

  “Greasy son of a bitch,” he muttered. “But hey, you gotta do what you gotta do.”

  “Look, boss,” I said quietly. “You know me, I don’t ask questions. But I’m really starting to wonder what the hell is going on here. Why the Italians?”