“There are a few matters that require—”

“Where’s Juliette?”

Frank fell into an easy step alongside him as they headed towards the office.

“Miss Romero has gone to work. She left early this morning, but will return later this evening.”

“How did she get here? Who brought her without my direct orders?”

He reached his office and stalked straight to his desk.

Frank hesitated by the door. “She arrived on her own, sir. Apparently she climbed through a bedroom window.”

Killian staggered to a stop and spun around. “What?”

Frank straightened his shoulders and clasped his hands in front of him. “The team had secured the house. Miss Romero requested to speak to you, but our communication hadn’t yet gone up and she took matters into her own hands … sir.”

Killian dropped his face into his hand and slowly shook his head. “That woman is going to be the end of me,” he muttered to himself.

“What would you like me to do, sir?”

“Fire them.” He lowered his hand. “If they can’t watch over a single woman when there are two of them, I have no use for them.”

Frank blinked. “Sir?”

“Bring them to me,” he decided instead. “I want to hear what happened from them.”

“Yes sir.”

Killian leaned against the side of his desk as all strength in his limbs disintegrated, leaving him unnaturally exhausted and weak. But he stayed steady when he spoke again.

“The men we lost, have the families been contacted?”

Frank nodded. “Yes sir. The funerals have been arranged.”

“Make sure the families are taken care of and bring me their numbers. I’d like to speak with them personally.”

“Yes sir.”

Forcing himself up, Killian moved to his chair and lowered himself into it. “This can’t go unaddressed, Frank. Not just for my men, but because this is my home. They came into my home!” He shook his head. “No, this needs to be handled.”

“Yes sir.” Frank moved deeper into the room, phone in hand. “What would you like to do?”

“Bring me John and Tyson first,” he instructed. “Get Jake and Melton to stay with Juliette. Then set up a meeting with Kinch.”

Frank inclined his head, his fingers already moving over the keys on his phone. Finally, he straightened and lifted his head.

“Anything else, sir?”

He stared at the top of his desk. The underground cleanup crew had scrubbed the place clean of bodies and blood. It didn’t even look like anyone had been shot, never mind killed in the middle of his office.

The knowledge that he was responsible for the death of another person never sat well with him. He wasn’t a psychopath. But there wasn’t any remorse either. Smith died by the hands of his own foolish stupidity and that was on him; although, the fault wasn’t entirely with Smith, if Killian was honest with himself. He was just as much to blame.

His first mistake was holding the meeting with men he wasn’t familiar with in his own home. But since Killian didn’t have an office and hadn’t wanted to leave the mountain of paperwork, he had figured it would kill two birds with one stone. His second mistake was turning his back.

Dan Smith, as he’d introduced himself was a semi known gambler with deep pockets. As owner of several of the cities more high end and well known gaming arenas, Killian had heard of the man in passing only. From their brief phone conversation the day before, Killian had been under the impression that Smith had a concern with one of Killian’s fighting rings. He had agreed to meet the man to discuss it. At no time had he ever imagined that Smith would arrive with six heavily armed men and a head full of steam.

He’d stalked into Killian’s office a full three hours ahead of their scheduled meet. It was a sign of control Killian recognized and appreciated about as much as getting kicked in the crotch. But he had tolerated it, had even offered the man a seat and a drink, both which were refused.

Smith had reminded Killian of an old, lumpy oil tycoon. He’d stood before Killian in his cowboy boots, plaid top, and ten gallon hat that matched his ten gallon gut. He’d even had a thick mustache the same steel wool gray as his slicked back hair. He’d stared across the ten feet to where Killian stood patiently waiting.

“Mr. McClary,” he’d drawled lazily. “Let me just say what an honor this is. I am a big patron of your many establishments.”

Killian had inclined his head politely. “Thank you. You said on the phone this matter was urgent.”

“Yes, of course.” He’d shifted his weight like his boots were hurting his feet. “I was frequenting your Man O Steel tournament the night before. It’s one of my favorites.” He’d offered Killian a grin like they shared a secret joke. “Nothing like two men boxing it out to get the blood pumping.”

Killian had offered him a half smile.

Smith had continued, unfazed. “Now, as I said, I am a regular at most of your clubs. I was at the arena twice more this last week and I noticed that Nick Jameson, your newest fighter, hasn’t lost once since he started, which I find extremely odd considering he’s so green and his technique is deplorable. Yet, he’s won three whole nights in a row. I just can’t wrap my hat around it.”

Killian had tried not to look at that enormous bucket on the man’s head. “If you’re insinuating that my fighter somehow cheated, Mr. Smith—”

“No! No, no, of course not. I would never, but I do think it’s something worth looking into.”

If that was all the man had come to say, Killian had been severely unimpressed. His gaze had drifted over the other five fanned out behind Smith and had wondered what their purpose was. No one went anywhere that heavily guarded unless they were the queen.

“Very well, Mr. Smith.” He had returned his attention to the figure in front. “I will look into the matter. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

Smith had bobbed his massive head. “Certainly, but there is another matter I wish to discuss.”

Killian had waited, his patience waning.

“It’s the matter of the amount I lost. I don’t believe it’s fair when the House clearly had the upper hand.”

The House always has the upper hand, Killian had wanted to tell him, but he had been too busy scrutinizing the man watching him with those beady little eyes of his.

“I don’t think I understand.” Killian stared hard at the man. “Are you asking me to return the money you lost betting on the wrong fighter? Certainly that’s not the case, is it, Mr. Smith? As someone who admits to frequenting my gaming rings regularly, I would hope you understand the rules of the games you are playing. There are no refunds.”

Eyes the brittle cold of winter had peered into Killian, all good humor gone. The men behind him had shifted, but remained in place.

“It’s only sportsmen-like, Mr. McClary,” Smith had said in a manner that said very clearly that the matter was not some elaborate joke.

“I’m curious.” Killian had moved several steps closer, his strides even and non-threatening. “Do you make it a habit of barging into people’s homes, three hours before your appointment to cry about making bad choices? I certainly hope not, because if that is the case, I would feel inclined to ban you from my arenas. It’s bad form to put money down on games knowing the odds could go either way and then complain when you lose. I am almost certain we would not be having this conversation if you had won. That said, I will talk to my gaming manager and he will investigate the matter. Should my fighter be in the wrong, as you claim, I will handle him accordingly. As for returning your loss, no. That is why it is called gambling.”

Blood had welled beneath the doughy folds of skin on Smith’s square face. It had reminded Killian of a walking tomato in cowboy getup.

“You are making a grave mistake, Mr. McClary.” Smith’s mouth had barely moved beneath the bushy patch of fur over his lip.