Page 41 of The Reaper

“Let them look for me.”

“How do you want to handle this now?” he asked.

“First, you need to get better.”

“Then what?”

“We’re going to expose every dirty deal they’ve done. I need that roster of their hits.”

“Why?” Tobias asked, a knowing look on his face.

“Do you know Marilyn Ellis?” I’d been in communication with her about The Firm’s wrongdoings, but she needed the proof before she aired her story.

“Yeah. How does she play in all this?”

“She’ll expose them,” I said. “But not without that list.”

“Holy shit. There’s no turning back from here, Archer.”

I nodded. “I know. I won’t blame you if you don’t want anything to do with this. But I need to know. Are you in?”

I held my breath. Having Tobias, The Savior, on my side was essential. He was smart, strong, and more experienced than I was.

“Are you really attempting to take down one of the most powerful and influential groups in the United States?” he asked.

“They don’t call me The Reaper for nothing.”

“Let’s fucking do this. We ain’t got nothin’ to lose.”

If The Firm knew my plan of going rogue, it would only be a matter of time before they found me. They probably had someone coming to my place at that very moment. Fuck! So much for flying under the radar. I should’ve known. Their connections ran deep and wide.

I opted to spend the night in my new apartment and, as much as I hated to admit it, the dump was starting to grow on me. Besides, I planned on spending what little time I had left next to my priest. My obsession with him wasn’t going away anytime soon, why fucking fight it? I was a dead man walking so I might as well enjoy my last meal.

Speaking of the devil. The lights in Father Saint James’s room illuminated my computer screen. What’s he doing up this late? It was two in the morning. A grin crossed my face when he rubbed his stomach and chest, the vision of my cock shooting my load over him made me want to rub another one out. But the smile on my face dissipated when a frown graced his handsome face, holding his cell closer to his ear.

Twenty-One: The Priest

“Is this Father Saint James?” a man with a thick accent asked.

A yawn escaped my mouth and I cleared my throat. “This is he,” I croaked, glancing at my phone to check the time: 2:02 a.m. I groaned. My hand landed on my damp stomach, where the blend of our releases still pooled. Archer rutted on my sleeping body, making me feel like a cheap whore, and I loved every second of it. I pulled the phone away from my ear again. The caller ID was from overseas, the Vatican to be exact. That explained the hour of the call.

“Go to New Hampshire. Your presence is required in New Hampshire. The archbishop is waiting for you.”

“When?” I asked, surprised at my ability to comprehend what was happening considering where my mind was.

“Wednesday at noon.”

Wednesday? That was tomorrow. Actually in a few hours, since it was already after midnight. “I’m going to need longer notice than that,” I reasoned while understanding the urgency of the matter. “How about in a couple of days? I will need to get a car.”

“I’m sorry, Father Saint James, but that was the order. You should have received an email about the meeting.” He hung up before I had a chance to protest. It wouldn’t make a difference anyway. Words were a waste of breath.

Since sleep was no longer an option, I headed to my office to check said email, stopping when a small white box caught my attention. Upon closer examination, the box was made from marble and was cool to the touch. Archer must’ve dropped this before he left a couple of hours ago. The thought of him made my skin burn with forbidden desire. I shook my head and placed it back on the nightstand, heading to the bathroom to clean up the evidence of my weakness.

While the coffee brewed, I tightened my robe and leaned against the marble counter. Fishing for my phone in my pocket, my fingers brushed against the USB drive. I stared at the offending piece of plastic and metal, feeling violated all over again. Frustrated, I tossed it on the counter and it bounced before sliding to a stop next to the knife block.

Glaring at it, I dug back into my pocket and retrieved my phone. After a couple of swipes, once I had entered a password, I stared at the encrypted email from the Vatican that was marked urgent.

Dearest Father Saint James,

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