Page 2 of Little Bird (Advantage Play 3)

“Sei said you wanted to see me?”

“Yeah. Take a seat.”

I grab the closest chair I can find and sit my ass down then wait for him to get to the point. Crossing my arms over my chest, I lean back and hold his stare.

“You’re awfully pissy this morning.”

“Long night,” I grunt.

His lips tilt up in amusement before he rests his elbows on the table and steeples his fingers, brushing his index fingers against the dimple on his chin. “Aw, yes. Sometimes I forget how much you hate hitting women. Interesting that you don’t mind working for me. Ironically, that’s why I called you in here.”

With a slow swallow, I probe, “And why’s that? No offense, Burlone, but like I’ve said, I had a long night and want to go to bed. Is that a problem?”

I know I’m pushing my luck by the way his amusement vanishes and is replaced with barely contained frustration. “Wanna try that again, Dex? Maybe with a little more respect this time?”

Respect? I almost laugh at the ridiculousness of it. I’ve never respected the guy, but I do respect the power he wields.

My jaw is clenched as I search for the self-preservation to give a shit. It takes me a few seconds to find it. Releasing a sigh, I try again. “You’re right, Boss. I’m sorry I’m being short. I haven’t slept in almost”—I lift my wrist to check the time on my watch—“thirty-two hours, and I’m a little tired. Won’t happen again.”

Burlone’s nod of approval sets me at ease. “Good. Since you’re tired, I’ll get straight to the point. I have a new job for you. One that will likely not involve punching anything for the next two weeks, so you should consider it a vacation. All you have to do is keep an eye on some fruit. That’s it.”

Fruit is a slang term we use for the women he’s selling. The women his men have collected who are kept in tiny rooms in the basement while Burlone either sets up a buyer or uses them for their bodies like a punching bag with holes. On occasion, he’s asked someone to watch over a particularly valued piece of fruit until he can get her transported. His men have no self-discipline and have never been good at following orders, so it’s always a risk to leave them alone with the fruit for long periods of time. However, I’ve always kept a wide berth from the human trafficking aspect, and I don’t like the feeling of being dragged in with Burlone’s request.

“That’s never been my job before,” I grit out.

He waves me off. “Yes, well, I’ve never had such a variety of fruit before and don’t want it to spoil before the tournament.”

My brows pinch, my head tilting in confusion before asking, “What tournament?”

I barely survived this one.

With a wicked grin, a satisfied Burlone sits back in his chair and explains, “You’ve been with me for a long time, Dex. But I think you were a kid when I started hosting these tournaments. Ones where we gamble with things other than money. And in two weeks, I’ve decided to hold another one.”

“Which is why you need me to make sure the fruit doesn’t spoil before then.” I shake my head as my blood starts to boil. “You and I had an agreement, Boss. I’d be your muscle. I’d kick the shit out of anyone you asked me to without asking questions. I’d collect any debt that was owed to you. Those were my requirements when I requested and accepted the job.”

He scoffs. “You were ten when I found you on the streets, Dex. Hell, I practically raised you, and you were begging to work for me by the time you turned sixteen. Don’t pretend you’re a martyr. Don’t act like you shouldn’t be worshipping me like a god for saving you. I understand you’re a little skittish because of your whore of a mother and the things you saw as a kid, but I think it’s about time you grow the hell up. I need you to take care of a few girls. Make sure they’re fed. Make sure my men keep their hands to themselves. And make sure they’re where they need to be when I need them to be there. That’s it. Understand?”

Everything inside of me is begging to reach for the gun tucked into the waist of my slacks and pull the trigger. But I don’t.

Taking a deep breath, I dig my fingers into the armrests on my chair and ask, “That’s it?”

He narrows his eyes. “Yeah. That’s it. Now, get the hell out of my office.”

Chapter Three

Little Bird

Huddled in the corner, I’ve been dozing in and out of consciousness for the past few hours when a soft knock breaks the eerie silence encompassing the room.

I don’t make a sound. I don’t move a muscle. And I pray to any gods who might be listening that I can somehow find a way to melt into the rough cinder blocks behind me, letting me disappear.

The jingling of keys makes me cower further, burrowing into the corner until the skin along my back is raw.

With a squeak, the door opens slowly, cautiously, before a man appears through the gap. My mouth opens in shock when I think I recognize him before he steps out of the shadow, and I see his face more fully. It’s not him. The man in front of me looks like he’s in his late twenties––maybe early thirties if the years were rough on him. His hair is cropped short, and a white button-up shirt covers his massive biceps and chest. My terror spikes with the knowledge this man could crush me like an ant.

I watch as he scans the bed, his brows furrowing in confusion before searching the rest of the room and landing on my tiny frame huddled in the corner.

“Hey.” His tone is soft as he raises his hands in the air in an attempt to look harmless. Slowly, he takes a step forward, trying not to scare me.

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