Played: Manhattan Ruthless - 49

Chapter

Forty-Eight

I keep checking the time, but it doesn’t change the fact that King is thirty minutes late, which is unlike him. When he does get caught up, he calls, and I haven’t heard from him since he left my office this morning.

His phone goes straight to voicemail, and I tell myself that he could be somewhere he can’t get a signal. There are all manner of explanations to explain his tardiness and his lack of contact.

He could have been in some kind of accident and be bleeding out in a gutter somewhere.

I tell myself to calm the fuck down, but that doesn’t stop me from calling every hospital in the state of New York to see if he’s there. It’s after seven-thirty by the time I’ve confirmed that nobody by the first name of King or Kyngston or the last name Blackthorn or Worthington has been admitted today.

Something’s happened to him. There’s a sinking feeling deep in my gut that I’ve learned to trust over the years. After what happened yesterday, I’m certain that he intended to confront his father once he left my office, and I can’t imagine any scenario where that visit will have had a positive outcome. The best-case scenario is that he’s gone somewhere to cool off.

But he would have called.

Every instinct I have tells me King went to confront his father and something bad happened. Fuck, I have no idea what I’ll be walking into, but I have to do something. He could be hurt—he could have hurt his father. Or something worse.

I need some kind of backup. We have plenty of security on staff, but they’re all personal bodyguards or building security. I’m going to need a different kind of expertise for this.

I dial Nathan.

He picks up and says cheerfully, “Hey, Mase, what’s up?”

“Nathan, I need some help.”

It must be the tone of my voice, because he immediately switches into ice-cold defense-attorney mode. “What’s happened, and what can I do?”

“It’s King, and it’s a long story, but I’m sure he’s in some kind of trouble.”

“He needs a lawyer?”

“I wish it were that kind of trouble. But no. I think he’s in danger. I can’t get ahold of him, and I think he’s gone to see his father … And, well, like I said, it’s a long story. But I don’t particularly want to face Kyngston Worthington on my own, and⁠—”

“I’ll be right there. I’ll call Drake and Elijah⁠—”

“Thanks, bro,” I say, cutting him off. “But I think this calls for a different kind of help. Besides, if King does need a lawyer …” Or god forbid, if I do. I take a breath. “Then you need to be as far away from the situation as possible.”

“Mason,” he says, sounding increasingly frantic. “What the hell is going on? Are you okay?”

“I’m okay. I can’t explain it all right now, but King’s father, well, he’s a piece of shit. And I think King has gone to confront him, and I need … I need you to put me in touch with your clients. I could really use their help.”

“Fuck, Mase. You really want to fuck around with the Ryan brothers?”

I’ve met the Ryans a few times, and they all seem like nice guys. Mikey and I in particular get along well—we bonded over our similar sense of humor. But I’m under no illusions regarding the kind of men they are and the kind of shit they do.

“They are the exact people I need tonight, bro.”

It’s Conor Ryan I get ahold of. From the background noise when he answers, he must be in their club, The Emerald Shamrock. He’s expecting my call, as Nathan promised he would be.

“Hey Mason, what can I do for you?”

“I don’t know how much Nathan has told you but …” I screw my eyes closed and go for it. “I think my boyfriend’s in trouble. He went to his parents’ house earlier, and he didn’t come back. His dad is a real piece of shit, and I’m sure something bad has happened. I have no fucking clue what I’m doing here, Conor, or what I’m walking into, and … I guess I was hoping you could help. Or that you might know a couple of guys who could.”

“Right now?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

He’s quiet for a minute, then he says, “I mean, I have a few bouncers who are handy, but we generally take care of our own business, you know?”

I can imagine.

“Who is this guy? The father?”

“Kyngston Worthington III.”

He huffs a dark laugh. “The investment banker?”

“Yeah,” I reply, unsure if his laugh is good or bad.

“That fucker tried to have us shut down,” he growls. Seems the evil laugh was a good thing. “Someone will be outside your building in twenty minutes.”

After I hang up, I realize I didn’t give him my address. But people like Conor Ryan probably have plenty of ways to get that kind of information.

The black SUV pulls up twenty minutes later, as promised. I can’t see the faces of the driver or the passenger due to the tinted windows, but when I climb into the back, I’m shocked to find Conor driving and his older brother, Shane, in the passenger seat. To be honest, I feel fucking honored.

“You okay?” Shane asks.

“No,” I admit. “I feel like I’m going to vomit.”

He grins at me. “It’ll pass.”

“Don’t throw up in my new car,” Conor warns, which doesn’t help at all. “So we’re going to the Worthington estate, right?”

“Yeah. I think that’s where he is.”

Conor drives like he knows where he’s going, and I don’t question him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew where every person of interest in New York lives, though the thought is mildly terrifying. As are the two eldest Ryan brothers, who sit in silence. “Thanks for doing this,” I say, if only to fill the awkward silence.

“Happy to help.” Conor meets my eyes in the rearview mirror and nods.

“It was a quiet night,” Shane adds. Then he rolls his shoulders. “And things have been a little too quiet lately.”

Conor laughs like they’ve shared an inside joke. I know from Nathan and Drake that the Ryans have settled down somewhat since they became fathers a couple years ago, and I can imagine the lifestyle they lead is not an easy one to step away from. No matter their reason for being here, though, I’m glad they are. My stomach is twisting itself into knots worrying about King and what we might find when we get to where we’re headed, and I am beyond relieved to have them as backup.