Own Me (The Wolf Hotel, #5)

Probably a lot less than the number of men who earned their cell.

My dad drops his voice to a murmur. “You see that guy over there? With the tattoo on his face? Don’t be too obvious.”

I shift my gaze to my left, spotting the guy in question easily. Half his face is marred with ink—a scaly dragon with talons—making him look downright scary. He’s sitting across from a young pretty Latina girl with fake nails long enough to be used as a weapon in a place like this, I’d hazard. “Yeah.”

“Crazy Bob says he’s high up in some notorious LA gang. Anything that guy wants in here, he gets. Anything.”

“So become his friend.”

Dad chuckles. “That’s not how it works.” He glances over his shoulder at the group of inmates filtering in. “See that one there? The third in line?”

I watch a heavyset man with pock-marked cheeks and unkempt gray hair stroll in. He must be in his seventies, with a belly that strains the waistline of his prison garb. “Okay.”

“He’s got the warden and plenty of the guards in his pocket. Even dragon-face stays away from him. He could put a hit out on anyone and it’d be done in a day, inside these walls or not. That’s what Crazy Bob claims, anyway.”

I watch the man lumber along. Maybe it’s the jumpsuit and shaggy mop on his head but I’m picturing him stretching pizza dough or selling car insurance from behind a chunky old desk circa 1970, not swimming at the top of the food chain in a maximum security prison, scaring LA gangbangers.

“What’s his deal?”

“Mob boss. Big into the drug trade.”

I feel my eyebrows pop. “As in, like, Al Capone…?”

“As in, you betray him, he takes out your entire family and then you, and then he pisses on your ashes.” Dad’s voice drops to a whisper. “Crazy Bob told me that some clueless do-gooder guard came in here last year, stirring the pot against the corruption. He didn’t last long.”

“As in fired?”

“As in stopped coming in. His family hasn’t heard from him since.” Dad gives me a knowing look.

“I feel so much better knowing you’re spending your days with these kind of people,” I mutter, nausea stirring in my stomach. I study the mob boss as he passes. He walks with ease, as if he owns this room and he knows it. And maybe Crazy Bob isn’t blowing smoke. Maybe he does own this place.

Curious about who he’s here to see—one of his mobster minions, probably?—I let my gaze follow him to the four-person table in the far corner.

And find myself suddenly ensnared in a storm.





Chapter Two - Gabriel



I was fully prepared for two things when my eyelids peeled open this morning: one, that I’d be nursing a fucking epic hangover for most of the day after last night’s festivities, and two, that I’d be in an extra-pissy mood by the time I made it up to this shithole.

What I did not expect was to be sitting in Fulcort with a raging hard-on for some chick visiting her old man.

But there you have it.

Fuck.

I’ve been coming here once a month for the last three years to see my father and I have never laid eyes on that woman before. I’d remember. Those sharp cheekbones, that thick jet-black hair. Those fat fucking lips, the kind that were made for wrapping around my cock and sucking slowly. She’s hiding her body in baggy clothes—standard protocol, though she’s taken it to the extreme; she’s one step away from men’s sweatpants—but her arms are toned, her neck is slender and long, her olive skin looks silky soft. I’m a betting man and I’d bet there’s a tight ass and tits that sway when she’s riding hard hiding beneath all that.

I didn’t even notice her at first. I came in, settled into my dad’s usual table in the corner of the room, and started surveying all the degenerates filling the room on this fine Saturday afternoon, killing time until Dad decided to grace me with his presence.

And then I spotted her over there, her pretty brow furrowed in worry as she leaned over the table to get as close to the man as possible without setting off the guards, and I haven’t been able to peel my gaze away since.

It’s been forever and a day since a woman has stirred my blood like this.

What’s even more interesting is that she and the guy she’s visiting—her dad, maybe?—leaned in to share a few whispered words and then those big, brown eyes of hers shifted to the inmates coming in.

To my father.

With wariness, she watched him stroll all the way over, and that’s how, bingo, we’re now eye-fucking each other. At least, that’s what I’m doing.

Until I can get out of here, track her down, and switch to straight-up fucking.

My dad settles his girth into the stiff chair across from me. Somehow he’s managed to pack on fifty pounds eating shitty prison food peppered with the odd steak dinner. “You’re late,” he mutters in his typical gruff voice.

“You have somewhere else you need to be?” I throw back before I can bite my tongue. If he wasn’t going to complain about that, it’d be about something else. Still, he doesn’t take too kindly to attitude, and Dad’s bad side is not one you ever want to be on, blood-related or not. “Got caught up with work,” I lie. “Who’s that new guy over there? Number seven.” I nod toward the table.

“What do I look like? Fucking four-one-one?” he snaps back, irritated.

I shrug, acting all nonchalant. “He seemed interested in you when you came in, is all.”

Dad’s bushy eyebrows furrow with the glare he shoots me before peering over his shoulder. “New fish. A nobody,” he declares.

It’s at that precise moment that my future lay glances our way. Her chocolate-brown eyes flare and then snap back, her face paling. Yeah, I’d say she got the skinny on who my father is, and it scares her. But will she be scared of me too? If so, what can I do to ease her fears?

My dick twitches with eagerness.

Dad shakes his head. “How’s the club doing? You and Caleb haven’t run it into the ground yet?”

I roll my eyes. “It’s running smooth.” Better than smooth, and he knows it. He likes to talk about Empire like it’s his club, like it was his idea in the first place. He had nothing to do with it. My older brother and I purchased an old factory warehouse and converted it into a nightclub eight years ago. It’s gone through several identity transformations but it’s found its stride, catering to high-end clientele with cash to burn and people to impress. A one hundred percent legitimately run business, as far as any law enforcement is concerned. And, trust me, they’ve tried to prove otherwise. That’s the downside of being the sons of Vlad Easton: you have the Feds and the IRS crawling up your ass on the regular.