“Proper planning prevents poor performance.”
That’s what Daniel Payne always used to say to us. His foot soldiers. His captive audience. His little wily murder pets.
Guy was an arrogant son of bitch, but sometimes he was right. It doesn’t matter why I started working for him or why I eventually turned. The King of South Side always had a lesson to give, and a lot of people wouldn’t want to hear it, but if you could get past the megalomania and greed, he made some damn good points. They just weren’t always constructively solvent. That’s the brilliance of it. Daniel needed us smart enough to be useful, but stupid enough to not realize it.
A lesser man might have seen Daniel as a passable father figure, but fuck that. I’ve already got two of those, and both of them are a hell of a lot smarter than the King of Payne.
Case in point, my real dads are still alive.
Daniel Payne has been dead for six months, but I can still see him everywhere, tagged around this city like bold graffiti. He’s in the skyline, the silhouette of buildings he’d financed rising over the horizon at dawn. He’s beneath our feet, the network of sewers he had gutted and reclaimed, making for the perfect intercity smuggling maze. He’s in the air, the permeating scent of car exhaust and the putrid waste treatment plant keeping anyone too important at arm’s length. He’s in the people—the dealers he regulated and the junkies they feed.
Mostly, he’s here.
Killian Payne’s truck is in the brothel’s driveway when I arrive, the front wheel halfway up the sidewalk. He’d parked in a hurry, rushing over when he got the call, no doubt.
While he was learning what happened in the basement of the Velvet Hideaway, I was busy scrubbing the blood off my hands and the scent of pussy from my cock. Nothing I do can diminish the adrenaline running through my system. It’s not just the thrill of finally getting what I’ve wanted after all this time, although… yeah.
Won’t lie, my balls are still zinging from that fat load I’d buried into Lavinia’s pussy.
It’s not really what I’d wanted, anyway. Good pussy, for sure. The sight of her beneath me, taking my cock as I drove into her, was unquestionably inevitable. Lavinia Lucia’s been mine since the first moment I laid eyes on her; it’s just that no one’s bothered to see it yet.
The real thrill is that everything is in motion now. I can feel the cogs turning as I leisurely stalk up the drive, the satisfying dive of that first domino, knocking into the next. People underestimate a lot about me, but none so much as my patience.
I stroll into the brothel with a casual, bored swagger, as if I hadn’t been the one breaking into the basement mere hours ago. One of Daniel’s best lessons is the art of showing people exactly what they’re expecting. It makes them complacent. Makes them feel smart. Makes them think they’ve got you all figured out.
In the main room, a few girls are huddled around, speaking in whispers, eyeing me balefully as I cross the room. The whole atmosphere is heavy and solemn, and even the building itself feels like it’s hunching in on itself, hurt. Auggy, the Hideaway’s madam, stands near the basement door in a robe with her arms wrapped around her slender, womanly body. A thin wisp of smoke tendrils from the end of her cigarette as she tracks my approach.
“Hey,” I say, pushing my damp hair off my forehead. “I got a call. What’s going on?”
“There was a break-in last night,” she says, looking away. The heel of her right foot is bouncing nervously, even though her face is flawlessly composed. “The Kings’ asset was targeted.”
Asset. AKA: Lavinia Lucia. Daughter of Lionel, King to the Counts. Royalty, but not. Valuable, but only just. She’s been holed up in the basement of the brothel for a while now. I should know. I’ve been the one handling her.
My voice emerges carefully. “Is she okay?”
“I went in this morning to drop off some breakfast and found her…” She takes a long drag of the cigarette, something delicate shuddering across her features. “She’s a mess, but okay. I mean… alive.” She shrugs. “Go look for yourself.”
I nod and head down the stairs, stomping but not rushed. It’ll be what he expects.
This house was custom-built by a rapper who got in trouble with the IRS. The bottom floor is a suite he built for his mother, complete with all the amenities. Lavinia has been living down here in service of Daniel, but now that he’s dead, she’s as good as a can of soup that’s missing its label, all tucked away and forgotten in the pantry. Killian, being Daniel’s son and heir, has been trying to figure out what to do with this part of his ‘inheritance’.
I knock on the door, and a moment later, it swings open. My eyes go to Killian, but only because he’s so big. Imposing motherfucker. Covered in ink, the quarterback was in line for first draft with the NFL before he decided to take his father’s crown of trash.
I drag my eyes away from him over to the mess. The glass on the dresser and floor sparkles in the low light coming in from the broken window above. The bedside table has been overturned, as well as the armchair in the sitting area. The sheets on the bed are twisted, patches smeared with blood that’s dried into a ruddy brown color.
Fuck, it’s like a bomb went off in here.
The can of soda I left her is still on the bedside table.
But the Plan-B box isn’t.
I take her in last, putting it off as long as possible. It’s not that I feel bad, because I don’t. She got her swings in. Aside from the purple welt on one cheek, her face is pale, her blond hair as wild as her eyes. She stares at me, cold and hard. Girl fought back something nasty, looking more like a victor than a victim. But it’s just like I said. It was for her own good. She’ll be thanking me for it, come next week.
But there’s this little inkling of dread swirling around my head, and I don’t fucking like it. It really had been sloppy to tell her who I was—and I basically had. Little Bird. I’m the only one who calls her that. If she told Killian, he’d pull out that gun peeking from his waistband and bury a bullet into my skull, and that would be his right.
But I know the second we lock eyes, she hasn’t said a thing.
Lavinia’s had a few lessons herself.
“What the hell happened here?” I ask, keeping an eye on her. The flare of anger that hardens my features isn’t even entirely fake. Fucking Sy, hauling off and slapping her like that. My brother is a lot of things, but even-tempered has never been one of them.
“I have no fucking idea.” Killian’s wearing sweats and a Forsyth practice jersey. This one little patch of his hair is standing straight up, and he’s wearing two different-colored socks. I showered the pussy off me, but he obviously didn’t have a chance to. He looks like he just woke up. I know him well enough to understand that if he had to leave his Lady’s bed, he’s agitated. “It’s not her blood. I had Mrs. Crane check, but…” he glances over at her, grimaces and gestures for me to follow him into the hallway. He pulls the door closed, but not all the way, eyes still sleep puffy despite their wildness. He’s keeping an eye on her, too. I can physically see him brace for my reaction when he quietly rumbles, “It looks like she was raped.”
He watches me. I haven’t been discreet about my interest in her. Rath knows—it’s why I made the deal with them about turning on Daniel. It’s why Killian called me here at the ass-crack of dawn. They probably think that’s sloppy of me, showing how much I want her.
It’s what they expect of me.
“Someone touched her?” I ask, a clear, lethal edge to my voice. “They hurt her?” I call up that quiet, blazing rage that swelled in my chest when I saw Sy’s palm print on her cheek, letting it drive me. “Tell me who.” I reach for my own gun, but his hand stops me.
He rubs the back of his neck. “Again, it’s not her blood. Looks like she got one of them pretty good. I don’t think she needs a knight in shining armor here.”
Remy. When I left, Bianca was stitching him up—her last task as Duchess before moving on. Lavinia sliced his abdomen with a piece of dirty glass, but he had it coming. Even Remy knew that much. He was still laughing about it, even when we got back to campus. Crazy fucker.
“They marked her, though.” His eyes hold mine, narrowing. “With a bear.”
“A Bear,” I repeat, wrapping my fingers around my gun. “You mean a bruin.”
“Nick,” he starts, but I cut him off.
It’s what he’d expect.
“Someone’s sending me a message,” I lie, shrugging off his grip to pull out my gun. “Tell me who.”
He gives me a warning look. “The message isn’t for you. Saul Cartwright has it out for me. Has for months now. The Dukes have graduated, so I’m guessing this was his last hurrah for them.” His jaw tenses. “This is payback.”
Baby Payne doesn’t even realize how spot on he is. Saul really had given this task to the Dukes. But the graduating Dukes are gone, and to become a Duke, you have to prove your commitment to the belfry.
There are new Dukes now.
I pull myself to my full height, letting my rage show. “You’re telling me Lucia’s daughter was raped because of some fucked up frat rivalry bullshit?” Saying it like that, it really does sound convincing.
“I know what it is,” Killian says, sparing the cracked door a lingering glance. “It’s a power move. Saul’s getting in two punches with one fist. Dukes and Counts, just like that.” He grunts. “Yeah, if I wasn’t so pissed about it, I’d be impressed.”
“Doing that under your roof, and then leaving their mark, is a pretty bold goddamn move.” Best to leave some skepticism in my voice, even though I’m tucking my gun away. I glance back into the room. Lavinia is still in the chair, watching us closely.
“If you’re worried about her, I wouldn’t. She’s tough,” Killian says, but he doesn’t even know the half of it.
I think about how she fought me. I mean, she agreed to have sex with me, even if it was just to get back at her father and get out of here. But holy shit, she fought it. Tooth and nail. Blood and tears. And all of it just made her pussy tighter. Fuck. I shift, not wanting to get hard in the middle of all this.
“Too tough,” he adds, running a hand down his worn face. “She’s too risky for the pit. I have no idea what my father was thinking.”
“He was thinking she was a virgin,” I say, pitching my voice low, annoyed. “I know what the Kings kink on. But now that her cherry is popped, that angle is useless. She’s lost her value, and she’s too dangerous to put on the floor with the other girls.” Killian nods along, going right where I’m leading him. But there’s more to this.
“Story is going to fucking kill me,” he groans. His Lady is annoyingly vocal about not being into the flesh trade. I know from my glimpses into their life with Rath that having this girl locked up was already causing problems at home. Yeah, Story finding out about Lavinia getting raw-dogged on his watch? My man is about to experience a sudden dry spell.
I lift my chin. “You know why Lionel gave her up, right?”
He looks at me, surprised. “No. I figured it was a debt of some kind. I’m not exactly a stranger to messed up family drama.”
I shake my head. “Some shit went down between her and her big sister. Lionel’s been all fucked up over it. I guess she’s missing or something.”
Killian frowns. “Missing?”
God, he’s been out of it—focused on football, family, and his Lady. That only makes this easier for me. “Point is, if you can’t find some use for her, Daddy’s going to come collect for himself.”
I can already see him looking annoyed at the prospect of Lionel sweeping in here to drag her away. For someone intimately familiar with family drama, Killian Payne sure as shit doesn’t want to deal with someone else’s. “So let him,” he stresses. “I’m not a goddamn daycare for wayward girls. If Lionel wants to punish her, let him do it.”
“Excuse me?” I say, low and lethal.
Killian angrily explains, “I’ve got Saul Cartwright’s throbbing grudge-boner to worry about. I don’t have the time or energy to referee this shit. I need to figure out how to get Saul out for good.”
I have to play this next part very carefully. “And how are you going to deal with him?” I wonder, sneering. “Dethroning a King is easier said than done.”
He seems to think this through, and I can see the gears turning. One domino falling into the next. It’s not a difficult idea to plant into his head. He’s been bugging me about it since he became King. “Nick,” he says, leveling me with a look. “You’re a Bruin.”
That’s the thing about Royalty. It’s always about legacy and blood, at the end of the day. My great grandfather was King. My grandfather was a King. My father was a King. Bruins have led the Dukes for generations.
Until my father abdicated his crown, giving it to Saul.
Killian gives me a meaningful look. “That means you can challenge his claim.”
“I’ve already told you,” I say, looking away, “I don’t want it.” It’s not even a lie. I don’t want to be King. I’d rather flicker out into nothing than rule the pile of trash that comprises Delta Kappa Sigma and the West Side.
“Oh, you will,” he insists, reaching out to push the door open. His gaze doesn’t leave mine, even as my eyes fall on Lavinia’s searing glare. “Because she’ll be your Duchess.”
There it is.
The crash of the domino.
The spin of the cog.
The culmination of my machinations.
Proper planning prevents poor performance.
