The Kings have beef that goes back to the dark ages, but for some reason, they all live in the same place, buying and inheriting their homes in the glitzy suburbs north of Forsyth. If anyone asks, the Kings will be the first to insist that it’s not true North Side, because it’s well outside of territory. Naturally. They’d never want to raise their families in the muck they’ve created. What they don’t realize is that it’s all the same to the rest of us—the foot soldiers, the worker bees, the ones who put our asses on the line for it all. To us, north is north.
Point being, Lionel Lucia has the unique privilege of playing both sides. When it benefits him, he’ll say he doesn’t live in North Side. He’s just a guy looking to give his family a nice life, and that’s where all the best opportunities lie. But when he wants to jack off his henchmen and Royals, he’ll say he lives a Northern life, through and through. The worst part is that neither is entirely disingenuous. Count money is coated in drugs, blood, and sex, traded in dark alleys and on shitty street corners. It’s natural he’d raise his family in an ostentatious McMansion smack in the middle of the suburbs. On the other hand, Counts are responsible for the North Side’s prosperity. While Kings like Daniel and Saul are content to take the money from their own respective territories, the Counts and Princes take their money from other places, leaving the North Side and the East End to thrive off it. Kind of shitty, considering.
I park the car three blocks over and travel to the gated community by foot. The streets here are too quiet—too serene—for my shitty car to go unnoticed. It’s not the first time I’ve been here for sketchy business, but it’s the first time I’ve done it in service of pussy.
When I get through the main perimeter fence, I pause for a second to really appreciate this fact.
Is she worth it?
The negotiating, the compromising, the constant fucking sting of rejection when she turns away from me? But I already know the answer: It doesn’t matter.
She’s mine.
Her body is mine, her attention is mine, and like it or not, her problems are mine. Royals are historically shit at keeping their women, but not me. If keeping her was as easy as dicking her down raw and rough, then what would be the point? No, keeping Lavinia Lucia is going to mean getting my hands bloody. And, I realize as I jump over the wrought-iron fence surrounding the Lucia compound, I’ve possibly missed it. Daniel kept me in rough work for a long time, and I’ve spent the whole summer restless and itching for something to do. It’s obvious Saul doesn’t quite trust us—or me, specifically—enough to dole out the Dukes’ dirty work yet. I guess it’s up to me to make my own trouble. Well, with a little help from my Duchess.
“There’s a foot soldier that walks around the property. Fifteen-minute intervals,” she explained, showing me a hand-drawn map. “On Tuesdays and Fridays at six sharp, he holds a meeting for Count business. No one else knows, but he turns all surveillance off for it. That’s your window.”
I wait four minutes before the guard shows. He’s a big guy, broad shouldered, and I instinctively touch the gun holstered to my side, poised to pull it if I need to. Luckily, he lumbers by, completely unaware, and I start the timer on my watch. Once he’s out of sight, I dart from tree to tree, keeping to the shadows. There’s a pool out back, and I can make out the outline of a miniature-sized replica of the house. I tilt my head as I inspect it. A playhouse? A massive swing set sits abandoned in the corner. Looking at this, you’d almost think Lionel gave more than half a shit about his two daughters, except one’s vanished and the other’s been sold.
I stop at the back door and look at the numbers I inked on my wrist hidden below the edge of my glove. The code Lavinia gave me to the backdoor servant’s entrance. “They’ll be in his study,” she told me. “There’s a back stairway off the kitchen…” She gave me directions to her room from there. “In and out. He’ll never know you’re there.”
I press in the series of numbers, pausing before I push the last one. I’m not so hypnotized by her pussy that I haven’t considered the possibility of this being a set-up. Lucia’s men could be waiting to ambush me. It’d be a smart move; one I would orchestrate myself if needed. Maybe all of this is an elaborate ruse to take out the Dukes. I think back to the conversation with Lavinia—the very specific item she asked for—and decide there’s something going on here. Something bigger than a rivalry between Dukes and Counts.
Guess I’m about to find out.
I stab the final number on the pad with my gloved finger.
Other than the sound of the bolt unlocking, nothing happens.
I wait for a tense beat before turning the knob.
I step in carefully, quietly, casting my eyes around the kitchen. It’s immaculately clean, every surface sparkling in the low light. The first step I take is cautious, mind racing with the knowledge that Counts are here, somewhere in the house.
Her directions are easy enough to follow, so I turn toward the staircase to the right of the backdoor. I take the steps two at a time, avoiding the fifth step, which—according to her—is squeaky as hell. On the landing, I stick close to the right side. The left is open, a balcony that overlooks the study below. Warm light casts up to the vaulted ceilings. I don’t risk looking down, but I do freeze when I hear them. Voices.
“Are you suggesting I stop looking?” Lionel. His voice is low and lethal, and it’s Perez’s familiar voice that answers.
“I’m saying we should be prepared.”
I don’t need to be down there to feel the tension between them. It’s a good enough distraction, allowing me to continue on, up the stairs and to the second floor landing.
“There are three doors on the left side. Two on the right. My room is the second door on the right.”
The door opens with no problem, and I duck inside, carefully closing and locking it behind me. I take out my phone, flipping on the flashlight. It’s not until I’m in here, surrounded by her things, her scent, that I realize I’m in a treasure trove of Lavinia-related things. It’s ravenous, this hunger uncoiling inside of me, desperate to clutch at anything of her. I inhale deeply, catching the scent of a girl I never knew.
“Gotcha, Little Bird,” I whisper, flashing the light over her dresser. It’s spotless, recently dusted. I run my fingertip over the smooth, dark mahogany of a jewelry box. When I lift it open, a figurine of a ballerina whirrs to life, spinning. Hastily, I close it. A bottle of perfume sits beside it and I can’t help but pick it up, lifting it to my nose for a furtive sniff. Lavender. Interesting. There’s a single tube of lipstick on the middle of the dresser, conspicuous in its solitude. I pick it up and pull off the top, revealing a bright crimson color. I place it back on the surface, lifting my attention to the mirror. Tucked into the edge are various mementos. Among them are ticket stubs to concerts that took place two-to-five years ago. Pop, punk, rap. Lavinia didn’t seem to be too picky, but I bet it was all the same. Fast, energetic, alive.
And then there are the photos.
One is of a group of high school-aged kids. It takes me a long moment to find her, crouching in front of the group with her mouth opened wide, her crimson lips framing a pink, pierced tongue. I lick my own lips reflexively, imagining that stud against my cock. Shame she didn’t keep the piercing.
Another photo is of two girls, a little older. They’re both dressed in private school uniforms, plaid skirts and white shirts hidden beneath bright red sweater vests. They look similar, one smiling, one not. That’s how I know which is Lavinia. That sharp fuck-you frown. I’ve seen it enough. Her features are less defined here, the subtle hint of fading baby fat still curving her cheeks, but she was still fucking hot.
I return the photo and open the top dresser drawer. Bingo. An underwear drawer can tell you everything you need to know about a girl. It’s mostly black and white panties, plus a few bras with lace edging. I lift a pair of the panties to my nose, smelling the clean, soft fabric. She may not have been a virgin when I took her, but this drawer tells me she’s not experienced. There’s nothing special or overtly sexy—although, add in the school-girl attire and a pair of white cotton panties and my spank bank is full.
I grab a few pairs and shove them in my backpack. She’d bargained for clothes to wear around the tower, and I magnanimously oblige, adding in shirts and pants.
I turn and shift my focus to the bed. It’s as outlandish as everything else in this house. Massive dark wood with spindles on each of the corners sits beneath an ornate canopy. The shithole Crane motel and Velvet Hideaway were definitely a downgrade for our Duchess. No wonder she’s so bitter. She might not have been her daddy’s favorite, but she still grew up like a spoiled little Countess.
At the foot of the bed is an intricately carved cedar chest. She hadn’t asked for a blanket, but, hey. Am I not benevolent? I open it up, intending to find some bedding, linens, maybe even pillows, but instead I find the most Lavinia thing of all.
Jack-shit.
I shine the light in there before closing it, idly noting that it looks pretty beat up compared to the opulent polish of the outside. That’s a Count for you.
I approach the bedside table next, sliding open the drawer. Inside are three books, one a novel, a page marked with a candy wrapper. Every time I went to see her at the Hideaway, she had some god-fucking-awful book nearby. The novel is Dead Souls, so… you know. Light reading. There’s also a thinner, well-worn book that looks like it was written for a middle schooler. There’s a yawning kitten on the front and the title ‘A Practical Approach to Kittens’. The last book is…
I squint at the title.
A lawn mower maintenance manual?
Shrugging, I grab all three and shove them in the backpack. I flash my light around the drawer, still feeling that gaping hunger inside of me—still starved for all her secrets—and spot something wrapped in a baby-blue hand towel. Pulling it out, it jumps to life, humming in my hand.
Jackpot.
I stare at the little orb, mouth spreading into a smirk. I look over at the bed, cock growing hard as I imagine her on it, legs spread wide as she got off—right there. It happened between those sheets, her pussy dripping as she thought of getting fucked. I push out an even breath, forcing myself to hold that thought for later. A vibrator. Maybe our girl has a few more urges than she lets on. That, too, goes in the bag.
She didn’t ask for this stuff, but now that I’ve worn her down and got her to negotiate, it’s not going to hurt to have a few more pieces of leverage up my sleeve.
Satisfied, I focus on the main event.
I drop to the floor, pulling back the edge of the rug and shucking off a glove. Underneath, I spread my hand over the floorboards, looking for the right one. “The edge is slightly uneven; your nails will catch on it. Pull on it and it’ll lift up.”
Over and over, I do like she said, searching for the catch, but I can’t find it. I’m about to say fuck it all—I’ve got everything I need—when the tip of my pinky snags an uneven edge. Using my stubby fingernails, I finally gain purchase, lifting the corner up and removing one board and then the other.
Inside is a wooden box—a cigar box. The scent of stale tobacco wafts out of the hole, bringing back a sudden sense of memory of my Pops’ office. Shaking myself out of it, I realize it’s wrapped in an intricate web of colorful elastic bands. Someone else might assume they’re placed randomly, but I know better. This is a jacked-up DIY security system. I bet she knows each color and orientation, every band’s exact placement, just as solid as a password. I shake it, hearing the contents rattle inside, but I don’t have the time to snap a picture and recreate the pattern of the bands after I’ve opened it.
Annoyed, I shove the whole thing in my backpack and zip it up.
I check the time. Eleven minutes. If I get down there fast enough, I can make the first fifteen minute security sweep. Double checking to make sure everything is back in place, I head to the door, pausing in front of the mirror.
I can’t say what makes me do it. Maybe it’s the way Lavinia looked when she woke up that morning, all rumpled and lost. She probably thinks she hides it well enough, wrapping herself up in that bitchy dignity that’s as bulletproof as Kevlar, but I see it. It’s the look of someone who’s used to not belonging. I look around this bedroom, collecting little pieces of the puzzle, and doubt most of this stuff is really hers. The bed and the trunk, the canopy, the satin sheets, the lush pink rug…
It all screams I’m a princess.
I’d sooner expect her walls to be painted black, slashed with red, covered in posters and sheer tapestries, ripped jeans cast aside on the floor, boots haphazardly tipped over by the door.
But there are certain things I can tell are just… her.
I lift the bottle of perfume and the lipstick, sliding it in my bag. On a whim, I snag the photo of Lavinia and her sister, too, tucking it into my back pocket.
Halfway there.
I head back the way I came, creeping down the hallway with my back to the wall. This time, the voices are louder, no longer softened by the quiet cruelty Counts are so known for. I cross over, keeping to the shadows, and can’t help myself. I peer down into the study where Lionel Lucia sits in a leather armchair. At his feet is a massive black and brown dog, its head as big as a bowling ball.
A Rottweiler.
I narrow my eyes.
That would have been some relevant fucking intel, wouldn’t it?
Lionel has more than one attack dog, though. Perez is occupying the winged sofa across from him, the other two Counts flanking him. A yellowish bruise mottles the side of his eye, evidence of the beating I gave him.
Lionel’s holding a crystal tumbler in his hand, half filled with amber liquid. “Nothing you’ve done lately inspires confidence that you’re up to the task at hand. First, the disappointing results with the Lords when you kidnapped their Lady,” the ice clinks against the glass, “and then the utter humiliation of losing the fight over Lavinia.”
“Sir—”
“Not to mention your complete inability to secure Leticia when she was handed to you on a silver platter.” Lionel shakes his head, glaring into his drink. “I gave this kingdom two daughters, and what do you do with it? Squander them.”
Perez’s jaw tightens. “I’ve done my best—the Lords… no one anticipated their attachment to their Lady. And Nick Bruin? Don’t tell me you saw that one coming.”
“Excuses,” the older man says. “You and I had an arrangement and we both know failure is not an option, for either of us.” Lionel spins the serpent ring on his finger. “You’re running out of time. Less than eight weeks now.”
My watch buzzes, giving me a one-minute warning. I cover the sound, but the dog’s ears perk up, nose rising from the ground. I dart back across the hall to the shadows and carefully make my way back down the stairs. I open the door, not latching it entirely—afraid it’ll make too much noise—and crouch behind a thick shrub. The instant the guard passes and goes around the corner, I make a break for it across the yard. I’m at the first tree when I hear quick paced footsteps racing through the grass. I keep running, not looking back, but it’s not the guard. The deep, bone-vibrating bark announces the dog.
Shit, shit, shit!
I get to the fence, throwing my backpack over first and pulling myself over in one swift leap. The dog rushes to the fence, barking and claws scratching at the metal. Jesus Christ.
I need a minute to catch my breath, but I don’t take it, grabbing the pack and running like hell through the neighborhood. I don’t stop until I’m in my car. I don’t fucking breathe until I’m on the road.
Whatever’s in the box better have been worth it.
