Page 1 of Ruthless Mafia Heir

Prologue—Blake

"Sit, boy."

My father’s voice cuts through the air, and he points to the seat in front of him on the other side of his desk, a towering red leather armchair that, even now, seems too big for me. Reluctantly, I take a step forward and slip into position. I know better than to argue with him.

My father, Richard Devereaux, eyes me for a long moment. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking, just from a look. I can’t help but wonder how many people have been in this exact spot, praying that he gives them what they want—or, hell, just lets them walk out of here in one piece.

He takes a long draw on the cigar that was propped up in the crystal ashtray on his enormous, oakwood desk. The smell of it fills the room, forbidden and intimately tied up with him. My whole life, he’s smoked cigars, no matter how many times my mother has tried to convince him to quit. He needs a vice, he tells her, and he’s not going to drop it anytime soon. He doesn’t do anything that he didn’t come up with on his own terms, and nobody, not even my mother, can change that.

I want to ask him what I’m doing here, but I know better than to push for answers. When he’s ready, he’ll tell me. He ashes his cigar and carefully places it on the edge of the ashtray before he turns his attention to me properly.

"It’s time you learned the ropes here, Blake. I know you’re young, but the sooner you understand how this world works, the better."

My heart twists in my chest.

"The world?" The words sound weak coming out of my mouth. His jaw tightens slightly.

"Our world."

Our world. I know exactly what he’s talking about. It’s the world that allowed us to live the life that we do now, the one that has been looming over my head the whole 15 years of my life so far. His criminal empire, built from the ground up. He commands so much of this city, it’s like he might as well be a king.

And a king needs an heir.

"You’re getting old enough now to be involved with my work," he continues. "And I want you to be. I’ll start you out easy. You can work on some of my existing operations, but there are some things you need to know."

I shift in my seat. I don’t know what to say. A part of me wants to argue with him, to tell him that I can’t handle all of this, that it’s too much for me and I want to be a kid a little longer yet.

I don’t say a word, waiting for him to go on.

He pauses for a moment, the silence hanging in the air between us, before he continues.

"This business, Blake, is about power," he explains, "which you likely already know. But the way you get your hands on that power, that’s something else entirely. The way you command it, the way you use it, that's what separates an also-ran from royalty."

I nod, trying my best to take it all in.

"What we do, it’s outside the realm of most people’s normal lives. They can rely on the police to take care of them or their friends, their family. Not us. We need to be able to rely on ourselves, first and foremost. You understand?"

I nod again. He leans forward, the leather of his chair creaking ominously.

"Tell me you understand."

"I get it, Dad," I mutter.

"Good."

He leans back again, seemingly satisfied. At least for now.

"Your family is your priority, at all times. Your sister, your mother, me. We’re the ones you can trust. Don’t put your trust in anyone else. Unless they’re blood, you keep them at arm’s length until they’ve proved themselves to you a dozen times over. Is that clear?"

"That’s clear."

He narrows his eyes at me, leaning forward slightly.

"Too many men have been lost to his world because they didn’t know they were on the brink of being betrayed," he tells me. "Your instincts might tell you that someone is on your side, but you can’t trust them. Not now and not ever. Use your head, not your heart, to make your decisions. It’s the only way you’ll survive."

He picks up his cigar and puffs on it once more, a thick waft of smoke escaping from between his lips. He looks like something pulled up from hell itself. If he hadn’t been my father, I’m not sure I would have been able to endure his presence like this.

"And you want to survive, don’t you, son?"

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