Page 12 of Vicious Vines

We dance this violent ballet, trading blows and blocks, each move a language we both understand perfectly—the language of survival. I can see it in his eyes, the flash of surprise, as he realizes I am more than just a leader; I am a warrior forged in the fires of Kingsdale's underworld.

He makes a critical mistake, overextending just a fraction too far, and I seize the opportunity. My leg sweeps out, catching his ankle, and as he topples, I follow through with an elbow to his jaw. There's a sickening crack, and for a moment, the world is silent before the sounds of the hunt comes rushing back. I don't waste time, pivoting on the balls of my feet and dashing down the inky embrace of the alleyway.

The darkness swallows me whole, and I become a phantom, moving unseen, untouchable. My heart is a drumbeat against my ribs, each pulse echoing the adrenaline that courses through me. I slip through the labyrinthine backstreets of Kingsdale, every shadow a potential hiding place, every flicker of movement a threat. My breath comes in quick gasps as I navigate the city's underbelly, fleeing the chaos that snaps at my heels like a ravenous beast.

Leaning against the damp brick of an alley, I close my eyes and focus on the steady thrum of life within me. I allow myself one deep, steadying breath, tasting the tang of iron and rain on my tongue. There's a place, known only to those whose loyalty is etched in their very bones—a sanctum where I can catch my breath and call for reinforcements. I push off from the wall and weave through the maze of Kingsdale with purpose. The safe house beckons, a haven from the storm.

I slip through a nondescript door tucked away in an alley that reeks of refuse and lost dreams. Descending the narrow staircase, the clamor of the city above fades into a hush as I make my way down to a heavy, gray door. I tap in the key code and hear the click of the lock giving way. The bunker unfolds before me as I push the door open. A dimly lit catacomb of concrete and steel. Monitors glow like watchful eyes, casting the room in a ghostly pallor. Each screen flickers with parts of my domain—intersections, back alleys, the neon-lit facades of nightlife establishments—all under my silent vigil.

I type in the code to unlock my phone before swiping to Ethan's name typing. He answers on the first ring.

"Ethan."

"Victor's gang set a trap. They cornered me on my way home tonight."

"You alright?" Ethan's voice doesn't change much, but I hear the edge of a bite to his voice. I wonder who else is in the room with him.

"I'm fine, but I had to abandon my car on Elm Street."

"I'll have someone pick it up."

"We need to hit them where it hurts. Take back the docks, cut off their supply routes, and choke their resources. We infiltrate, sabotage, and reclaim every inch they've stolen from us."

"It'll be dangerous," he warns, but there's excitement brewing in his tone.

"Prepare the team," I command, my fingers curling into fists. "Tonight, we remind them why the O'Neil family reigns supreme."

As I watch the surveillance footage flicker, I sense the tide turning. There's a shift in the air, a crackle of electric anticipation. The upcoming confrontation looms, a shadowed beast on the horizon, but I welcome it.

"Get ready, Kingsdale," I whisper into the stillness. "The queen is about to reclaim her throne."

Chapter 8

Alow growl escapes my lips as I scan the documents before me. Our plan is in place to shove Victor Vasquez out of our territory once and for all, but I know the plan isn't enough. It's a sound strategy, but the problem remains. I culled too many men after my father's death. We simply don't have enough manpower on our side. With command compromised, the vultures circle, hungry for the scraps of power I've fought so hard to consolidate.

I pace the dimly lit expanse of my office, a space where decisions that shape the underworld are birthed from whispered conversations and sealed with bloodied hands. The leather of the armchair creaks its protest as I brush past, the scent of aged whiskey mingling with the unease that sits like bile at the back of my throat.

My mind fixates on the necessity of external support—a taboo thought within the staunchly insular O'Neil doctrine. I think back to my conversation with Finn, about joining up with Liam and the Calders. It would wrap things up in a nice little bow, yet I fear it would tie me down and set me up for heartbreak. Instead, my mind settles upon the name that has been echoing through the criminal tapestry of our city: Maria "La Lupa" Romano, the she-wolf leading the pack of Italians to the north of the O'Neil domain. Her reputation precedes her—a blend of fear and respect that trails in her wake like the heady perfume of a dangerous woman.

The idea of reaching out to her, of intertwining the fate of the O'Neils with that of La Lupa's brood, is akin to dancing with the devil under the pale moonlight. But as I stand amidst the silence of contemplation, the resolve hardens within me like steel tempered in the fires of adversity.

An alliance with Maria could be the lifeline we need—or the noose that tightens around our necks. The risks are monumental, yet the potential rewards beckon with the allure of a forbidden fruit just ripe for the taking. I must secure my family's reign, even if it means standing side by side with the she-wolf herself.

I know Liam would want me to side with him, to join our families and strengthen the O’Neils though the Calders. But I can’t bring myself to do it. I’ve spent too long living as a princess trapped in a tower, held captive by the whims of a man, to go that route again. The path I choose now will be one of my choosing, where I hold the reins of power.

The phone feels like a leaden weight in my hand, heavier with every breath I draw. My thumb hovers over the call button—a single press would bridge worlds and change fates. Maria Romano's name glows on the screen, an omen shrouded in both promise and peril. Shaking off my fear, I press the button. The line rings, slicing through the silence of my office with the sharpness of a blade. It's a sound that seems to echo the pounding of my heart—each ring another step toward an abyss from which there is no return.

"Romano," her voice is a caress and a challenge all at once, smooth as velvet with an undertone of steel.

"Maria, it's Sloane O'Neil." I let her name roll off my tongue, imbuing it with respect and a hint of the camaraderie I hope to build. "I believe it's time we discussed a partnership."

There's a pause, the kind that stretches out, thick with unspoken thoughts and assessments. I can almost feel her gaze through the phone, assessing, calculating.

"An O'Neil reaching out to Romano...” She draws out the syllables of our names, savoring the novelty of the idea. “This is unexpected. Why should I consider aligning my family with yours?"

"Because, Maria," I start, pushing past the hesitation clawing at my throat, "you and I are two sides of the same coin—ambitious women who men constantly underestimate because they want our power for themselves."

"Go on." Her interest is piqued; I hear it in the softening edge of her voice.

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