Page 1 of The King's Pawn

CHAPTER

ONE

Killian

The doorman lifted the velvet rope and nodded me through, out of Boston’s bitter night air and into the nightclub’s throbbing beat. Music thumped my chest; people cast me sideways glances before moving away, some instinctual part of them knowing I didn’t belong. I wasn’t here for them.

My target lounged in a booth, knees spread, arms draped over the back, his black sateen shirt with floral accents unbuttoned and untucked from his slim waist, pants hanging off his hips, sandy blond hair messy, as though he’d fallen out of bed into another wild party.

Too stupid, too full of himself, too confident—Noah King had no idea tonight would be his last night alive.

He spotted my approach and cracked a cocky smile. “What areyoudoing here?” Blue eyes raked over me while his smart mouth parted in a smirk.

“Let’s go.”

“I’m not done.” He snorted. “Why don’t you grab a drink? I’ll let you know when I’m ready.” A few titters bubbled from his groupies.

I didn’t work for him, didn’t follow his orders, and didn’t give a shit about his schedule. I had a job to do, and that job was putting Noah King in the ground. I lunged, grabbed his shirt in my fist, and hauled him out of the booth. He flailed and his friends screamed, probably more concerned for their spilled drinks than Noah’s well-being. The crowd parted again, since I now had a stumbling, swearing Noah King in my grasp.

The doorman nodded me through again, familiar with this song and dance.

Noah didn’t struggle, not really. We’d been here before, me dragging his ass out of trouble, away from the cops, scooping him up after the latest bar fight or binge. There was always something with him, some kind of drama. Fucking Gen Z.

“Jesus, what crawled up your ass and died?” Noah spluttered, righting his shirt as I dumped him on the sidewalk. “This is a fucking Blake Mill shirt, you neanderthal.”

I headed back down the street, toward the nearby parking garage. Noah tagged along, muttering about his fancy shirt, unaware the outcome tonight would be very different from the others. After descending the ramp, I unlocked the Lexus, the alarm chirping as it disengaged, and we both climbed into the car and settled into its leather seats.

Noah clicked his belt on. “What did I do this time, huh?” He sniffed.

Ignoring him, I peeled the car from the garage, threading into Boston’s quiet nighttime traffic. A few hours’ drive should be far enough away. I had the perfect spot in mind. Somewhere his remains would never be found.

“Fuck this,” he muttered, then dug a bag of white powder from his pocket.

“Don’t do that shit in here.”

“Right, I forgot, you’re my conscience. Maybe you should try some, huh? Might help you loosen up. You’re always so uptight,so rigid, you know? That brooding face ever smiled?” He circled a hand and chuckled to himself, returning to unwrapping his bag of coke. “Getting high makes sex amazing. Not thatyou’dknow.”

I hit the button for his window, cracking it open. A blast of cold air almost whisked the coke from his knee. He swore and tried to punch his window button to override mine. I grabbed the bag of coke and flung it out of the car, then hit the button to close the window.

He glared, eyes big and blue, like a kid who’d lost his balloon.

Jesus, he was twenty-four; would he ever grow up? Not now, since it was over for him. “If you think coke makes sex amazing, you’re doing it wrong.”

“Fuck you, Killian. All right?Fuck you.” He huffed and slumped in the seat.

Hopefully, he’d shut his mouth for the rest of the ride, as we had a ways to go. His silence was a welcome relief. Until he fiddled with the radio buttons, trying to find a station. He settled on something moody and emotional. I jabbed it off.

“Why are you on my ass, huh?”

I took the I95 north. Boston’s glittering sheen faded in the rearview mirror, so there was just us in the car’s quiet interior and the occasional oncoming headlights carving through the dark, illuminating his sullen face.

“Where are we going?” He waited a beat. “You can talk, you know. My father isn’t here. Pretend to be a human being? I won’t tell him. It’s not like he and I talk anyway. He barely knows I exist.”

Val, Noah’s father, knew Noah existed all right, and this time he was done with Noah’s excuses. There were fuckups, and then there was sleeping with the enemy. Noah had been warming the wrong bed and spilling business secrets during pillow talk. Still, killing his own son was something I didn’t think I’d ever see theboss order. But here we were. Even the boss of the notorious Back Bay Mafia had limits when it came to family.

Noah glanced over, and in the glow of the car’s instrument lights, his face had never been so pale. I kept my eyes on the road. Five years, I’d been cleaning up after Noah King. After tonight, he wouldn’t be my problem ever again.

“You know, I never asked—figured you wouldn’t tell me anyway—but you got family?” He huffed a laugh. “No, of course you don’t. Do you even have a life outside my father?” He continued with his rambling, tossing around theories about my background. His voice droned, like the rumble of car tires. I only half listened.