Page 1 of Lost Kingdom

PROLOGUE

Once upon a time, there was a prince.

The heir to a dangerous throne.

A man whose purpose in this world was to take over where his cruel father left off.

Timothy Malone the First, a first-generation immigrant whose family settled in America in the nineteen-forties, learned quickly what happens to an unarmed boy on the streets of New York a few short years after prohibition ended.

This was also a time when organized crime flourished. Bolstered by the economic backflow of the alcohol industry, even with a swift change in liquor laws, those who traded prior were fat with money and powerful with turf and men.

Timothy the First knew, to survive these streets while his parents—poor, naïve, and powerless—preferred a quiet life of poverty, he would need to create a family of his own.

A crew.

One that would have his back when war inevitably found them, men who would pull the trigger when ordered, and soldiers who would fall on their swords if the need ever arose.

And of course, the need would come. It was fated.

Timothy Malone the First was a warrior experienced in battle, and a grifter who never minded hard work. Quickly, he shed the family he wasborn into, cutting ties and burning bridges, and instead, he flourished within the group he’d cultivated out of fear, necessity, and loyalty. These men, like him, were once boys who ran the streets and found themselves in need of something more than their peasant lives.

A starving, eight-year-old boy was vulnerable. A couple of hungry pre-teens with a penchant for knives and intimidation were powerful. A dozen of these kids made an army.

Timothy knew what to do to ensure he would never go hungry again.

By the time he was in his twenties, when he ruled half a city and defended what was his from other, older, more established leaders, he knew he needed to ensure the future of his bloodline.

The New York Malones were, as far as he was concerned, elite, after all.

Thus, a namesake was born.

Timothy Malone the Second was as vile and vicious as the man who came before him. He was trained by the best to rule a city tightly gripped by organized crime and violence.

New York craved her freedom, but where there was money to be made, a Malone stood ready to collect. Muscle, weaponry, and a refusal to accept ‘no’, all within easy reach.

As legend would have it, Timothy the Second was more brutal than his father. Harsher in his punishments. Less tolerant of human error. And without a single drop of humanity in his blood. So with that brand of poison pulsing in his veins, he knew, around the time of his thirtieth birthday—old age in this line of work—it was time for tradition to be upheld and his obligations to be seen to.

It was time to make sons.

However, he always considered his father’s choice to marry and make just one, foolish.

Every smart businessman knew to diversify their portfolio. Every savvy entrepreneur knew to multiply his streams of revenue. So where Timothy the First had one wife and one son, Timothy the Second set upon his plan to go bigger. Better. Smarter.

He made five sons, with five different females, and not once did he fall in love. A feat, he proudly declared, considering the Irish ancestors who came before him and the history of romance his blood was supposed to ensure.

There were stories about that, of course. Destinies a romantic might have fulfilled.

But not him.

Timothy the Second wanted an army bigger than the one his fatherruled, and he had no intention of sharing his kingdom with a woman. He didn’t need a queen; he needed an incubator. He wanted a bloodline cultivated and spread across the city. Five sons, each with a different—dead, as soon as she gave birth—mother, meant distributing his DNA further and ensuring family loyalty that spanned every borough. Every connection. Every pocket of power, money, or influence he could summon.

His plan was wrapped in grandeur, narcissism, and pride.

But his plan, also, came with murder, depravity, and sacrifice. He would kill not only the women he impregnated the moment they were no longer useful to him, but the girls conceived, too. They were useless to him. They could not rule a powerful mob family.

The sons, though, were put inside the house, thrust upon a servant, and raised in his shadow. To become the nexthim. To paint a city red and rule a kingdom flowing with violence.

This, of course, was how Timothy Malone the Third came to be.

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