Page 8 of Twisted Kings

“She saved my life, so Declan said if she ever needed his help, he’d have her back. I called him and explained what’s happened. I told him he had to help us rescue her.”

“There is no ‘us’, Eden,” Kyril said. “You’re not getting involved in this.”

“Fuck you, Kyril. You need me.”

“Go play with your Barbies,principessa.” This pint-sized pixie had probably never shot anyone in her life, so why she thought she’d be useful was beyond me. Declan’s help might come in handy, though. I didn’t fancy our chances of flying under the radar if we took a commercial flight to Italy, whereas Declan undoubtedly had a private jet and plenty of soldiers at his beck and call.

Eden ignored my jibe and turned to Kyril and Milo. “Declan was in the country, so he’s gassing up the plane and will send a car to collect us in a couple of hours.”

“Look, as much as we appreciate assistance from the Irish mafia, there is no ‘us’. Thea would never forgive me if anything happened to you.”

“Since you lot are on her shit list already, I don’t much care what you think. And besides, without me, there is no Declan, so suck it up, buttercup.”

4

Cassian

Dad’s voice droned on as the car glided along rain-soaked streets, cutting through the village toward home. He’d spent the entire journey from Scotland barking instructions to his PR team. I’d tuned out less than five miles from college.

Nothing I said at this point made any difference. I’d fucked up in his eyes. Ruined a huge business deal. Lost him a fuck-ton of money.Yada yada yada.

I didn’t care. We had more money than we could spend in this lifetime or the next. His constant obsession with making more money bored me.

“Keep me posted, Malcolm,” he snapped before ending his call and turning to me. “Get changed and meet me in my office,” he said as the car pulled up outside the entrance to Blackwood Manor.

Two large spruce trees, a gift from the Norwegian PM, stood on either side of the stone steps, each one tastefully decorated with lights and baubles. I knew from experience that the house would be decorated in much the same way.

Dad paid professionals to come in each year and style the house with more bling than fucking Harrods. There was a time when my mother would have been in charge of putting up the Christmas trees, hanging garlands over the mantles, and ensuring the entire house sparkled with festive lights.

When I was small, decorating the tree in the hall was a special treat. Mom always let me hang the best ornaments and decide where to place the sprigs of mistletoe and ivy we’d collected. I wasn’t sure when things changed. Likely around my 7th birthday when she had another late miscarriage and Dad was too busy fucking his latest mistress to answer his phone when she called in floods of tears.

Mom was never quite the same after that. She’d been desperate for another baby after me, but when she lost the last one at 6 months, the doctors advised her not to try again. They said her chances of carrying a successful pregnancy to term were less than 1%.

I left dad giving instructions to the butler and disappeared upstairs. My tux stank of smoke and I couldn’t wait to shower off the stench of this evening. Maybe a hot shower would help me get my head screwed back on the right way. That and a stiff drink or ten.

Even though it was nearly dawn, I knew damn well sleep was not on the cards.

My father was keen to get ahead of the sex tape scandal. His PR team had only just buried the drugs rumor, so this on the back of it was a disaster. We’d barely made it through the media scrum at the gate without Dad keeling over from a coronary.

Not that I would have complained if he had dropped dead.

After showering, I pulled on some clean sweats and a hoodie before trotting back downstairs like a good little pup. Dad was waiting for me in his office, his surly bodyguard, Dominic, leaning against the wall with a blank expression on his face.

Just as Dad was about to snarl something at me, his desk phone rang. With a scowl, he picked it up.

“Lucian speaking…yes, Prime Minister, I have time to talk…”

My brain tuned out the conversation. No doubt the PM was angry about all the bad press, anxious to prevent the scandal from snowballing, and keen to ensure all my dad’s good work fighting organized crime wasn’t pushed off the front pages for too long.

The PM was facing re-election next year, and he was probably hoping this current shit-storm didn’t sway voters away from picking him as their best chance of easing their tax burdens and fixing all the current problems dragging the country down.

Dominic watched me and smirked. Had he seen the sex tape? Of course he fucking had. The asshole had probably screenshot the best bits for his wank bank material.

I fucking hated Dominic. The man was a complete asshole. He’d been with dad for years, and I never quite understood his role. My father had a security detail who followed him around while on government business, but the rest of the time, Dominic stuck to his side like a little bitch. The guy clearly had no life.

He and my father were always sloping off on business unrelated to his job advising the government. I had no clue how he got away with some of his shit, but I guessed he had people working for him in all the key departments.

Money greased a lot of wheels, and my father was nothing if not entrepreneurial. He was all about smoke and mirrors; as long as he did his job, everyone turned a blind eye to his other business dealings.

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