Page 1 of King of Depravity

PROLOGUE

Killian

“For fuck’s sake,Kill, it isn’t nice to play with your food,” my brother Gris growls into the phone.

I don’t answer. That’s the thing about being in a dark alley, spying on a secret meeting. Talking isn’t really an option.

So, I don’t.

Though, to be fair, I might not have answered anyway. I’m a do-what-I-want kind of guy.

“Are you going to eliminate this problem or not?” he rumbles. “I’ll do it myself if you’re not up to the task.”

He’s baiting me. That’s brotherly love for you. We both know, of the two of us, I’m the killer. Not him. It’s in my fucking name for fuck’s sake.

That’s when I hear his fiancé, Arabella, give a sleepy call. “Is everything all right, Gris?”

“It’s fine, baby.” My brother sounds like a fucking twat, the way his voice takes on this coddling tone when he talks to her. “Are you cold? I’ll be right there to warm you up.”

“Jesus,” I whisper, rolling my eyes in the dark.

“Are you judging me, you crazy fuck?” I hear a door open and close on the other end of the line, he’s clearly moving to another room. “You’re supposed to get rid of Preston Wingate. Stop fucking around and get it done.”

I hang up.

I don’t answer to Gris, but he ought to know, I always do my job.

In front of me, I watch the weekly scene play out.

That fuckwad, Preston Wingate, takes a large bundle of money from a very tattooed, very large Russian.

I lean against the wall, watching it all go down.

I’m not playing with my food.

Not at all. Preston Wingate is a problem that’s about to solve itself. He’s mixing with the Russian Bratva here in Vegas, attempting to sell Kincaid secrets.

I’m a crazy motherfucker and even I wouldn’t dare make an alliance with the Russians.

On the bright side, these Bratva assholes are for sure going to kill Preston themselves. I’ve listened in to several of these meetings and Preston doesn’t actually know anything of value, and the Russians are getting pissy as he continues to take their money.

“You told us that last time,” the one I believe is named Alex spits at Preston. “And it isn’t anything we couldn’t discern from public record.”

Preston is shifting, his pasty fucking face getting even paler. “That’s right, motherfucker,” I whisper. “Dance like the bitch you are.”

It’s not that I mind killing. But Preston isn’t even a challenge. Stupid, weak, I could have killed him a hundred times in the last two months. But it would be boring.

And besides, these Russians are shaping up to be the real hunt and the longer Preston lives, the more I learn about my family’s newest enemy.

I already knew they liked this piano bar. One of them is some sort of fucking savant, and he comes here to play. I was scouting out the place and watching the Russians after they stole a deal on a casino right out from under us.

But my attention on the Russians had been diverted when my brother Gris decided to take Preston’s fiancé, Arabella Kincaid.

I’ve got to be honest, Preston was almost smart. Almost. Marrying the Kincaid princess might not have given him access to their secrets, but it would have given him control of Arabella’s shares and a seat on the Kincaid board.

We are making money hand over fist in Las Vegas, but the Kincaids…they are the current kings, the absolute winners in the Vegas real estate game. Not for long…

I digress. Preston got cocky, thought he had the girl in the bag, and got himself a sidepiece before the wedding had even happened.

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