Page 157 of Dance With A Devil
Because tonight, the monsters in this house aren’t sleeping.
They’re hunting.
Gerald Carmichael sits in his office with a cigar pinched between his yellowing teeth, a glass of scotch in one hand, and his wife’s sister, Tiffany, gagging on his dick like it’s her job.
It’s not.
But none of that matters now.
The second we took Valentina, I knew Gerald would retaliate. Thewhenwas always the question.
That’s where Conner came in. His aunt, our mole, was embedded deep inside the Carmichael estate. Their maid, their shadow, our eyes. She bled for us long before Gerald ever noticed the leak.
And when things turned bloody, we pulled her out like the extraction pros we are.
No loose ends.
Before we burned the trail, she handed us something better than intel, she gave us Gerald’s fucking schedule. His vices. His weaknesses.
The man upped his security after Valentina vanished, posted guards, ran drills, but made one fatal mistake.
He killed Kellan.
Replaced him with his spineless son.
By the time we confirmed Kellan’s death, his body was already cold.
But now?
Nowbothhis children are gone.
And Gerald’s next.
Everyone wants a slice of what we built, but no one’s willing to bleed for it the way we did. We didn’t claw our way through hell just to be touched by a greedy bastard with no backbone.
While Gerald drinks and fucks his sister-in-law like a goddamn soap opera villain, we’ve been stacking his sins like bodies. Watching. Waiting.
And now?
Now we strike.
“He’s been getting sloppy,” I mutter, even though it’s obvious to all of us.
“Yeah,” Karter snorts. “Shit’s been circling the drain ever since his little angels got clipped. Oh wait, ” He lifts the black duffel and jiggles it. “They didn’tdisappear. They’reright here.”
Remains is generous. We’ve got Court’s body and Colt’s head. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Who gives a fuck? They’re dead, and they deserved worse.
“They got what they earned. Their father’s next.” Onyx’s voice is a low growl beneath the mask, emotionless.
We all wear them tonight, custom Devils gear. No cheap knock-offs. No ghostface shit.
These masks are matte black, stitched over the mouth, glowing Xs across the eyes. A warning. A game.
You see one of us?
You’re already dead.
“No one fucks with The Devils and walks away,” I say as I lower my hood.
