Page 87 of Dance With A Devil
“Because this,” I gesture to the asylum towering behind us “, this is just the beginning.”
I lock eyes with Dash. “Security is your territory. I want it tighter than Fort Knox, and twice as deadly. Cameras on every inch. Reinforced locks on every fucking window and door. But I want more than that. I want metal shutters, like the kind on bunkers. Shit that rolls down from the ceiling, shields us from the outside world. Zombie-apocalypse style.”
He lifts a brow. “You serious?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
Dash grins. “Say less.” He peels off to start making calls. Always the tactician. Efficient. Deadly.
“I’ve got Fred tracking down a team to repaint this hellhole,” I add. “That bland gray on every wall? No wonder people went batshit in here.”
“No shit,” Karter mutters, toeing at cracked tile. “This place looks like a suicide note.”
Onyx cracks his knuckles. “You’ve been planning this for a while, haven’t you? Buying this place wasn’t some impulse.”
“No. This was always the move.” I glance around at the decaying beauty of the asylum. “We’ve got too many new Devils and not enough space. I don’t want them scattered anymore. I want them here. Trained. Watched. Protected. Controlled.”
“And the trip to the furniture store with Athens?” he asks.
“Preparation. That was the first load. We’ll need more.” I nod to Wells. “You’re up. I want contingencies. Hiddencompartments. Weapons. Escape routes. Safe rooms. Anything and everything hidden in plain sight. If this place gets breached, I want us five steps ahead of whoever’s dumb enough to try.”
Wells doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. He just nods once, already ten moves ahead.
That’s the thing about us.
We're not just Devils by name.
We’re tacticians. Predators. Architects of power.
This asylum isn’t just a new hideout.
It’s a stronghold for the war we know is coming.
“Phase one is locked in,” I announce, turning toward the cracked hallway that leads deeper into our future. “But we’ve got more to build. More to prepare for. More enemies to bury.”
The Devils move behind me like shadows.
It’s time to get to fucking work.
Chapter Eighteen
Bash
We gather in the great room of Branson’s million-dollar mausoleum, dressed in our tailored suits like wolves too old to hunt, pretending we still have bite.
My eyes drag across the room, taking in the once-mighty generation of Elders.
Once, we were feared. Worshipped. Gods behind gold doors and blood-slick ledgers.
Now?
Now we’re nothing but relics wrapped in silk.
Failures masquerading as founders.
I blame all of us, but mostly, I blame myself.
I used to be unstoppable. My name could kill a deal or build an empire. But bad investments, worse decisions, and a drinking habit that devours reason like rot to bone? That shit’s been carving me hollow for years.
