Page 26 of The Kings
“Strategy, my ass,” Tarquin shoots back, fire blazing in his eyes. “It’s about survival.”
“Why can’t it be both?” I ask, dying to ask him if he is letting his personal feelings get in the way, but until he spills the sex beans, I won’t give him the satisfaction. Asshole.
Tarquin scowls at me, but he can’t argue with the truth. James has kept us alive this long, plotting moves like a grandmaster, always ten steps ahead. We didn’t get to where we are by acting on impulse.
“Fine,” Tarquin concedes through gritted teeth, his eyes still holding that reckless fire. He slams a fist down onto the table. “But if anything happens to Eliza?—“
“Nothing’s going to happen to her,” I cut him off, glaring hard enough to drill holes into his head. “That’s the whole reason we are here. We do it right. End of story.”
I turn to the rest of the room, catching Oliver’s nod and James’ steady gaze. They know the score, the same as me. We’re in deep waters, and there’s sharks circling. One wrong move, and it’s her blood in the water.
“Preparation. Coordination.” My voice is low, commanding attention. “We need eyes everywhere. We track David’s patterns, set up surveillance, and cover every possible angle. When we strike, it’s silent, it’s deadly, and it sends a message.”
“Exactly,” James backs me up. “Gather whatever you can. We leave nothing to chance.”
“Let’s get to work.” I look at each man in turn. This isn’t just about power; it’s personal. And heaven help the man who tries to take our Queen from her Kings.
“Protect Eliza. Protect The Kings. That’s the mission,” I state, feeling the weight of the crown we all wear. It’s heavy, soaked in blood and secrets, but it’s ours, and nobody, especially not some little punk like David Grenville, is going to tear it from our heads.
“James, this is all on you. We will do what we can, but in the end, it’s your job.”
“No problem with that.”
I lean back against the counter and close my eyes for a second, forcing my mind to focus. Eliza’s face flashes in my mind—those striking green eyes, her cherry red lips, her pussy clenching around my cock.
Opening my eyes as I dismiss the meeting, I watch them leave, the door clicking shut behind Oliver. Alone now, my mind races, jumping from the logistics of the assassination to Eliza’s face, those eyes that see right through me. She knows I’m toying with her, but I wonder if she knows why.
“Fuck,” I mutter. This game is dangerous, deadly even. But it’s the life we were born into, the life we’re damn good at. There isn’t an option to back out, even if we wanted to.
I walk over to the window, gaze fixed on our territory.
The stakes are high. One slip, one miscalculation, and it could all come crashing down on us. I can’t afford to be distracted by how her hair spills across her shoulders or how her lips part slightly when plotting her next move.
We do this, and it opens up the floodgates for anyone who has any beef with us to strike back. The skill in it has to be power. Control. Fear. I won’t accept any less.
15
ELIZA
Alliances,power plays—this campus might as well be a battlefield, and I am no stranger to war as I pace the secluded courtyard where I’m pretty sure Tarquin and I got it on last night.
I can almost feel the weight of the tattoo on my back. A permanent reminder of the legacy I’m bound to uphold. I’ve always known that in the tangled web of mafia ties, it’s not just about who you know—it’s about who would bleed for you and vice-versa.
My eyes catch movement across the quad through the gap in the hedges. Tarquin leans against an oak tree, his arms crossed over his chest, every inch the image of casual power. I know it’s him, even without being close enough to see he doesn’t have the scar under his eye. He is identical to his twin in every other way, and I meanevery other way.But I could single them out, no problem. Raphael is a leader. He is stiffer, silent and foreboding. While I wouldn’t mess with Tarquin on a good day, he is a bit less menacing to those who look close enough.
Guess I’m looking close enough.
His gaze glides over in my direction, and I duck back behind the hedges. I need to figure this shit out first without worrying about Tarq and his delicate emotions. It’s not that I don’t fancy him. It’s an attraction that’s undeniable, magnetic, but getting involved makes his shit mine and my shit his. Are we ready for that? Every part of me screams, no.
I know alliances are currency here—strong ones, the kind that can turn the tide of any silent war waged in hushed tones and lingering glances. I’ve seen enough in my life to understand that power isn’t just inherited; it’s secured with bonds forged in fire and, above all, loyalty.
Last night’s events flash through my mind; Tarquin’s presence was a fortress, his support not given lightly. I recall the way his eyes had met mine, fierce and unwavering, as if silently vowing to stand between me and the chaos. That wasn’t just muscle talking; that was strategy. He knew the game we were playing.
A thrill zips through me at the memory, an electric current of both danger and desire. It’s one thing to have someone watch your back in a brawl, quite another when that person is Tarquin, whose mere presence commands respect... and other, more primal urges.
I need to keep my head in the game. With Tarquin and the other guys, The Kings, I could weave a web so formidable that even my father would be proud. My path is clear. Allies are necessary, and I intend to secure them with every resource at my disposal.
“Playtime’s over,” I whisper, feeling the adrenaline surge. I know what I need to do.
