Page 65 of The Kings
“Let’s hit the road,” Tarquin says, his voice low. His eyes scan our faces. We nod, a silent agreement passing between us like an electric current.
We pile into my sleek black Mercedes, the engine growling to life under James’s confident hands. The city blurs past us, the daylight too bright for our dark intentions. No one utters a single word in the two hours it takes to get there. We are all lost in thought, trying to figure this shit out. Anyone who goes up against Damon Hughes is either a fool or wants to die. There is no in between, and there is no get-out-of-jail-free card.
Eventually, the mansion looms ahead, grand and foreboding, holding secrets within its stone walls.
“Do we know what we’re looking for?” Oliver asks as I open the electric gates with the remote stashed in the glove compartment and then toss it back inside.
“Fuck knows,” I growl. “Dad’s not here. He’s in Paris at a global meeting of high-ranking mafia, so the place should be empty.”
“Should be?” James murmurs as we pull up next to a black SUV that looks shady as fuck. “Ideas of who that belongs to?”
“Zero clue,” I murmur as we spill out, weapons ready. “Try not to kill the maid, though. Dad will hit the roof if anything happens to Mary. No one makes a cup of tea like Mary.”
Lightening the mood considerably at poor Mary’s expense, we approach the front door, and I push it open, having it expected to be already unlocked by whoever is parked up in the driveway.
“Spread out. Search every inch,” I murmur, slipping through the front door, my senses on high alert.
Suddenly, glass shatters somewhere to my right, forcing me to pivot and dart through the mansion’s Entrance Hall. Every sense is on fire, and every nerve ending screams danger.
When I enter the massive living room, chaos unfolds. Men in black balaclavas are ransacking drawers, their movements swift and practised. But it’s the guy standing in the centre of the room who grabs my attention. He’s different—calm amongst the frenzy, a predator waiting to strike.
He lifts his head as he hears us approaching and then, without even a second, jumps into action like he was waiting for it.
The masked intruder lunges, his fists aiming for my face.
“Shit,” I hiss, ducking a blow that would’ve done serious damage. My training kicks in, muscle memory guiding me through the dance of violence. The Kings are busy with the others, the sound of fists on flesh and grunting fill the air.
The fucker keeping me occupied fights as if he knows me and anticipates my next step before I take it.
It is infuriating as again he dodges after I’ve feigned left and aimed at his kidney.
“Who the hell are you?” I spit out, blocking a vicious kick, countering with one of my own that fails to land with the satisfying thud it should have.
He doesn’t reply as I catch his arm and use his momentum to send him crashing into a glass coffee table. It shatters beneath his weight, a symphony of destruction.
He’s up in a flash, with no hesitance or flinching from pain. We’re back at it, and the fight is a whirlwind of strikes and counters.
Through the haze of the fight, it suddenly clicks. The way he moves, the precision, is like looking in a mirror. Dad’s training, his relentless drills, the orders not to give up, the ass kickings, the bruised knuckles, the bloody noses… This bastard’s been through them too.
“Who trained you?” I demand, panting, circling him. I see the recognition in his stance now, a familiarity that makes my blood run cold.
“Guess, little cunt,” he sneers, and then we’re clashing again, the intensity ramping up notch by excruciating notch. Each hit we land, each dodge, is maddening.
“Hey!” I growl as the guy whose ass Raph was kicking flies into me, knocking me off balance.
“Sorry, little killer,” Raph calls out, grinning manically as he enjoys the thrill of the fight way too much.
Moving away from them, I circle my attacker and pull out Flick.
He tilts his head and draws out an identical knife from the back of his pants.
My blood runs cold.
He launches himself at me, knife flashing in the sunlight streaming in through the massive French Doors. The moment comes—a split second where it’s kill or be killed, and I don’t hesitate. My leg sweeps out, catching him, and he goes down hard. I’m on top of him in an instant, my hand latching onto the mask and ripping it away.
“Fuck,” I breathe out, staring into a face that looks like a ghost of my father’s past. Younger, yes, but with the same cruel smirk, the same cold blue eyes, the same shock of black hair and cheekbones you could slice a turkey on.
“Surprise!” he sneers, and then he spits out the words, “You little cunt.”
