Page 6 of Brutal Reign
The thought of an eight-year-old losing her mother hits closer to home than I’d like. I push the feeling down and focus on what needs to be done.
“Smart move,” Roman observes, crossing his arms. “Keep the heir safe until she’s needed.”
“Not exactly.” Maxim’s frown deepens as he studies the file. “Our intel always pointed to Simon Lau as the successor.” Lau was King’s right-hand man, practically a son to him.
“But Simon’s dead.” Roman shrugs. He died with the rest of King’s inner circle when we attacked and then torched the place. “Which leaves Hope as next in line to the Black Company throne.”
“Throne? Are you fucking serious?” I almost laugh. “She was a university student. She studied history and books. You just said so yourself that she didn’t grow up in the triad. What does she know about running a criminal empire?”
“Maybe nothing,” Maxim admits, rolling a cigar between his fingers. “Or maybe her father prepared her for the role more than we think. Either way, we can’t afford to take a chance and find out.”
I stare at the photograph while my thumb traces the edge unconsciously. She looks so innocent, so full of life here, and now it’s my job to snuff that out.
Maxim exhales slowly, his expression softening. He studies his cigar for a moment before speaking. “I know she’s not our usual target, but the King name still carries weight in the triad world. Her great-grandfather chose it deliberately back when he was pushing into Western markets because it commanded respect in any language. Even with Lai King gone, there are still many loyal to the family. And as his only child, if Hope ever decided to rebuild and come for us, she’d have support.”
A bad feeling twists in my gut. “Where is she now?”
“This was taken in Madrid three weeks ago, but we’ve already lost track of her. Her father must have warned her that we’d hunt her down, which is why she's been on the run ever since Switzerland, not staying in one place for long.” Maxim’s eyes cut to mine. “It might take some time to track her down. Have the hackers help.”
I’ve never questioned an order from Maxim, but this feels like I’m being asked to undo the one bit of good I’ve done in this world.
“I’ll find her,” I say finally, the words scraping against my throat like broken glass.
I turn over her picture, but her face is already burned into my memory. Here, she’s beautiful, smiling, alive. Soon, if I do my job right, that will change.
CHAPTER
THREE
HOPE
The Lamband Flag smells like every other grotty pub in East London—the undercurrent of lemon cleaner fighting a losing battle against decades of cigarette smoke and spilled beer. I’m attacking the bar top with a rag to give it a proper polish, my hands moving in restless circles.
Outside, London is doing its best impression of a monsoon, with rain hammering the windows and turning the street into a river. It's perfect weather for drowning your sorrows, which means we’ll be packed tonight. Plus, with Arsenal and Chelsea going head-to-head, every football fan around will be desperate for a place to watch and drink their feelings.
This place is nothing special, but it’s where Lily Ashford landed when she needed a job that didn’t involve paperwork or background checks. Two months in, and I’m still here, which says more about my options than my job satisfaction.
“Christ, Lily, do you ever stop?”
Chloe, my workmate and the closest thing I have to a friend, breezes in from the back. Her copper-red ponytail bounces as she moves, coat still damp from her smoke break. She’s got thateffortless Irish beauty, with freckles scattered across her nose, sharp blue eyes, and curves for days.
“Keeps me from getting bored,” I say, not looking up from my futile polishing.
She dumps her coat behind the bar and immediately starts touching up her already perfect lip gloss in the mirror. “Honestly, watching you is exhausting sometimes. What demons are you running from?”
Even though she’s kidding, she has no idea how right she is. When I stop moving, my brain goes to dark places: Swiss villas, men with guns, my hands coated in blood, the sight of smoke rising in the rearview mirror.
And more than anything, I keep on replaying the last conversation I had with my father. We were in the middle of a game of chess when he got a phone call that someone had leaked our hideout location and the Syndicate was on the way.
I tried desperately to convince him to leave with me that night, but he refused. His words are still etched in my memory.
“I’m not leaving, Hope.” He moves from behind the desk, closing the distance between us. “A leader doesn’t run. He stands and fights with his men, no matter the cost.”
Tears blur my vision. “Forget about honor for once. Please, Baba, you’re the only parent I have left. And we’ve only just gotten to know each other.”
After my mother was killed by a rival triad when I was eight, my father took no chances with my safety. He sent me to the UK, my mother’s home country, where I was more or less raised in boarding schools with no family left to speak of. These three weeks in hiding are the longest stretch of time I’ve ever spent with my father, and it’s been nice. So nice. And now it’s all being ripped away.
For a moment, his composed mask slips, and I see the devastation in his eyes before he swallows it down.
