Page 2 of Kneeling for Daddy
The room smells of gunpowder, blood, and death. I stare at the wreckage of old power, their reign bleeding out onto the concrete floor beneath their lifeless bodies.
“To my brothers,” I toast, grabbing a bottle of vodka off the table and raising it. I take a swig of the Russian vodka, spilling some. Wiping the back of my hand along my chin, I pass the bottle to Cillian.
He swallows a couple of gulps, vodka spraying from his lips when he groans, “Ugh… fucking vodka… To my brothers.”
“To my brothers…” Enzo repeats, taking the bottle from Cillian’s extended hand. He throws down a shot with a grimace. “The Kings of New York City.”
Their era is over.
We rule this city now.
CURRENT DAY
The tension in the air is almost palpable as we wait for our surprise guest.
I lean against the counter, chewing a toothpick to keep myself from grinding my teeth. Enzo is drumming his fingers on the granite like he’s trying to wear a hole through it. For the last half hour, Cillian has been pacing, his hand brushing the Glock tucked in the small of his back every few steps like a nervous tic.
We’re all wired. Tense. Humming with the kind of anticipation that never bodes well.
After hours of arguing, we made the call to keep Eavan and Madison here. They are safer under our noses than out of our sight, where someone could take them and use them for leverage. If whoever’s coming is planning to test us, we aren’t going to let them get the upper hand.At least not using the girls.
Eavan and Madison are parked on the couch, as far from the kitchen as they can be. To a stranger, they might look relaxed—disinterested, even—but we know better. Eavan is an anxious mess; her pregnancy only heightening the fear of history repeating itself. Madison is watching everything. Every movement. Just like Cillian.Just like me.
Before he left her side, Cillian tucked her Glock into the couch cushion. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t ask questions. She merely nodded. She has proven her loyalty to this family, and I have no doubt she won’t hesitate to use it.
The buzzer jolts the room, snapping the silence like breaking a neck.
I push off the counter and press the button to return the call on the intercom. “Yeah?”
“Guests for The Kings,” the doorman replies. “Three men. Are they cleared for the penthouse?”
I glance at Cillian and Enzo. We exchange a look—tight and grim. Cillian tips his head.
With the intercom engaged again, I advise, “Send them up.”
Cillian moves to the door, his hand already on his weapon. The elevator dings a few seconds later, and the tension in the penthouse ratchets even higher. “What the fuck are you doing here?” His voice drops into a growl, sharp with fury.
A man in his early twenties steps into the kitchen, his gold chain swinging as he walks. He’s wearing joggers and designer sneakers that probably cost more than Enzo’s ridiculous Ferragamos. He’s flashy, arrogant, and familiar.Alek Sargsyan.I can’t fault Cillian’s reaction to our unwanted guest. He was going to marry his sister after all.
Two men follow behind him. Mid-forties, dark suits, military posture. Their eyes sweep the space with clinical detachment. Private security, I’m almost certain. Alek strolls deeper into the penthouse, all swagger and condescension. “Relax. All of you.” He throws his hands up like we’re the ones overreacting. “I’m not here formy wife.”
My spine goes stiff. He spits the word like it tastes sour.
Enzo is on his feet before I can blink. “Mywife,” he snaps.
Without pulling his stare from Alek, Cillian throws an arm in front of Enzo to stop him from murdering the little punk where he stands. “Then whyareyou here?” Cillian asks.
Alek shrugs as if this is a damn social call. “Trust me, I don’t want your sister. I’m here to give you mine.”
I blink, my brows furrowing with confusion—certain I misheard him. “What!?”
He nods to one of his guards, who steps forward and hands Cillian a thick folder. Alek grins like he’s just dropped off a housewarming gift.
“I’m done. With all of it. That business of selling girls… That was my father’s kingdom, not mine. And frankly?” He glances around the room… “I want a piece of this.”
Cillian flips through the folder quickly before tossing the contents onto the island. My stomach drops as my eyes flit across the papers. Photos. Ledgers. Surveillance stills. Meeting notes. Every bit of it is incriminating, every sheet only guaranteeing life without parole.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.
