Page 1 of The Devil Baron

{ Prologue }

Port of Bilbao, Spain

Fall 1825

The flames flicked up into the salty night air, the orange-red inferno reflecting onto the inky waters of the harbor.

Smoke thick in his throat, choking his air, Rafe clutched his bleeding bicep that had been sliced near to the bone, staring up at the wharf-front warehouse engulfed in fire.

The building currently burning his father to crisp, black bones. If there was to be anything at all left of him.

Good riddance.

Even as that thought invaded his mind, he forced himself to take a step back from the reaction.

For that notion, thatreaction, spoke to a hatred of his father. But he didn’t hate his father. He didn’t allow himself that emotion.

Any emotion, really.

All of them were a waste. A waste of time, money, energy. Watching his father warp and twist because of his hatred and greed had been a lesson Rafe had learned well.

It wasn’t worth it.

Emotions had not lived within his chest for most of his life. For better or worse, he had his father to thank for that.

But that was rare introspection he wasn’t about to dwell on, for he never dwelled.

People whose actions were dictated by emotion were the most loathsome. And he, the son of Lord Bockton, was not loathsome.

He was feared in this land, just as his father had been.

And now he would need to avenge this assault on his father’s empire—hisempire. Too many of his men were dead. His father murdered.

Vengeance was necessary. That was the way. Blood for blood. He held no illusions on the matter.

Revenge not because he particularly cared about his father’s death, but because it would be expected of him. There were some things one couldn’t ignore, and if he intended to hold onto the empire his father had built and Rafe had expanded with blood, sweat and dirty deals with the devil, he had to do what was expected.

Rafe shuffled a step backward, sinking deeper between the two brick buildings across the street from the carnage he’d just escaped from. His men had long since scattered.

Revenge was coming for those English bastards.

Bloody inhuman Vinehill Scots that ravaged his brethren. The despicable crew of the Firefox that cut down one after another. And damnable Wolfbridge himself had struck a blade deep into his arm.

All cruel heathens that had haunted his family his whole life. Exiled his father from England. Killed more of his men than he could count.

Rafe seethed in a breath against the thoughts quickly spinning out of control. Thoughts that were sparking emotion. Mourn his father? No, the man wasn’t worthy of it. Hate his father? Not worthy of that either.

Hate the Vinehill Scots and the Firefox crew and Wolfbridge? They…they actually might be worth it. That was to be determined.

The roof of the building across the street crashed inward, sparks and flames shooting upward into the black sky as a blast of heat cut across his face.

There would be no retrieving his father’s body.

The man was gone and Rafe’s head finally managed to wrap around that fact. Believe it. The dark, bitter shroud of his father lifting from the land.

A deliverance of sorts. A curse of other sorts.

His father’s soul delivered to hell that night. Just as his would be one day.

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