Page 100 of Dukes of Peril

“Business ideas.”

Pops gives me a slow nod and begins massaging his knee. It’s an old training injury that always seems to flare up whenever he needs a fidget. “West End’s always had the gun trade locked down, but it wasn’t always about running them, you know. We’re built differently than the other Royals.” He jerks his chin at Remy, and then Nick. “We’re fighters. Our weapons are our bodies and our cunning, and we’re good at knowing how to use them–whento use them.”

Dad snorts. “A Count, a Baron, a Prince, a Lord… none of them are going to match a Duke on pure physicality alone. They need guns to beat us.”

“So,” Pops says, watching Nick with shrewd eyes, “what does a fighter do to ensure a victory?”

It takes Nick a second to answer, comprehension dawning on his features. “You monopolize all the guns.”

Pops tips his beer at Nick. “Exactly.”

“But where we saw strategy,” Dad says, eyes growing dark, “Saul saw business potential. Your grandpop was sitting on a stockpile that could have earned West End a fortune.”

Pops grabs his knee, leaning forward. “I don’t need to ask you to imagine what that would be like–Forsyth stocked to the teeth with West End guns.” He gestures broadly. “You’re living Saul’s dream out there, boys.”

Anger flickers in my brother’s eyes. “So you just… fuckingleft?”

“Hey,” Dad snaps, because as much as he and Pops bicker, no one jumps to his defense faster. “No onejustleaves the Royalty, Nicky. Especially not when they’re about to become King.”

“There was a vote.” Pops’ voice is low and toneless. “That’s how it’s done in the belfry. You know that.”

Dad adds, “Saul campaigned the frat. Davis promised a future of the status quo, which was more about community and building up the gym than power, but Saul was offering a way for West End to earn money hand over fist.”

Pops rests his head back against the cabinet, eyes faraway. “DKS chose Saul.”

I share a look with Nick, because this is news to us. We’ve always been told it was a choice. That the three of them packed their bags and gladly left the Royalty behind them. It can’t all be a lie, only now I’m realizing it wasn’t as easy as they made it sound.

Because I’m looking into my Pops’ eyes, and somewhere beneath all the resentment and stubborn conviction, there’s a wound that’s never quite healed. Maybe Davis Bruin never wanted power or legacy, but he wanted to do something right. Something good. Something worthwhile.

And Saul Cartwright took it from him.

There’s a crash, Nick dropping a coffee mug into the dishwater. He clutches the counter, shoulders forming a taut, tense curve over the sink. “Do you have any fucking idea what it’s like out there?” he asks. Turning a glare onto our father, he keeps his voice low and measured, but so full of venom that it makes me jolt to stand between them. “West End was yours. You should have fought for it.”

Pops jumps off the counter, his knee injury forgotten. “You think I didn’t fight?” he asks, mouth pinched into an angry grimace. “You asked how the Baron King got that gun, so here’s the truth. I went to all of them–the Kings of Forsyth–hoping for one goddamn promise of support.” He tilts his head in that special, menacing way that comes with the Bruin genetics. “Do you know what that masked asshole told me?”

Remy’s the one to answer, the words quiet and grim. “Death is business.” He shoots me a look, because my fathers might not know Maddox’s true identity, but we do. “More bodies, more money.”

Pops gestures to Remy like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and I suppose it is.

Dad clutches his beer, staring sightlessly at his knuckles. “The other Kings liked Saul’s pitch. They lapped it up, Nick. They were all too happy to see West End in his hands, however bloody they might become. They wanted the firepower.”

“More than that,” Pops raises his chin, “they wanted the war.”

The words ring with a frightening clarity, because it all makes perfect sense. The Barons wanted the business. The Lords would have wanted to build their own arsenal to protect their land and women. The Counts would have needed the enforcement. And the Princes…

They wouldn’t have settled for anything less than the best of the best.

“Well,” my laugh is clipped and full of bitterness, “they got it.”

Some of the fire bleeds from Nick’s eyes, but he doesn’t look any less tense about the revelation. “Even if we wanted to walk, we don’t have that option,” he says, turning his focus to the dishes. Steam runs from the hot water, but he runs his hands underneath anyway, his fists clenching at the burn.

Remy snaps the lid on a glass container and admits, “He’s got us by the balls.”

Nick and I shoot him a glare. “Dammit, Rem–”

But it’s too late.

“I see,” Dad says, and it’s clear from his expression that he does. They both do. They don’t have to know the specifics of the video to understand that Saul has leverage on us, and that’s why there’s no walking away from this one.

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