Page 1 of Vicious Intentions

PROLOGUE

It is said the Damned eat their prey, feasting on bodies and souls, taking what they believe belongs to them.

No limits.

No hesitation.

They have no moral code, no deference to humanity—only primal need.

And they are never satisfied.

Déjà vu: a feeling that one has seen or heard something before.

* * *

Cain

Storms.

The power and malevolence had always intrigued me. As if God was asserting his wrath on the Earth, prepared to destroy humanity. In my mind, humans deserved to die. So many were weak and devoid of understanding that at any moment their life could be destroyed. I wanted to be the hand of God, crushing those who dared oppose me.

My father had applauded the darkness festering inside, slapping me on the back more than once as pride filled his face. My mother had been different, determined to expunge the demons before they eradicated my soul. I wasn’t certain why she cared. After all, I was the second born son of the Devil himself, the most powerful and feared mafia lord in the Midwest.

Darkness prevailed in our blood, the need for violence instilled at a young age. Yet, my mother remained faithful that her two sons wouldn’t follow in our father’s footsteps. Perhaps what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

A smile crossed my face as another bolt of lightning flashed bright neon across the sky, the tendrils of electric energy pulsing through me like rocket fuel. Soon I would be old enough to garner additional responsibilities. Not long after that, I’d rule over a unit of men capable of destruction. I’d become invincible, just like my older brother. Dayton would be handed the regime one day, but I’d be the man who carried out savage retaliation when needed. The thought was delicious.

My father was a brutal man and not only to those who defied him. He accepted nothing less than perfection from his sons, rarely acknowledging our existence unless we did something wrong. While I respected him as required, I’d also grown to hate him. The stench of his cigars. His patronizing attitude. His weakness for whores. I would be stronger, more resilient.

I would be a king.

As I stared at the glowing sky, I ignored the continuous pain. Allowing the bruises and marks to bother me was weak. I wasn’t weak. I felt a presence and stiffened, only to remind myself that I was in my brother’s house. I was safe. As safe as I could be with the demons plaguing me every night.

“Go to sleep,” Dayton said softly. “You need rest.”

I turned my head towards the bedroom door, scowling at the admonishment. My brother might be eight years older, but tonight was the first night he’d acted like I was required to play by his rules. Maybe that was because I was in his house, our parents refusing to leave me by myself while they traveled through Italy.

“Whatever,” I told him, turning over in bed. I rarely slept. There was no need. I’d learned a long time ago what happened when I fell asleep. That’s when the real monsters came out to play.

I could tell by the reflection of the storm in the window that he’d remained where he was,

“It’s different here, Cain. You don’t have to worry about Pops hurting you. As a matter of fact, he’s never going to hurt you or Mama again. I promise you. I figured it out. This is your home now.”

His words brought unwanted emotion.

And ugly memories.

“Don’t you dare shed a tear, you worthless piece of human flesh. You are a Cross. You will act like a man.”

“But, Papa.”

Wham! “Don’t you backtalk me.”

How many times had my father used the same words after beating me for some infraction? At least his brutality had taught me resilience. Home. My stomach churned at the thought. “What does that mean?”

He walked closer, easing the blanket up to my shoulder. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want to learn the answers to.”

Fine. Whatever.

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