Page 57 of Corrupted Union

When I first heard whispers about him, I half wondered if he was an urban legend. How could a man garner notoriety in such a short time while maintaining his anonymity? How was he still alive with no organization to back him? I figured he'd been made up as a scare tactic, the story morphing as it made the rounds. Then I saw him with my own eyes.

It was about six months ago, around a month after the rumors started circulating. I’d gone to watch one of Torin’s fights. The location of our fight nights changed regularly to reduce the chance of being shut down. It was a pain in the ass, but the money was phenomenal.

That night, we were at a warehouse in Brooklyn. We preferred basement locations for better privacy, but this place was set near the shipyard on a rare, isolated strip of land. Knowing now what I’d learned about Damyon’s association with Wellington, it likely explained his appearance that night.

Tor was the last fight on the schedule and the only one I was interested in, so I didn’t show up until late. Anyone who had come for the fights was already inside. I was on my way in when I heard a strange sound around the side of the building. A mewling like an injured animal would make.

It was probably nothing, but I decided to take a peek because Tor was usually in charge at these things, and he would be occupied getting ready for his fight. And if for some reason the cops had surrounded the place, I wanted to get the drop on them and sound the alarm. I quietly approached the corner of the building and listened. Again, I heard a high-pitched keening.

Slowly, I peered around the metal siding.

Three men stood over a fourth who lay on the ground. He was moving but in a disjoined, sickly way. I’d only taken them in for a handful of seconds when one of the three turned to look directly at me as though he somehow knew I was there. I didn’t slink away. I wasn’t in the habit of cowering. That was how I found myself staring into the most arctic, merciless set of ice-blue eyes I’d ever seen with the scar I’d heard so much about running from temple to lips.

Eventually, the two other men looked my way as well. I cut my eyes to each of them in turn, then briefly to the man on the ground before casually turning and walking away. I left them alone, and they seemed to do the same for me. Nothing ever came of the encounter. The morning after, however, when our men went to the warehouse to ensure it was free of all evidence leading back to us, they found the man who’d been writhing on the ground. His tongue had been cut out then shoved back down his throat, and at least half the bones in his body were shattered.

We weren’t kind to our enemies. It would be a lie to claim otherwise. However, it took a special kind of ruthlessness to do that sort of damage in public. I realized that day that the rumors were true.

Damyon was a psychopath and practically untouchable with so little known about him. And now, he might or might not have wanted Rowan dead. I had no idea what to do about that or where to even start. For the moment, the best I could do was broadcast my claim on Rowan and hope that kept the wolves at bay.

The Oran situation, on the other hand, was much more straightforward. I knew the steps that needed to be taken; I just hated to do it. But it made sense to deal with Oran first. If hewasconnected to Damyon, he might have information to help me get to the man.

God help us both if Oran didn’t want to talk.

I’d do whatever necessary to keep Rowan and my family safe, but I hated to think about what that might mean.

I rolled to my side and watched my sleeping wife. She faced away from me, giving me a perfect view of the ivy inked along her spine. She was so goddamn strong. But even the sturdiest trees needed solid foundation for their roots. I wanted to give that to her—to see her thrive—and I’d cut out the heart of any man who posed a threat to her, even if that man was family.

* * *

I took Rowan to her parents’house again the following morning so she wouldn’t be left alone while I met with my family. Her father had to work, but he made arrangements for security to stay at the house with Rowan and her mother. I would have preferred to leave her in the hands of one of my cousins, but I needed them all present for this conversation. It was time to bring them into the loop and decide what to do about Oran.

The Moxy had a short window of time each day from six to ten o’clock in the morning when the club was closed for cleaning. I’d set up our meeting for nine and arrived ten minutes early. Torin was already inside, sitting at the bar and scrolling through his phone.

“Thanks for being here,” I said as I approached. “I know it’s probably early for you.”

“No fights last night, so I wasn’t out late.”

Late was relative. Most of the time, his nights and days were swapped. I wasn’t sure if it was that or simply his personality, but the guy seemed to be in a perpetually bad mood. He was reliable and loyal—I had no problems with him—but I didn’t fully understand him either. I had a feeling he liked it that way. He’d always been sort of a loner.

“You in the ring anytime soon?” I would have thought at twenty-eight he’d be done with that shit, but the chip on his shoulder kept him in the game. His choice.

“Nothing on the books right now. We’re showcasing a new guy tonight in from Cuba. Figured I’d see what he’s got. If he looks like a good fit, I might set up a match with him.”

“Let me know if you do. I’ll come watch.”

“Don’t encourage him, sir,” Stormy chided in her soft Southern twang as she rounded the corner from behind the bar. “No reason for him to be doing that. He’ll just end up hurt.”

The corner of my mouth twitched upward. “Nothing like a little pain to make a man feel alive.”

Torin grunted.

Stormy set the stack of glasses she was carrying on the counter and rolled her eyes. “You need to feel alive, go bungee jumpin’ or run a marathon—no need to risk brain damage just for a little adrenaline.”

I rapped my knuckles against Torin’s head. “Nothing there to risk, Stormy.”

“Fuck you,” Tor said wryly. And if I wasn’t mistaken, I think he might have even smirked.

The front door swung open, letting in a blinding shaft of light while Conner, Pops, and Nana filed inside.

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