Kings of Blood and Money (Underworld Kings)

My fists clench. It takes all my strength not to ram it through the window. Taking a breath, I un-ball my hands and place them on my knees.

“She finished school,” Remi adds casually, but he senses the rigid set of my jaw. “You didn’t know?” He winces, folding his arms.

He’s never had the primal rage like I do when it comes to the Gallos. Freya. Some days, I envy him for it. “You know to stay away from her.” I pin him with a withering glare.

Holding his hands up in surrender, he smiles roguishly. “Why the fuck do you think I have somewhere else to be after this? I know the rules, big brother.”

He turns his gaze back to the window, a light drizzle of rain blurring the view outside, thunder booming overhead. He calls me big brother despite him being born ten minutes after me.

“Do you know what this is about?” He jerks his chin toward the buildings we’re approaching.

“It’s a Ruin meet. Father said to deal with whatever they want. He’s going to be gone another few days.”

The last place I want to be is at a meeting in place of our father. I’ve been all over Desolation dealing with his affairs this week. He’s been gone more than he’s home lately.

The gravel terrain evens out, crunching under the wheels as we come to a stop. “You sure this is the right place?” My brother turns his nose up, squinting as our driver opens the door.

The way into this place is covered in dirt roads now, brush claiming the surroundings. It’s derelict and needs to be torn down. Buildings like this will always be used for evil.

“Apparently.” I nod for Caleb, our driver, to wait here.

Two large men stand rigid at the entrance of a large warehouse, the sign above the door worn and unreadable. This place is some kind of meat packing factory, abandoned decades ago.

My gaze travels the length of the men, both in black coats to their shins, slacks, and boots. If I didn’t know better, I’d think we came to a club and these were the bouncers.

One of them holds his hand up to stop my approach. I feel Remi’s growl before I hear it, his body close behind mine. Speaking into an earpiece while eyeballing my brother, he asks, “Name?”

Irritation flares in my chest, but I allow their protocols. “Remington.”

At his nod, the other man opens the door and gestures for us to enter.

It’s laughable once we step inside. There are crater-sized holes in the walls. We could have come through any of them.

Mildew and shit coats the air. With every inhale, I want to exhale the contents of my stomach. Why we couldn’t meet in an establishment a little less serial-killer-dumping-ground is beyond me. Steel beams are rusted and barely holding up. The rotting sheet panels passing as a roof allow the rain to dribble in, forming dirty puddles that soak through my shoes.

“I’m going to have a look around,” my brother announces, splitting away from me.

The men from the Mercer family who called the meeting gather around, looking about as happy to be here as I am.

“Where’s your father?” Little Tony speaks first as I approach. His crooked nose takes up nearly his entire face. His beady eyes narrow in on me. His tone is accusatory, making my jaw clench. My glare travels from his feet to his nose, noting his oversized puff jacket trying to make up for his small stature. It’s always the tiny men with the biggest chips on their shoulders.

“Away on business. You called for a Remington, be grateful you got one,” I state firmly. I may only be twenty-two, but I’ve been part of this life since I was eleven and witnessed, first-hand, the brutality of it. I earned my own respect. I didn’t need some overcompensating dick talking down to me.

“The surgeon said his sons speak for him when he’s not here,” Mateo chimes in, shaking his collar to ward off the rain dripping from above.

“Are you going to tell us what we’re doing here?” Roberto asks, his eyes swinging from the Mercer men to me to the direction my brother disappeared in.

Roberto dealt in the removal of things you didn’t want coming back to bite you in the ass. He’s a bioremediation specialist who runs a forensic cleaning company—a legit business with a side hustle of disposing of less legit shit. He was new. Took over from a mercenary called, Arlo. We don’t like change. Trust issues.

“I thought you liked meeting in abandoned warehouses late at night.” Another guy smirks to Roberto. I don’t know his name, but he likes himself, the way he confidently stands with his hands in his pockets, thumbs out, chest inflated, a cocky grin.

“I want to be here as much as a stripper wants to be at a kid’s birthday party,” Roberto quips. He looks to his shoes, shuddering at what’s now caked on the soles.