Kings of Blood and Money (Underworld Kings)

“You want to try?” Remi asks him. The boy nods, sending a mop of blond hair falling into his face. Helping the child to aim and shoot, they hit their target. Just watching him so at ease with the child makes my heart full.

The kid hits the second row of bottles, knocking them over, but struggles with the last row, despite his pellets hitting their target.

“You win a small prize,” the stall handler announces, gesturing to the small teddy bears in front. He looks down at his phone, uninterested in making the moment magical for the boy. “Pick one,” he says offhandedly.

Remi looks over at me sheepishly when he shrugs and lets the boy have the prize. Running off to his mom, a plush blue dinosaur clutched in his grip, the lady waves a thank you while trying to soothe a crying infant.

Remi captures my face between his hands and kisses me.

“One more try.”

The man resets the game, and Remi dumps more money on the counter and takes the rifle.

Snap, snap, snap. The pellets hit their target, knocking them over. Snap. Just like before, the last two hit but don’t knock over the bottles. “It’s rigged,” Remi seethes, throwing the rifle down.

“You win a small prize,” the man waffles. A light breeze ripples over my summer dress, chasing a chill up my arms.

“You bolt the bottles down,” Remi growls. It’s not like him to lose his cool. How the man isn’t cowering at his aggression is impressive.

“Remi,” I tug on his arm, trying to pry him away, “it doesn’t matter. Take the small prize.”

“No, fuck that. It’s not fair to the kids who play. It’s bullshit,” he snaps at the man.

“Dude, just take your prize or you can have your money back. Nothing is rigged.” The man’s eyes flit over to a group of police officers patrolling the grounds.

“Oh, nothing’s rigged?” Remi argues. My heart slips through my ribcage and lands at my feet when Remi pulls a real gun from a strap on his ankle.

My worlds collide. The storm I’m used to living within roars in my ears as he aims and shoots.

Pop. Pop. Effortless, trained, like he’s an assassin who’s been doing this his entire life, he puts two bullet holes through the remaining bottles. Like he said, they’re bolted down.

Screams from a couple girls close enough to have witnessed the gun echo and catch on like a forest fire spreading through the fair ground, shattering the enchantment, contaminating it.

“Gun, gun!” someone screams, and chaos ensues.

I’m scuffled around, tugged and jolted away from Remi, as men in reflective vests descend on the place like ants over a dropped sugar cane.

I can’t breathe. My bones are crushing my organs. “Remi?” I cry out, searching for him.

I almost buckle and hit the dirt when I see him handcuffed by police. “Remi?” I sob, running toward them.

“I’m fucking sorry, Frey. Just give her my keys so she’s not stranded, you assholes.” He thrashes against the restraints. They’re pushing his face into the dirt, knees in his back, too many of them surround him. “I’ll have your jobs if you don’t give her my fucking car keys,” he roars. It’s not a side of him I’ve ever witnessed before, and it’s making me want to throw up.

“Go to the hotel,” he orders, calling out to me over the heads of the five officers heaving him up and leading him away. Tears trickle to my cheeks.

A woman police officer turns around and runs back to me. Lifting my hand, she places Remi’s keys in my palm.

“Drive safe, okay?”

“Okay,” is all I manage to squeak out.

I need Noah.

Thirty-One

Noah

Security arrived ahead of the politician to scope out the house and the party room down in the basement. They scanned the room for hidden cameras to make sure this wasn’t a set up. It wouldn’t surprise me if that’s exactly what Antonio had planned.

Antonio arrived an hour later, and his fucking brother a few seconds ago. He wasn’t on the list and came in his own car. Prick.

“I’m sorry,” Antonio gruffs. “He was being difficult, insisting on being here.” He looks stressed, tugging on the bottom of his suit jacket, his eyes surveying the room.

“After all the talk of the risks it would cause for you because of the heat on your empire from Maddox, I’m surprised either of you came,” I tell him honestly.

“We took precautions, and this is a private residency. It’s a lot harder to get warrants for, especially if there’s no cause. Your family is squeaky clean.” He taps my shoulder, like I’m a child who can be pacified by flattery.

We’re far from clean, but we aren’t idiots. We don’t take risks like entertaining a reckless family member. Maddox will be the downfall of the Mercer empire, and it will be because Antonio didn’t have the balls to cut the rotting flesh from the healthy meat.