Malum: Part 1 (The Elite King's Club 4)

Back to the box, I pull it out and see the words Puer Natus carved into the wood. I freeze. I know what the fuck this is and why it’s here. But how the fuck did Tillie come about it and why the fuck hasn’t she said anything. My eyes flick up to her body and then I stammer through the pages. Sketch after sketch flipping past me.

I put the book back under the bed and stand, making my way out of the house. Yeah, this is not fucking good. We had a fucking deal.

I climb the stairs, making my way up to my room while hitting dial on the foreign number.

“Hello?” Peyton says.

My jaw clenches. “We need to fucking talk.”

“You know where I am…”

I hang up on her and have a quick shower, scrubbing away the cigarettes I decided to smoke last night and the coke I hardly ever snort. Once I’m done, I dial Hector on my way out. I’m beeping my car unlocked when he answers.

“We need to talk. Now.”

I short shift all the way into the city, frustrated with ghosts whispering from their grave, sharing secrets they shouldn’t be sharing. If Tillie finds out what’s at the end of that book, and if she takes her place as it should be and as it is written, then we’re all fucked. Her included.

I pull into the underground parking to one of the properties Hector is developing for us in the city. It’s going to be The Kings new HQ, because Bishop didn’t want to bring business back to his home. Typical Bishop, still bleeding secrets into his and Madison’s relationship over a year in. Don’t know how he does it. I’d rather cut myself open and let my secrets spill. Then I’ll be able to see if my girl will let them drown her or learn to swim through them. If she drowns, she drowns, but if she swims, I’ll be waiting on the other side ready to play with her tits.

I already know where Tillie would fall on this scale. She has proved time and time again that she can handle any and everything. But she won’t be able to handle the end of that book—and neither will I.

I slam my door closed and head straight for the elevator. There are three levels, and although they’re not done yet, the third level is almost finished, which will be where we will be conducting most of our business. With Hector stepping down next year, Brantley and I have already decided we will be stepping up as Bishop’s right- and left-hand men. The rest of the boys are going off to college, but they’re still Kings, nonetheless. They just have the option to go off and have a life. A family. Jobs. But when the bell is calling, they always have to come running. Unless they want to be ridiculed and thrown into The Rebels. Our gen is good. It’s solid. I know Hunter wants in with us too, but Jase won’t let him because he wants him to try out a “normal” life.

The elevator dings as I reach the floor and I step out, seeing Hector and Peyton instantly. “She has Puer Natus.”

They both freeze.

Peyton’s hand comes to her forehead. “Fuck!” She starts pacing, and Hector’s eyes come to mine. “How did she get it?”

I shrug, running my hands through my hair. “Don’t know. Found it under her bed this morning.”

“Son.” Hector looks at me, the wrinkles around his eyes softening. “You don’t have to do this right now. You just lost your daughter.”

I shake my head, clenching my jaw. “Keep me busy.”

Hector tosses a file toward me, landing on the construction table beside a saw. “I need you to check on The Rebels. They’re making noise, rustling the leaves with some very powerful people that ride on the straight and narrow. Can’t have their noses in our business.”

I nod. “I’ll handle it.” I flick through the folder, images of young people in dirty rooms, girls dressed in old clothes with heroin needles stabbed into their arms. Some of the images are old, dating back to when we were all kids. I pause on one image. A little girl with the whitest hair I have ever seen falling over her little face. Mud smudges her porcelain-like skin, and she has to be around four-years-old, wearing a soiled white dress. Her eyes catch me, stall me even. Not so much the color, because I can’t make them out, but the shape. The way they look at you through a photograph. It’s haunting. A deep cut on the side of her neck catches my attention next, it’s so deep it would leave a nasty scar. I shake my head, disgusted in The Rebels and what they’re still dabbling in.

“They’re still trafficking?” I ask, my eyebrow quirked as I look up at Hector.