A Vow of Lust and Fury (Underworld Kings)

Created with Vellum

“She was an angel seeking chaos. He was a demon seeking peace.” – Author unknown.

1

Gio

With an ominous creak of hinges, I opened the basement door and stepped into a torture scene. Literally.

A single light bulb hummed overhead, casting shadows over the bleak cinder block walls and the unconscious man bound to a chair in the center of the room. Once-white bandages that covered a relatively minor gunshot wound in his gut were now red, and as the metallic scent of blood infiltrated my senses, I became high on the violence of it all.

My enforcer, Jackson, paced before him in the small space, a demented smile on his face and his bare chest smeared crimson. Judging by the array of neat slices and copious amounts of blood covering our prisoner, Jackson had thoroughly indulged in the task of extracting the information I wanted.

The guy was found beside the bodies of two of our men and an empty truck that should have been filled with cocaine. Our cocaine. Usually, I’d be far removed from such issues, but that was the third shipment this month. Whoever was brave enough to take from us was brazen. And fucking stupid. No one had dared challenge us in years, and for good reason. Retribution would be swift and brutal. But it was more complicated than I’d like because it had happened in Chicago. I didn’t like to shit on my own doorstep by bringing drugs directly into New York. I had a tight grip on the Windy City; however, my lack of absolute control had my skin itching.

On a sigh, I pushed away from the door. “Did he tell you anything?”

“No,” Jackson spat, still pacing like an agitated cat.

I wasn’t surprised. If I were going to steal a shipment from us, I’d hire someone who couldn’t be associated with it, someone who knew very little, because the consequences for such a slight would be grave.

My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I glanced at a message from one of my underbosses, Tommy. One word: Irish. Followed by a screenshot of a list of bank transactions to one Mr. Steven White. Also known as the sack of leaking blood in front of me. The money came from an account under McGinty holdings. A “legitimate” business of the Irish Mob in Chicago.

We hadn’t had any issues with them recently, although we did have Patrick O’Hara’s cousin, Finnegan, killed a few years back. Irish and Italian relations were always tentative. Now I had to work out if it was an act of opportunity or war. As much as I wanted heads to roll for the sheer fucking audacity, war was bad for business, and if there was one thing I didn’t do, it was act rashly. There was one way to find out…

“Kill him.”

Within seconds, the captive’s throat was nothing more than a slash of red, blood pouring down his broken body. A kindness, really, given Jackson’s propensity for torture and his dark mood consuming every inch of air in the room.

“Send his head to Patrick O’Hara’s bar,” I ordered before leaving the room and ascending the stairs into the main house.

Paddy O’Hara knew better, or at least he should have. How he reacted would tell me what I needed to know. I made my way into the office and closed the door, inhaling the scent of old books and leather as I poured myself a bourbon. The smoky flavor burned down my throat, taking the edge off my temper. The last thing I needed right now was issues in Chicago. I was down several shipments, and product shortages had repercussions—loss of business, competitors moving in, violence, discord, power plays…

I fell behind my desk and downed the drink. The entire situation felt off, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. War was coming. I could feel it, taste the coppery tang of blood on the wind, and part of me relished in it. I smiled at the thought of Paddy O’Hara opening a box to find a severed head inside. I did it to send a message, but more than that, I did it because I could.

_____

* * *

My gaze drifted over the city lights far below, so far removed from up here in my penthouse. Classical music drifted through the surround sound, and I drew in a cleansing breath, trying to find a moment of clarity in the newfound chaos.

The Irish sent us back the soldier who had delivered the head. In pieces. Then they took another shipment worth in excess of a quarter of a million. A shipment to a private airfield that no one should have known about. So that meant, not only were the Irish fucking me in the ass, but I had a rat.

I could practically feel the testosterone and violence pumping around the room the second Jackson stepped inside the penthouse. He took the death of a soldier personally. We all did. It was a blood debt. More than that, though, it meant we had an enemy who did not fear us, and those were few and far between these days.