Cunning Eian (The Turris #1)

Prologue

Eian Dempsey

New York City—Thirty-One Years Ago

Keep them guessing.

That’s what Da always says, and he’s one of the most powerful men in this city, so my guess is he knows what the fuck he’s talking about.

Since I turned sixteen, Da has been showing me the ropes of the business, and two days ago he told me the brothel on Thirty-Second Street is now my responsibility.

I don’t take that lightly, just like his warning scowl.

I came by that same day too . . . gave James notice that I, a nineteen year old punk, am now his boss, and I didn’t like his attitude. I could be wrong about him, but I’m not taking any chances because I’ve been preparing for this moment my whole life. I need to make it clear who’s in charge now.

Today I’m going to find out if what I think I saw was correct.

Coming round just two days later is not what James expects of me. In fact, most of Da’s underbosses think I’m a spoiled brat—that’s by design.

Da’s a canny man, a cruel man, yeah, but fucking brilliant.

He doesn’t want anyone to know I’m more like him than they think or that I’ve been more involved with the business than any of his men know.

But something changed two days ago.

“You need to make it very fucking clear, son. You need to prove to them that you’re someone they should follow, because you are.”

That’s was a very . . . sentimental thing for him to say. Not that he’s always a cold man, not with me at least, or with aunt Iris, my cousin Harrison . . . and he wasn’t like that with Uncle Theodore when he was alive. When it’s just us, he’s funny, kind, loving.

To everyone else . . . well, Ronan Dempsey is the Devil, so when I open the door to the brothel, I know I have to be the Devil’s Spawn.

It’s not hard to put on that mask, not when I hear a hard slap followed quickly by a woman’s cry of pain.

There’s one thing we Dempseys were put on this earth to fight, and that’s predators, or at least fuckers who think they’re predators.

I can’t go in guns blazing, no matter how much my instincts are screaming at me to kill whoever just hit a woman.

Being smart is more powerful than violence . . . at first.

So I walk in slowly, but the scene before me—a woman curled up in the corner of the stinking office, James standing over her with a butcher’s knife in his left hand—tests my intelligence.

“Did she steal?” I ask calmly.

“No, I didn’t!” she shouts, bordering close to hysterical. I don’t look at her, not yet, but I feel Mac standing behind me, poised for a fight. I sure hope he remembers what I said on our way over here.

“Only do what I say, when I say.” That’s an easy enough instruction for my best friend.

“What did she do?” I ask James calmly, but my veins are made of lava at the moment, and soon enough I’m going to need to let off a little steam.

“The bitch was complaining.”

I tilt my head to the side, wondering if he really believes I’m going to let this go.

I walk over slowly and hold out my hand for the knife. His frown is infuriating, and he takes his sweet fucking time, but he hands it to me.

I grip the hilt and take his right wrist, pull him to the desk, pin that hand against the dark wood, and bring the knife down on his fingers with all the strength I have. His three, fat middle fingers roll over the edge and fall to the ground.

His scream is . . . annoying.

I don’t know what the fuck Da was thinking putting James in charge of this place, but he sure as fuck hasn’t been keeping a good enough eye on it if this fucker thinks this is how we do business.

James crumbles to the ground when I let go of him, and I don’t spare him a fucking glance. I pass the knife to Mac, then take out my handkerchief and wipe the blood off my left hand.

Only then do I turn to look at the woman.

In her thirties, I’d say. Latina, and with anger and fear in her eyes.

That’s a strong person right there.

I offer her a hand and pull her up.

“I’m Eian Dempsey,” I introduce myself, my voice as calm as before, though this time it’s not hard. “What’s your name?”

“Frida,” she whispers, and I don’t hold the tremble in her voice against her. That’s the effect of the Demspey name.

“What did you complain about?” I ask louder, since James won’t shut the fuck up. I can’t kill him, though—not yet.

“He brought a girl, a very young girl.”

“To work?” My voice goes deep. The feral need to attack is instant, and not even I like it when I’m in this mood, so again, I don’t hold it against her when she takes a step back.

“Ye-yes,” she stutters.

“Is she here now?” I demand in a shout.

“Yes.” Frida’s voice goes high-pitched.

“What room?”

“Three twelve,” she says urgently.

I turn to James and bend over to hit him in the head with the butt of my gun, then I snap at Frida.

“Make sure he doesn’t bleed out in the next five minutes.”

I’m out of there and running up the stairs a second later, Mac’s thundering steps behind me.

I kick in the door when I find the room locked, and when I see—

Fuck being smart. Fuck intelligence.

“Cover her up and have her look away,” I snap at Mac.

I grab the man by the hair and yank him back away from the girl who’s tied to the fucking bed.

The motherfucker doesn’t even have time to react before I punch him hard enough to break his nose. More screams of pain, but they just fuel me this time. I go for his eye with the next punch. I really want to gouge it out, but I settle for his jaw next, and then wrap my hands around his throat.

“You’re gonna wish I killed you,” I tell him just before he passes out. I squeeze tighter for just two seconds, then I let go.

I turn and see Mac sitting on the bed, in front of the girl.

His coat is gone and the sheet is bunched up around her, so at least he did what I told him to do.

“Mac, tie this fucker up then call Blake. We’re taking them to Da.”

He follows my instructions again, and I take a moment to breathe out slowly before I let myself look.

This is going to test me.

The first thing I notice is a drop of blood on the cream colored sheets. It has me moving forward fast enough for the girl to notice even with her eyes closed.

“I’m Eian.” I make myself speak softly to her. “What’s your name?”

“Au-Aurora,” she stutters through her harsh breaths, but when she looks at me and I see those eerily green eyes, there’s no pain there.

She’s not crying, doesn’t look like she’s been crying either, and that’s harder on me than if she were.

What has she gone through that this doesn’t make her cry?

“I know he hurt you, but can you tell me if he injured you?”

“He twisted my arm but I think it’s just sore, and I have a cut on my leg. It’s small though.” Her monotone words aren’t . . . that’s not how she’s supposed to . . .

Problem for another day, I decide.

“Where did James take you from?” I ask her. I need to get her back home before—

“What do you mean?” She looks innocently confused.

“He kidnapped you, so—”

“No he didn’t,” she interrupts, and even if they believe I’m a useless, spoiled brat, no one has ever interrupted me before who isn’t my family.

She can’t know who I am, though.

“He’s my father,” she tells me, matter-of-factly. “And I’m fine. I need to go back home and check on Duffy.”

She bunches up the sheet around her and moves to stand so decisively that I only spring up when she’s almost at the doorway.

“Wait,” I call out. “James is your father?” I ask, just to make sure. I didn’t fucking know he had a daughter. And is Duffy her dog or something?

“Yes,” she says simply. There’s something missing behind her eyes, but I can’t let her leave like this and walk around the city or try to get a cab to wherever she lives, with only Mac’s coat over her shoulders and a sheet draped around her.

“I’ll take you to your home, please wait.” Asking nicely feels foreign outside of my house.

Mac comes back then.

“Blake’s here. He’s loading them up into the van.”

“Okay, tell him to take them to the bunker, and get the car.”

I look around and find tattered clothes, and when I pick up the fabric I realize it’s a torn shirt.

“Aurora, we’ll take you home.” And figure out what the fuck is going on there for James to have brought her here without anyone—like her fucking mother—having put a stop to it. “Let’s find you some clothes and shoes.”

She doesn’t protest at all, just quietly gets dressed in the pair of jeans she finds under the bed and grabs the sandals that were by the wall.

I stare at the dark-green wall and stew, fantasizing about how much pain I’m going to put James through before he meets his maker.

“Until I come back, you’re in charge,” I tell Frida. She looks over my shoulder at Aurora, worry in her eyes, and though I can’t blame her, I need her to focus. “You know how to run this place?” I demand.

Her dark eyes snap up to me.

“Y-yes.” She nods once and keeps her gaze level on me.

That’s good. I might keep her in charge, but again, a problem for another day.

“If anyone gives you shit”—I hand a gun to her—“you point and shoot. Then you drag the fucker to an empty room and wait for us to come back, okay?”

“I understand,” she whispers, and keeps looking down at the gun for long enough that I run out of patience.

“I’ll be back,” I mutter, and then turn.

Aurora is staring at the wall, barely breathing, but the way she’s twisting her fingers tells me she’s as eager to get out of here as I am.

“Let’s go.”

I nod at Mac to move in front of us and she follows him wordlessly.

It’s only when the car is moving that I ask her where she lives.

Jersey is where we live too, and her house is less than a mile away from ours.

It’s fucking insane that Da doesn’t know what the fuck is going on with James, though by now I guess Blake put him and that rapist fucker in the bunker back home, so Da has to know something went down.

And I’m going to get my answers when we get there.