Chapter Seven
Mason
It’s not about the destination; it’s about the journey.
Callen says he’s going to put that on my tombstone. He’s pretty certain he’s going to outlive me.
I like that sentiment, though. It applies to me. I like the chase—the journey—more than the destination. Bad men give off a different flavor of fear than innocent people do. I can tell the difference, and it makes the hunt so much more exciting when I’m chasing someone who deserves to die.
I glance at the men sitting on either side of me. We’re matched stoicism for stoicism; our masks of ennui checked in place at all times. They’re my brothers-in-arms, these men. Deacon Walsh and Callen Andrews. Men who know me better than I know myself. The men I would die for without question or hesitation.
To the world, we’re the owners of Ursid Enterprises—a legitimate multi-billion-dollar company—but at night in the dark, we’re the heads of the Ursid Syndicate, and that is truly more who we are and where we belong.
There’s a thing called the Global Underground Six, a round table where all the world’s crime kings gather and rule the universe. We own 29% of the table’s votes. The Mexican cartel has 18% and the Bratva 15%. The rest of the votes are taken by the Japanese, Chinese, and Irish.
Suffice it to say that nothing happens without it going through us first.We’re mob bosses. Crime lords. The Mafia. Kings of Chaos. Untouchable and answerable to no one. Our initiation as heads of the syndicate wasn’t easy either. You can’t expect another man to kill for you if you haven’t done it yourself. That’s just one of the Ursid mottos.
The syndicate first made us killers, then kings. Deacon, Callen, and I survived the initiation unscathed. We’re the Ursid Syndicate, and for the first time ever, grossly underestimated.
Flustered and annoyed that we’re unimpressed with the mauling and then eating of a woman by a bear, Kirill Yenin moves us out of the arena and into what he calls his private rooms, where we can talk business. This fucking idiot.
The irony about the bear does not escape us, but I think it escapes our host, stupid man.
Dropping the purchase of The Chryus though got our attention, so points for Yenin.
The old me would have still liked to give him an hour-long head start in the pretty forest outside the house that he turned into a monstrosity before I hunted him down for being plain fucking annoying.
Hell, the old Deacon would have snapped his neck the instant he opened his fucking mouth and uttered his first word, waving his gun at us as if it were some sort of emotional support device. Instead, I’m not in it for the hunt anymore, and Deacon can’t even bring himself to kill Yenin, even out of pity for being stupid.
Deacon and I are going through some stuff right now. Thank fuck for Callen. Right now, he’s the only stable one among us.
I clench my fists surreptitiously, and the scars that have faded over time from my back, and that haven’t bothered me all my life until now start to throb as if I were six years old all over again. Fuck.
I wish I hadn’t taken that call. I wish I didn’t know. And now, everything I am feels like a lie.
“This is my… eh... private room,” Yenin says, gesturing with his hands, although even that is a half-assed attempt since he constantly has to rub his nose. Perhaps I’m not completely broken after all. If there’s one man who could bring me out of my killing rut and existential crisis, it might be Kirill Yenin, after all.
A series of lanterns illuminate the room, while thick, heavy curtains dangle from the ceiling. His bodyguards, all ten of them, follow us in and line up against the side of the wall, embarrassingly heavily armed.
Large sofa-like chairs are arranged around a stage in the middle of the room, an obvious addition to what was once a real gentleman’s room. What is it with this guy and stages?
We humor this nitwit only because we’d like to know who his informant is in our organization. How does he know about our interest in The Tulip Group? The snitch, whoever it is, is a dead man. Callen will have to take care of it since well, Deacon and I have shit going on now.
“My gentleman’s room, eh? More to your… taste, da?” Yenin says. He wavers from perfectly unaccented English to heavily Russian-accented English. He thinks his Russian accent makes him fearsome.
He prompts us to take our seats, and he hasn’t relinquished hold of his gun.
“What do you want, Yenin?” Deacon asks, his patience low.
“I want in. I want in on everything. My father was content to be the small fry. I want everything. A place on the Global Underground Six.”
This fucker.
“Your father was a respected man,” Callen says reasonably. “He knew his place.”
“My father is a dead man. He had no power. He was too scared. I am not.”
“Who’s your informant, Yenin?” I ask quietly.
“I will tell you the name. See, I understand how this works. I give you the bastard’s name, you get your men to kill him, slate clean, we do business. Real business. But first, let’s drink. Fuck some cunts. Do some snow. Be merry. Eh?”
He claps his hands, and an array of waitresses wearing nothing but pearl necklaces and loin fur cloths arrive to serve us drinks, food, and more fucking cocaine, which we haven’t touched the first six times he offered it to us. Our bodies are temples, and we’re very fucking careful about what we put inside them and where our cocks go.
I offer him a side glance. The man is eating cubes of pineapple as if someone told him his jizz tastes rotten and he wants to rectify it.
It’s a fucking hindrance that Boris Yenin died when he did, and we’re stuck with his moron of a son. A dangerous moron, but a moron, nonetheless.
He’s pretty proud of his private room. The man has a statue of Michaelangelo’s David, probably uprooted from the garden outside, in his private room. He’s made a water feature out of it by putting the statue in a pool of water where a group of dazed girls are giggling for no reason and rubbing each other off. But that’s not all he’s done.
He’s drilled a hole in the statue’s cock, sawed off the back, then lets us know who exactly has stood behind the statue, stuck their dick into the statue, fucked the statue essentially, and then had the girls suck up their cum from the hole in the statue’s cock.
“You get to feel like David, how’s that? Genius, yeah?”
We decline his offer to fuck his statue.
Does he really think we want to stick our cocks into the same piece of ceramic crap that other celebrities and billionaires and princes have?
Also, we don’t need to fuck a statue to feel like David.
I want to laugh, though. I don’t because it doesn’t go with our aesthetic right now, but fuck, I want to laugh until my sides rip.
He shrugs off our disinterest, then claps his hands again, and three other women, completely naked this time, emerge from the curtains. They come to him, drugged out of their minds.
He pulls one of them toward him.
“You know who this girl is? I’ll tell you. She’s a fucking lady. Who are you, bitch? Tell them who you are and who’s your master.”
He pulls her hair harder. She growls and licks her lips, salivating at the speck of white dust that hangs onto Yenin’s nose.
“I’m Lady Anna Dustfield,” she says. “And you’re my master.”
“Do the thing where you bow down to me,” Yenin instructs her. Without letting go of her hair, she tries to curtsy. It’s terrible to watch.
“Good girl, now go and suck Mr. Deacon’s cock, like a good fucking girl. Anna here can take your whole dick in her mouth.”
If Yenin is measuring her skill with his own dick, well...
Deacon doesn’t even look at her before he waves her aside.
Okay, first the statue, now this? Does he really think we’re going to have some sort of orgy with him before we discuss business? Does he think we’re going to wet our cocks on pussy that he’s been inside of?
Our cocks are fucking sacred. Our cum is fucking sacred. We’re the heads of the Ursid Syndicate; that says it all.
He doesn’t need to know the shit I’m going through right now about the quality of blood that runs through my veins.
One of Yenin’s minions comes into the room then and whispers something in his ear. Clearly, he doesn’t like it, and he punctuates the man’s message with a bullet between his eyes. Two of his bodyguards immediately remove the body. We don’t even blink.
“I go through a whole fucking lot preparing for this party, and that ungrateful bitch slut can’t make it because no one knows where she’s at?” He says it as if he’s asking himself a question, and he’s really angry about the answer.
He takes a hit of coke, does some sort of dance on one leg, then nods to himself.
“You don’t want the girls? How about a show?”
He commands his men to lead the three women to the stage located in the center of the room. He lifts a bag of even more coke and waves it in the air.
“Best performance gets this whole bag. Now fuck,” he orders the women.
I have no clue what handbook this guy read, but it went something like this. Inflict fear with a bear mauling and eating a girl. Don’t forget to starve said bear for three to thirteen days to really make it gruesome.
If that doesn’t work, impress them by showing off the pedigree of the women you have in your harem. Some English aristocrat”s daughter. A fucking senator’s ex-wife so high, her eyes are crossed. An African princess who looks like she wants to commit murder but is also suspiciously afraid.
Offer them to your guests.
If that doesn’t work, have those women fuck each other on the stage. Refer to Chapter Six for the erection of a stage in every room. This is a must to show the size of your dick.
“Bite her,” Yenin barks. The English lady bites the senator’s ex playfully on her nipple. “Harder,” he shouts. “Harder.” The senator’s ex is now screaming and trying to squirm away, pulling the English lady’s hair, but the English lady doesn’t let go. She wants that bag of dust.
He keeps looking at us for cues on how he’s doing. I”d suggest he douse his dick in gasoline and set the little thing on fire if he wants any kind of reaction from us. We’ll definitely chuckle at that.
He keeps giving them more and more instructions, and after whipping each other almost raw, they’ve now formed a chain, eating each other’s asses.
Deacon can’t hold his patience anymore, and I’m ready to fall asleep. It’s only Callen who is logical enough to know we need to stick around. It would take us a few days and too many lives lost before we get to the real snitch in our organization, but if we endure a little more time in this prick’s company, we’ll have the name of the person who dared to cross us in hopefully a few hours.
“You don’t take me seriously, do you?” Yenin asks Deacon, his face arranged in confusion, like, how could we not take him seriously? He doesn’t wait for an answer before he continues. “You think I’m a... what do you call it, a loose cannon? Maybe you’re right. I will learn,” he says, nodding before he turns his attention to the women on the stage. “Fuck off,” he yells at them. “Fuck off. Each one of you. Fuck. Off.”
While they’re scrambling back behind the curtain, Yenin smooths his hair back and talks in a calm voice.
“I’m getting married, you know. She was supposed to be here to meet you, but she couldn’t make it. You’re invited to my wedding, of course. It’s going to be a spectacle. She’s beautiful, pure, innocent, and mine.” His tone veers off the trajectory, and he’s back to his maniacal self. “I can’t wait to shove my cock inside her virgin cunt. If she doesn’t bleed for me, I’m going to chop off her clit and her head and send them to her father,” he finishes, then laughs.
But then the strangest thing happens to us. Our phones go off.