Chapter 3
VAUGHN
“Mother. Fucker.”
Carson swears viciously, peering at his leg in the darkness of the garden outside the house.
Still crouched behind a low stone wall, I glance over to him. “What?”
“Just ripped my fucking pants on whatever country bullshit is littered about this hillbilly fucking place.”
Next to me, Sebastian sighs deeply, rolling his eyes and cracking his knuckles. “So?”
“So, these are brand new. And they’re Prada, asshole,” Carson mutters, shooting him a look.
Sebastian exhales again and twists to roll his eyes at me. “Why the fuck do we invite Ken to these things?”
“Bitch, I will fuck you like Barbie,” Carson hisses in the darkness, which makes Sebastian and me snort quietly.
“Dude, Ken doesn’t have a dick, and Barbie doesn’t have any holes at all.”
“Then I’ll cut new holes in you and fuck those.”
“With what dick, Ken-doll.”
I clear my throat. “If you two are done, could we shut up for half a second so as not to fuck this up entirely?”
On the one hand, being friends with these two is like living with toddlers on a perpetual sugar high. Or especially manic, leg-humping Jack Russell puppies.
On the other, I know I couldn’t survive without them.
The four of us—Carson, Sebastian, Gideon, and me—came up through the Syndicate ranks together. We got our start in the same warehouse in Queens, as low-level nothings packaging Syndicate narcotics for sale.
The Syndicate has a way…or at least used to…of picking up strays like us at a young age. Technically, I think Seb was the youngest. They found him when he was six after he ran away from some evil fucking uncle he was living with. That's where his particular brand of malice and brutality comes from.
I was seven and, along with my younger brother Val, was also running from a broken home when the Syndicate found us.
Carson, manic prince of darkness that he is, came next, maybe a year after Val and me.
His parents decided a kid with his “issues” was too much for people of their lofty social stature and had him committed to a mental hospital.
He was there nine months before he got tired of getting the shit kicked out of him by sadistic adults and escaped, leaving a trail of blood behind him.
Then came Gideon. As close as we are to him, not one of us knows his story.
And none of us, not even Carson, is crazy enough to ask.
“Okay, then riddle me this,” Carson sighs. “Where do baby Barbies and Kens come from if there are no dicks and pussies in the Barbie-verse?”
“Do you ever take a single millisecond to review the shit that pops into your damaged head before letting it fall out of your mouth?” Sebastian grunts.
“No, because that would be boring,” Carson shrugs in response.
To be clear, Carson is a fucking lunatic. But then, so are the rest of us, at least to varying degrees. It's probably why we became friends in the first place, and why we still are over ten years later.
Ten years from starting at the bottom as damaged goods to being at the very fucking top of the pile.
If we’re being honest, the driving factor was me. Maybe it’s something I was born with, but the second I found myself part of the Syndicate and embraced by this strange, shadowy, old-world brotherhood of a family, there was no limit to my ambition.
I’ve always been like that. I don’t just dip my toes in. It’s all or nothing.
And that’s how a runaway from a broken home in McKeesport, Pennsylvania with drug addict parents went from packing baggies of coke and pills to being an enforcer.
To joining the secretive intelligence wing of the Syndicate.
To being invited to bigger tables at more important meetings.
Until eventually I was second to the Marquis himself, which is the title given to the head of our organization.
The problem is, when you’ve spent your whole life in a certain world, with a found family you’ve bled and would die for, the one thing you can’t abide is rot.
And étienne Veyrac, the former Marquis, was rotten to the core.
Corrupt. Self-serving. A poison running through the very organization that took me in and gave me a place in this world.
Plus, like I said, for better or worse, there is no limit to my ambition.
So I just…took it all.
A year ago, I had étienne killed and assumed command of this ancient brotherhood. I brought my motley crew of psychopaths along for the ride to the top with me, and the three of them now act as my close advisors and inner circle.
Yes, at times it’s like trying to run an empire alongside leg-humping puppies.
I also wouldn’t change a single thing about any of it.
“Anyway, I feel the need to voice my displeasure, again, at your lack of concern for my pants.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Sebastian rumbles, rolling his broad shoulders as he shoots Carson a look. “Have you forgotten that you’re a multi-millionaire now?”
Multi-multi-multi-millionaire, if we’re keeping score.
“Just buy some new fucking pants and stop crying like a little bitch about it.”
“P-R-A-D-A, you uncultured bag of shit,” Carson grunts.
“Don’t give an F-U-C-K, shrimp dick,” Seb shoots back.
“Is that a desperate plea to see my hard cock, Seb?” Carson grins maniacally, grabbing his crotch and making a stroking motion.
“Try it and see what happens to your face,” Sebastian growls, starting to stand.
“You want me to what on your face?”
Jesus fuck. Time to cut this bullshit short.
I plant a hand on Sebastian’s broad chest and gently push him back down. “You know he feeds off the attention. Just stop giving it to him.”
Sebastian’s jaw clenches, and he glares at Carson over my shoulder. “You take your dick out and I’m going to rip it off and beat you with it.”
“How about nobody takes his dick out and we stop talking like we’re at a fucking football game.”
Christ.
The three of us whirl when we hear Gideon’s voice.
“Fuck me,” Carson groans, shoving his fingers through his blond hair and glaring at our quiet, eternally broody friend who’s just appeared like a fucking apparition out of nowhere. “Will you stop doing that?”
Gideon’s dark brow furrows. “Doing what?”
“The fucking jump-scare shit!” Carson hisses. “For once, could you just announce your presence like a normal human being?”
“That's what I did.” Gideon shrugs and then nods his chin at Carson. “Your pants are ripped.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” Carson grumbles.
“That’s what you get for wearing designer shit in the goddamn countryside,” Seb snickers under his breath.
“Fuck this hillbilly place,” Carson mutters, glaring again at the rip in his pants.
I glance at Gideon and we both shake our heads wearily.
Carson and Sebastian might be city kids, but Gideon and I clearly agree that coastal southern Connecticut, aka The Gold Coast, is hardly “the countryside”.
And ten-thousand-square-foot designer homes set on four acres of manicured grounds and gardens are not close to “hillbilly shit”.
Carson sighs. “Remind me why we’re here now that you’re the king and all? Don’t you have underlings for shit like this? And, hey, speaking of underlings, when do I get some of my own?”
“You’re welcome to go wait in the car whenever you like,” I grunt.
“Or just, you know, not come,” Sebastian adds with a grin.
Carson flips him off, and Sebastian chuckles as he wraps a muscled arm around our friend's shoulder and taps his forehead to his.
“To remind you, we are doing ‘shit like this’ because it’s fucking fun.”
Carson brightens. “Oh yeah, there’s that.”
Seb’s right.
All four of us are different flavors of fucked up and broken. But one thing that we have in common is a deep appreciation of, and fondness for, blood and violence.
Sorry-not-sorry.
I glance at Gideon. “Anything?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. Just the one security guard at the front gate, like we already knew. And Miss O is going to text when things are set up there. No surprises.”
No surprises is always my preference.
My mind has started to wander when Gideon quietly clears his throat.
“Speaking of surprises…”
I glance at him. “Yes?”
A faint smirk hovers in the shadows of his mouth, his stormy blue eyes glinting in the moonlight as he pushes his dark hair away from his face.
“Are we going to talk about the surprise attendee at the party the other night?”
Yeah, go ahead and add that to the list of reasons why Gideon, much as I love him, can creep me the fuck out. It’s like the motherfucker can read your goddamn mind sometimes. Because yes, that's precisely what…or should I say who…my thoughts had been wandering to just now.
“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re—”
“Vaughn.”
I exhale as he looks at me impassively. “What.”
“I know you’re the king, and believe me, I have no interest in your throne.
And these two…” He nods his chin past me to Carson and Seb, arguing about how exactly it is that babies come into existence in the Barbie-verse, pointing out that Barbie’s little sister, Skipper, actually comes with a baby to look after.
Like, this is an actual conversation two grown men are having out loud.
“I think they’re just happy to be here,” Gideon murmurs quietly. He cocks a brow at me. “But who the fuck was she?”
“Who was who?”
“The girl King V. here had his hands on at the party the other night,” Seb grunts. I glance over to see that he and Carson are now finished their deep philosophical discussion concerning procreation in the Barbie-verse.
“Hi, yes, I have a question,” Carson says, raising his hand before turning to Sebastian. “Why in fuck where you looking at Bancroft during an orgy?” He smirks. “Shit, is this a love that dare not speak its name situation?”
Sebastian rolls his eyes and flips Carson off, then glances back at me. “I’m curious, too. Spill. I didn’t recognize her at all.”
“That’s because she’s not Syndicate,” Gideon adds slowly, his voice low and laced with suspicion.
“Oh shit, the plot thickens,” Carson growls, his eyes narrowing.
I shake my head. “She's…no one of consequence.”