Held (Ruthless Kings #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

ZOE

Istep out of my apartment to icy wind whistling down the corridor, and I freeze in more ways than one.

As I pull my door closed I tense because there is a mark in silver spray paint that I recognize.

The symbol’s a pair of letter Cs, one a shadow of the other and both with barbs at the top and bottom.

It’s C Crue’s dark mark. It means they’re coming for restitution or revenge.

My stomach lurches and I huddle in my puffer coat, my legs catching most of the cold in their thin leggings.

My breath fogs in front of me, and I shiver, not understanding.

Drawing breath is difficult. For a moment, I can’t think.

I stare at it in confusion. My heart pounds in my chest, my body rigid.

This is not good. In fact, it’s really, really bad.

Why is that there? My mind searches for anything that could’ve been viewed as an attack on their operation or even an insult to them. Nothing comes to mind.

It’s a mistake, I think finally. It has to be because I haven’t done anything to deserve it.

Are they trying to scare me? To drive me out of my apartment because I have ties to Frank Palermo?

“Girl, what’d you do?”

My gaze swivels to the right and I find fifteen-year-old Tamico tugging on her hair as she watches me. I move to block the mark.

“Are you coming tonight? I gave your mom tickets,” I say, trying to act like my world hasn’t just been flipped on its head.

“We’re coming,” she says, popping her gum and pulling the collar of her wool coat up. “You probably shouldn’t though, girl. You should be goin’ underground.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“Your door, Z. What’d you do to get C Crue to put their mark on you?”

“It’s a mistake. I haven’t done anything,” I murmur.

“They don’t put that mark for nothing, Zoe. You did somethin’.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head, sending wild, untamed curls into my eyes. The band around my curly dark hair is slipping. I give it a second twist around itself to hold the hair tighter. “It’s a mistake. I wouldn’t cross them. No one in this neighborhood would.”

“No one that doesn’t want a beat down,” she says, worldly in the way teens from around here are, but in her case it’s just based on rumors.

She’s in the magnet school for the performing arts, and her mom doesn’t let her run with troublemakers from the neighborhood.

I get it though. Everyone around here plays at being tough so they won’t look weak.

No one in Coynston wants to seem like easy prey.

The attitude is left over from the days when kids were plucked up to deal or carry for Frank Palermo’s organization.

“What do you know about C Crue beat downs?” I ask.

“I know what I hear,” she says with a casual shrug.

The alarm on my phone chimes, and my attention turns back to the show. I’m performing tonight, so I set my alarm to be sure I’m on my way with enough time.

“This block is better since C Crue took it,” I say firmly, like they’re going to hear me say it and know that I’m not against them being here.

“Nobody’s in the alley ready to grab you when you cut through it, are they?

C Crue doesn’t come after innocent people,” I say, but now I’m just repeating the rumors I’ve heard.

Three men run C Crue. I’ve met them, but I don’t really know them.

Do they mess with innocent people now? And, if so, why me?

Because I’m Frank Palermo’s daughter’s best friend?

He’s their former boss and now a bitter rival.

Do they want me gone from the neighborhood because they assume I’m the enemy?

That would be pretty hypocritical of them, considering they used to have a tight association with Frank themselves.

I wonder for the hundredth time what happened to make them defect from his organization.

A flash of memory hits me, one of Connor McCann, with his short dark brown hair, cool blue eyes, and gorgeous face, pressing his hard body against me.

“So if they don’t come after people who ain’t done nothing, what’d you do to get the C Crue mark with the barbed Cs? Mochi says that’s the warning for ‘they comin’ for you.’”

“It’s a mistake,” I say sharply, confidently, despite the fear hovering beneath the surface.

I hurry toward the stairs. Other than in a crowd, I haven’t seen any of C Crue in three years. There’s no way I’ve personally done something to piss them off.

I glance back once more at the mark, and the chill in my blood intensifies. They’ve made a mistake. Maybe they marked the wrong door?

I’ll sort it out with them, I tell myself, trying not to let panic rattle me. The thought of approaching any of them leaves me breathless.

I dig my nails into my palms, the pain steadying me. I need to concentrate on the show. I suck in a breath and wince at the stinging cold. I have to get moving.

I can’t wait to be in the theater under the hot lights, and the thrill of that thought kicks my heart into a flutter, pushing my other fear away.

I always feel nervous and energized before I’m going to perform, but even my New York auditions and performing off-Broadway last summer never had me this keyed up.

Tonight I’m the principle dancer. Sure, it’s just a community theater in a medium-sized Massachusetts city, but it’s my hometown.

And it’s a city that’s got a rep to uphold because its performing arts legacy is stunning.

This production also means everything to me because I collaborated with my best friend to create it. The story’s personal to Rachel, and I need to nail my performance.

A small shiver of unease hisses through me.

This story is a dark fairytale version of events some people wouldn’t want told.

Did we go too far? Will word get back to Rachel’s mafia kingpin father?

And then what? I know he wouldn’t actually hurt us—at least I don’t think he would—but he could do other things to make life uncomfortable for her.

Rachel has a right to tell this story, I tell myself for the millionth time. Besides, she wouldn’t back down on doing it. And no one will realize what it’s really about. Only a few people know the truth, and they won’t be there.

These thoughts steady me. Everyone has a right to express themselves through music and dance.

The very best art comes from raw emotion and dark truths.

Telling stories unflinchingly is in our blood in this city.

Tonight I’ll be on a stage that hasn’t seen a performance in over twenty years. I have a lot to live up to.

I drag in a chilly breath, and the sharpness is good. It grounds me.

Forget everything else and concentrate on the show. For the next few hours that’s all that matters.

Be so great, they’ll talk about it for years.

CONNOR

The music’s bass drums through the Rover, reverberating in my chest. I rest my wrist on the top of the steering wheel and catch Anvil in my peripheral vision as he pulls his Glock from his chest holster.

He shifts his bulk in the seat. He’s six-foot-six and two hundred seventy pounds, most of it pure muscle.

Up close, he needs a Glock about as much as a tank does.

But if the enemy is out of the long reach of one of his meaty paws, it will serve.

He’s a good shot. We all are. He’s not as good as Trick, the third in our unholy trinity.

Trick could part a guy’s hair from a hundred yards.

I spin the wheel and sidle into the Langs parking lot. Langs is short for the Langston Theater, which was crumbling to the ground when we bought it. Tonight the newly paved lot is full because the people, our people, have turned out.

They glance at the Rover and stop to wait for us to roll down the aisle.

Snow flurries are drifting down like confetti. I wait for an old man with a walker, flashing my lights. His family hustles forward. A middle-aged woman who’s holding a child’s hand waves an acknowledgement. I nod.

There’s a group of twenty-somethings dressed in trousers and ties.

The word went out about the dress code, and people heeded the suggestion that for this reopening, they should wear their best. The young crowd waits, their breath fogging in front of their cold-reddened faces.

I gun the engine since they’ve made it clear they’re not walking in front of us.

I turn into a parking spot at the building’s end.

There’s a C Crue symbol painted on the brick, marking our spot, marking our building really.

The Langston Theater was derelict, another piece of our history about to get bulldozed.

That would’ve been fine with my former boss, Frank Palermo.

It wasn’t fine with us, so we took five more blocks of the city and bought the theater.

“Let me stretch first,” Anvil says, climbing out of the truck.

He means he wants me to stay in the car while he does a quick sweep.

It’s not necessary. I’m the C Crue leader, but I’m no kingpin that hides behind his muscle.

Besides, Anvil, Trick, and I are more like a brotherhood now than anything else.

We’ve fought and bled together. When we were in Frank Palermo’s organization, we made our bones and then our exit together.

There’s a rumor that Frank plans to bomb the theater to kill the leaders of C Crue at tonight’s opening. We’ve had guys guarding every door and checking cars in and out. Trick swept through the theater himself an hour before the performers started arriving.