Chapter 7 TERMS OF DAMNATION
One Week Later, Chicago, Illinois
“The infamous Elias Kent graces us with his presence. To what do we owe the pleasure?”
Edon Berisha waves me into his office on top of the eyesore that is Berisha and Sons Corporation headquarters, a gaudy skyscraper in the shape of a fucking gold dildo, built smack center of Michigan Avenue.
The building is tasteless and vulgar, just like the family themselves—criminals dressed in luxury, rotten to the core.
Oh, he’s prepared for me. Three men flank him like dogs at heel—his sons, heirs to his multi-billion-dollar empire.
Agron, the eldest and COO, levels a stare at me, his eyes sharp and calculating. Ilir, the middle son, lights his father’s cigar with the smugness of an Ivy League lawyer. Dritan, buzz-cut and built like a soldier, has one hand inside his jacket.
I’d bet anything they’re armed, ready to empty their clips into me at any second.
I scan the room. Gold everywhere—lamps, chandeliers, even the doorknobs.
Three windows, one emergency exit, two security cameras. Plenty of blunt objects to block projectiles. A circuit breaker a foot away. Pour water on it, and everything goes dark.
Boom! As Aleksei would say. Everything’s better with a boom. The man should be an explosives specialist, not a hacker.
“Didn’t expect a welcome party,” I murmur and take a seat across from Edon. “I’m flattered.”
“Nothing less for the person who’s ruined so many of our plans.” Edon smiles thinly, his eyes flat. An average person would think he’s your regular billionaire—short man, thinner than he appears on camera, gray hair meticulously combed over.
But I know better.
The Berishas are the newest of The Six—the only family to have joined The Council in the past few decades. The other five are founding families of The Association. It takes ruthlessness to climb to the top. You don’t step over bodies. You make them.
“It’s just business. No hard feelings.” I turn the lighter in my hand, feeling its reassuring weight.
“Our deals with the Andersons,” a curl of smoke slithers in the air, “you’ve come in between us. Hard not to have any ‘hard’ feelings.”
“They weren’t going to pan out. I saved you time and energy.”
When The Association threatened the Andersons in the past, I assisted my friends—whether with intel or reinforcements. Back then, I didn’t realize how tightly locked down The Association’s kill ledgers were.
How there was no way for me to find the man behind my family’s murders unless I became one of them.
A miscalculation on my part.
The grandfather clock in the corner chimes four times. The room thickens with smoke and silence.
“Color me curious. What are you doing here, Kent? Do you need a favor from us? What is it you do again…a favor for a favor? A secret for a secret? Because the answer is no.”
Edon sucks on his cigar and releases a plume in my direction, his eyes goading.
“Cutting to the chase. I like it.” I click my lighter once, twice, then snap it shut. “I have a better one for you.”
Swallowing the acid rushing up my throat, I lean in.
“I want in.”
The sons stiffen.
Agron speaks up first. “In? Our properties, our clubs?”
“The Association.” I want to spit out the words, but I rein in my disgust. Anything for revenge.
Edon arches his brow, his mouth parting to respond, but I hold up my hand.
“Do me a favor and don’t pretend you aren’t part of The Six. Yes, I know about it. Let’s skip the denial dance and tell me your demands.”
The man studies me, his gaze inscrutable. “Why the sudden interest? Your loyalties…shifting.”
“A man like me doesn’t have loyalties.” I spin the lighter across my knuckles. “I want power. That means The Association. Word on the street, your family’s losing its grip. The others in The Six aren’t happy with you.”
Edon’s eyes flash with anger, but it disappears in an instant.
The old, sly fox.
Smirking, I lean close. “The Association doesn’t like weakness. You’re the newest family. I could only imagine what they’d do to you. You need me on your side. What happened with the Andersons? Just appetizers. Inconsequential. Now imagine what I could do if I were your enemy.”
The men shift, the atmosphere hostile in an instant.
Dritan unbuttons his jacket, flashing me the gun at his waist. A warning.
“Easy,” his father murmurs and looks at me with renewed interest. “You’ve got nerve. Walking in here with no backup and only threats.”
“A man like me always has backup. And I’m worth more to you alive than dead.”
I reach into my suit pocket.
Dritan and Ilir both draw their weapons. Two gun barrels point at my face.
“Relax. I didn’t come here without gifts.” I smile despite my pulse quickening.
Negotiation is a game of chicken. Let’s see who blinks first.
I pull out a white envelope and slide it over the desk. “A belated birthday present, Mr. Berisha.”
Amusement glitters in the old man’s eyes as he examines the documents inside. His gaze snaps to mine. “How did you get this?”
“I won’t bore you with the details. You want that land on the north side, but it’s an Irish stronghold. Here’s the deed with your name on it. I even threw in a port for free. Will come in handy with all your personnel…relocations.”
Human trafficking. The fucking bastards.
Edon hums under his breath and hands the document to Ilir, who slowly lowers his weapon. As the chief legal officer, he brokers the most brutal deals, leaving his opponents with pennies to their names, if they’re lucky.
Strange disappearances are more apt.
Ilir scans the pages, a frown creasing his forehead. He hands them back to his father.
“It’s legit. No loopholes.”
“It’s a gift. No strings attached. Meaningless to me but everything to you.” The phone buzzes in my pocket, warning me I’ve been here for twenty minutes.
Most deals are made within the first half hour. After that, I lose the advantage.
Time to move things along.
“Imagine what I could do only for your family. If I were part of The Association, that is.” I knock my lighter on his desk.
Once. Twice. Three times.
The words are unspoken, but from the sharpness in his gaze, he knows what I’m offering. Having my black book of secrets on his side will give him unprecedented power even within The Six.
“And Agron,” I glance at the oldest son, who’s scrutinizing me like a pest under his shoe, “sweep your car more often. Trackers stick. Unless you want your wife to know you’re fucking her brother. Not to mention all the bad press you’re generating for The Association.”
Agron’s jaw tics. “Y-You assho—”
“Turp! Mbylle gojen!” Edon slams his fists down.
Disgrace. Shut up.
“Ilir, how remiss of us not to offer Mr. Kent refreshments. Not very hospitable. Go fetch the best Raki. To celebrate our new friendship.”
“Wise choice,” I say, sliding my lighter back into my pocket.
Ilir arches his brow and hands me a tumbler. I take a whiff—sweet. Hints of plums.
As I bring it up to my lips, Edon says, “You know the rules of the Rite? No one gets an exception, not even you.”
“A crime of your choosing, documented on video.” That’s how they control you—indisputable proof of your wrongdoing, but power beyond your dreams.
“And?”
My gaze snaps to his. “Once you’re in The Association, you can never leave.”
Alive, that is.
Unless I burn it all down.
“Failure to follow the rules, betray The Association, and you and everyone related to you—your relatives, distant cousins, people you’ve never even met—will be hunted and executed.”
My vision reddens. My parents. Little Beatrice. Their last screams.
He expects me to bow to them. To submit. To kneel. That will never happen.
I crush the images with a smile. “Naturally. I’d expect nothing less.”
The old man grins, clearly pleased. “You know, I predicted this day might come. Someone like you can’t be content lurking in the shadows, trading secrets and blackmailing people.
You have hunger in your eyes, something I recognize in myself.
So I’ve prepared. I’ve contacted the Scheduler in advance. ”
Scheduler?
There’s so much I don’t know about The Association, and I don’t like being in the dark.
“All Rites are cleared through him. The bastard thinks he’s all-powerful.” He scoffs, disdain clear in his voice. “For your Rite, break into The Orchid vault and retrieve something for us. Lana Anderson’s box. That’s part one. Complete it on this date and time.” He slides me a piece of paper.
Lana.
Something rattles behind my rib cage. She was on a list—it was a hunch before but now confirmed.
“Done.” I swirl my drink. “What’s part two? You said two parts.”
“Accomplish part one first, then we’ll talk. Can’t expect me to reveal all my plans.” Edon’s eyes narrow as he lifts his drink. “You know…your relationship with the Andersons will end once they find out.”
The damn knot forms in my chest again, but I keep my face impassive. “What relationship? There are only deals and games.”
I down the alcohol.
He laughs. “I like you, Elias Kent.”
I’ll burn the world for the identity of my family’s killers, even if it means I burn myself with it.
A flash of brown tresses appears in my mind. Soft laughter. Red umbrella. A gentle, untried kiss. Strains of Beethoven’s “Für Elise” linger in the air.
“It’s my favorite piece,” she says, her eyes shining with warmth. “And next week, for my birthday, I’m getting it.” She points to the mahogany music box tucked away in the darkened corner of the antique shop. “Waiting makes it more special.”
I shove those images away.
No cost is too high.
Not even her.