The Black Sheep, Part 1: Greed (The Seven Deadly Kins #3)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

R oman swallowed the vile, bitter flavor that settled on his thick and heavy tongue. His mouth was jam-packed with the sharp tang of iron, and he could feel the slight wiggle of a side tooth. His jaw throbbed from the firm fist that had landed against his chin, shocking him out of a sound sleep. Now, he was more than fully awake.

“Shit.” He spat blood onto the concrete floor of the jail cell. When he spoke, cool air zipped past his open mouth, sending a chilled ache that shot straight into his skull. Pushing the discomfort aside, he yelled out, “Guards. Gotta package for ya!” He kicked the loaf of human flesh that lay inches from him. His jail-assigned beige Croc-style shoes were peppered with specs of freshly spewed blood. He swallowed yet again, his brain buzzing and his anger filling every cell of his body like jelly in a donut. He placed his hand against his jawbone and stroked it, feeling it go slightly numb.

The taste in his mouth worsened with each moment. It tasted like a million pennies soaked in rancid lemon juice. He stood still in the middle of the jail cell, waiting for the aftermath. A man he barely knew was at his feet, cradled in a fetal position. Knocked out cold. Splashes of blood dotted the cot of the lower bunk bed, and the floor was now painted glossy red—a canvas of crimson human fluids.

His battered knuckles began to pulsate as his adrenaline high came tumbling down, and reality set in. He’d be in deep shit if he didn’t talk fast, and think even faster. Brisk footsteps approached, turning into an all-out booted sprint. The rattling of bars, warnings, curses, and echoing screams from nearby jail cells drifted to him as furious men were chomping at the bit to be heard. Two correctional officers arrived, the one in the forefront’s mouth tight and his dark eyes wide as he looked into the enclosure. With a shaky hand, the other one grabbed his radio and began yelling into it.

“We need back up! Medics. Hands on deck. Prisoner assault. Cell 13C. Wilde and Miller. Miller down. Appears to be badly injured. Possibly deceased.”

His bare chest heaved as he remained still. He trained his eyes on the two officers who stared back at him as if he were some monster.

“You got anything on you, Wilde?!” one of them yelled as they made way to open the door.

“Just your mama’s lipstick stain around my dick. You can tell my grandaddy, the fucker who conspired against me in order to get me tossed behind bars, that I received his present. I removed the bow, then took care of his little problem.”

The only problem was that Chad Miller wasn’t little at all…

Chad Miller was a six-foot six psychopath with long, wild red hair, blank blue eyes, and crude tattoos that lined his bloated body. According to the rumor mill from the other inmates shouting during the fracas, Chad was known to get handsy with folks he believed he could shake down—for anything as minor as a cigarette, to their whole damn bank account balance. He was a bully with manipulative ways. Feared by many, hated by most.

More officers arrived. Roman was ordered to put his hands up, asked if he had any weapons, serious injuries, and the regular spiel. Mayhem ensued once that gate swung all the way open and they poured inside. He was pushed down into the bloody swamp that was formerly a concrete floor. A red river streamed from Miller’s body as he lay there looking nothing short of deceased. His eyes half open, he stared vacantly across the room as if his all-inclusive dreadful soul had been knocked out of the frame. Roman was cuffed and dragged out like a sack of potatoes. He felt the jab of a Billy club to his side, the slap of a clammy hand across his face, and someone grabbing the back of his head, and whacking it. Typically, everyone involved would have been kissing the fucking floor, but he let them show off and exert their power as he took his walk of fame. Besides, the big fish he wanted to fry wasn’t quite on the hook yet.

As he placed one foot in front of the other, he was cheered on as he was marched away from the scene of the crime and tossed into an office, starkly decorated in white and gray. The door was slammed and locked behind him. He looked around and noticed a spot to park, so he sat down in one of two of the hard, old wooden chairs situated in front of a small metal desk. He looked down at his chest and legs, both covered in Miller’s blood. Wasn’t long before some jail official came into the room with a phone and recorder, offered him a bottle of water, and got down to business.

“Roman Wilde, I’m Sherriff Gomes. You were arrested and brought in last night on a drunk drivin’ charge. The legal limit is 0.08%, and you—”

“Stop the cap.” Roman’s head lulled back, then he chuckled while glaring at the ceiling. It was water-stained, and the bright lights above glowed like UFOs. “You know I’m here under some false pretenses and illegal bullshit.”

“Illegal bullshit? I ’spose you’re a law professor now, Roman? A high falutin’ judge missing from your chambers? Hell, maybe you’re an undercover officer and I just wasn’t told?”

“No, sir. None of that.”

“An attorney? Shit… paralegal?” He chuckled mercilessly. “Well then, since you’re no expert, I suggest you keep quiet about things you don’t understand. Last I checked, you were only a simple investment banker.”

“I see research isn’t your strong suit. I’m an Associate with Goldman Sachs who makes your salary times ten, and I’ve worked with several top fortune 500 companies. I manage over fifty Analysts now. I started fresh out of grad school as an investment banker doing long hours and grub work, but honest work all the same. I’m proud of what I accomplished in such a short period of time, especially since most of the guys in my current position have grandchildren and AARP cards, but the only card that was pulled last night was my license, Sheriff Gonad, after I was unlawfully pulled over. To sweeten the pot, y’all threw in a bit of resisting arrest when I did nothin’ but ask for a couple of badge numbers. Cooperated fully. I know my rights.”

“If I had a dime for every time someone said that to me, I’d be rich!”

“I had one damn beer, and there were at least three witnesses who can vouch for me. I was down there with some old friends. I left the bar alone, and that’s when the shit hit the fan. I’m certain you and your little tambourine band will try to intimidate those witnesses and get them to make false statements against me if push comes to shove, at my grandfather’s command.”

“You sound crazy. You were drunk, Roman. You’re a slickster. Always trying to get out of something, right? Isn’t that what you are?”

“I am a slickster, but right now, I’m telling the truth—we both know it. You seem to think you know what I am, but you don’t realize that you’re a brown nosin’, two-faced, dishonest liar. I didn’t get ’hind the wheel and blow no limit.”

“The breathalyzer says otherwise.”

“It didn’t. More lies, and anyone who knows me is aware that I love myself, my car, and my damn freedom too much for those sorts of monkeyshines. All of y’all are paid by my grandfather.”

“You sound delusional and highly paranoid, Mr. Wilde.” Sheriff Gomes crossed his arms and threw him a look of pity.

“And you sound stupid to believe that I can’t see what’s goin’ on here, and that you should’ve kept your nose out of my feud with that old man. My grandfather just got finished trying to destroy my cousin Lennox, and now, it’s my turn at bat.”

“Well, I can’t tell you who’s on third, boy, but I can say now that you’ve got a new charge. Assault. You almost killed a man in your cell. Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.”

“Self-defense.”

“He’s in an ambulance fighting for his life. You’re here with barely a scratch.” The man scanned him, his gaze moving from his head down to his feet. “He’s much bigger than you. Looks like a gentle giant against a raging lunatic, if you ask me.”

“I was takin’ a nap on that dirty ass, shit-stained mattress, and that man clocked me in my fucking face. I merely told him what time it was and made sure his clock got cleaned in the process. He was bankin’ on a minute man, and I gave him a lifetime. I had time today and he realized that, but not a second too soon. Tic Tok body rock. Plain ’nd simple.”

Sheriff Gomes stared at Roman, his hand beneath his chin, looking more curious than anything else.

“…I wonder why all of this is happening?” he said in a low voice, his lips slightly upturned at the corners.

“You should ask those questions first.”

“It’s none of my business, really,” Gomes groaned, stretched his legs, and crossed his ankles. “Just doing my job.”

Roman shrugged. “Your job is to protect and serve. Not be hired to do my grandfather’s dirty work. You shoulda looked into me, sir. That would have helped you a great deal.”

“Who says I didn’t?”

“Well, if you’d done a better job, then you’d know that I’m the black sheep of the Wilde family for a reason.” Their eyes locked. “I’ll give you the CliffsNotes so that we don’t have to invent the wheel all over again. Save you a bit of time. You’re lookin’ at an ex-marine familiar with ground combat and asymmetric warfare. I was unfairly dishonorably discharged due to a, shall we say, violent episode.” The sheriff visibly swallowed. “…And you put me in a cell with a guy you were sure would beat my ass, based on his size and record of ferocity. Follow along. I’ll talk slowly so you don’t miss a beat. Ferocity…Didn’t know I knew big words like that, did ya? The problem was you didn’t expect me to know how to handle myself.”

“How did you in fact take him down?”

“I’m 6’4, 237 lbs. last I checked, and able to hold my own. But more importantly, I know how to fuckin’ fight. David and Goliath. Jonah and the whale. Where there is a will, there is a way. Where there is a wish-a-motherfucker-would, there is a Wilde. Amen. I don’t just sloppily swing in the air and hope for the best, Sheriff. We Wilde men know how to defend ourselves, sir. Regardless if it’s mental or physical, we’re always up to the task. You have to be; comin’ from this family. Ain’t a motherfucker alive that can take me down without gettin’ licked in the process. Don’t get me wrong, now. I can be a braggart on occasion, I accept that. I can’t win every fight, sir, but in every fight I have, I’ll gain me at the very least, a little win. He ain’t walkin’ out the same way he walked in… I knew this was coming sooner or later.” He huffed, lowered his head and shook it.

He heard the sherriff’s chair squeak as he rocked in it.

“Seems like you’re in a heap of trouble. Like you said, where there is a will, there is a way. There’s always a solution to what ails us though.” He could hear the smile in the devil’s words.

“All of y’all can kiss my trouble-covered ass,” He lifted his gaze and glared at him. “And then you can talk to my lawyer with those same lips.”

“Your lawyer?” The guy huffed, then laughed. He slipped a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it with a plain yellow lighter. “Are you refusing to speak to me any further, Mr. Wilde?” The bastard blew smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

Roman smiled at the smug bastard. “You know what ya done, and I know what ya done. My lawyer is one of the few people who ain’t afraid of my grandfather, and definitely not afraid of shit kernels like you. Attorney August Lyles.”

The sheriff’s smirk drooped like hot lava.

“August Lyles, huh? I haven’t heard that name in a minute.”

“He ain’t far. He’s workin’ on high profile cases ’nd such, but he’s always there for me when I need him. One of the few men who still defends the righteous against evil.”

“I’ve done a little research on you, Roman, in spite of what you think. Righteous isn’t exactly what I’d call you.” He sneered.

“O, I wasn’t referring to me… I’m on the other end of that stick. Anyway, now that you know who my council is, maybe we can come up with a deal after all.”

“This sounds right. What did you have in mind?”

I have a list of demands.”

“Nobody said anything about honoring any demands, Wilde. I don’t do demands.”

“But you do participate in dirty work? Paid under the table? Holdin’ a U.S. Military veteran hostage in a jail cell? Let’s not get all virtuous now. First, take these handcuffs off me.”

“Nope.”

“I can get out of ’em anyway, Sheriff, but I’d prefer to not have to make like a magician and break police equipment, costing the taxpayers more money. ’Specially on some trumped up, frivolous charges.”

“Your grandfather already told me about your slimy, slick moves. If you can get out of those handcuffs, let me see you do it.” Their gazes hooked. “…That’s what I thought.” He smirked.

“My second demand is simple: If you’re going to make this difficult, the least you can do after our little chat is put me in a cell by myself. No more roommates unless you want their blood on your hands because the next time you do it, the motherfucker will be certifiably dead. If I wanted to kill him, I would have. I was trained to kill, and all I need is five seconds to complete the task. I had more than enough time to make that man meet his maker. The last thing you need is a dead man on your stompin’ grounds due to a Wilde. Wouldn’t look good for you. Thirdly, you better make sure that there’s no official arrest record of this shitshow y’all pulled—but somethin’ tells me that my grandfather already asked you to bypass that, seein’ as how he needs for my job to not be in jeopardy so he can use me to abuse my knowledge and power for his benefit.”

Sheriff yawned rather dramatically. Yup. It’s true. This is all playtime for them.

“But before you honor my first three requests, I suggest you hand me that gotdamn phone.” He nodded in the direction of the cellphone lying on the metal desk between them. A beacon of light and freedom.

The sheriff looked at the phone, then back at Roman.

“How about we come to a more reasonable agreement first, Mr. Wilde?” The light caught the handle of the sheriff’s revolver placed securely in the holster on his hip.

“There’s no discussion that needs to be had other than the one I just laid out. Now, take these cuffs off, and give me that phone.”

The sheriff yanked the phone up from the table and slipped it in his pocket.

“You’re in handcuffs and will remain that way until I’m certain we’re on the same page. Do you understand me? Now, I can honor a call. I can do that. But first, I need to know who do you want me to call?”

“…You know exactly who the fuck you need to call.”

“No, I don’t. It could be a number of people.”

“Beetlejuice! Beetlejuice! Beetlejuice! Is that who you think I’m trying to call, man?! Keep playin’ games with me, and this little misunderstandin’ between us will turn into a wildfire. CALL THE GOTDAMN NUMBER!”

The sheriff leaned back in his chair, sighed, then slid the phone out of his pocket. He slowly moved his finger along the screen of his phone, then placed the phone down on the table, face up. On speaker.

“Hello, Mr. Wilde.”

“Good evenin’, Sheriff Gomes.”

“I have your grandson here, Roman Wilde, in my office. He’s made it clear that he has Attorney August Lyles on retainer. I think we need to discuss that further.”

“Well, that doesn’t surprise me in the least, Sheriff Gomes!” Grandpa chuckled as if he were deeply amused. “You see, black sheep seem to stick together, since nobody else will have them. August goes against the law every chance he gets. ’Bout time he’s run outta town, but that’s business for another day. Don’t you worry about ol’ August, ya hear?”

“Yes, Mr. Wilde. In other news, your grandson here got into a bit of a scuffle in his cell with another detainee after being picked up leaving a watering hole. He was charged with drinkin’ ‘and drivin’ last night. A DUI. Also, resisting arrest. Because of the unprovoked brawl, now he has an assault charge added on top.”

“Awww, that’s too bad.”

“Yeah, it’s a damn shame. He insists, for some strange reason, that he’s being railroaded. All of this paranoia makes me think he may be on some sort of drug. Maybe we need to check his belongings. AGAIN.”

“Hmmm, his daddy used to dibble and dabble with angel dust. I wouldn’t be surprised if the fruit didn’t fall too far from the tree?”

“It seems that way, Mr. Wilde.”

“You two are amazin’. So now, Sheriff Gomes, you want to insinuate that you’ll stuff some heroin, pills, cocaine, fentanyl, and whatever else you can get your hands on from that collections rooms of yours into my impounded car or among my possessions to make it look like it was mine?”

“Well, you do have a high stress, fast-paced job, and with your checkered past ’nd all, it wouldn’t be unheard of.” Sheriff Gomes smiled big and wide.

“This is rich. How does your wife feel about this, Sherriff?”

“How does my wife feel about what ?”

“About you lettin’ my grandfather buy you like some hooker and bend you over so he can fuck your entire promise to ‘protect and serve’ right up the ass?”

“Mr. Wilde, Roman here needs his gotdamn mouth washed out with soap.” The man gritted his teeth as his complexion deepened.

“I do apologize for my grandson’s crudeness. Let me have a word with him, Sheriff Gomes. Sometimes all that’s needed is a nice chat with a more experienced gentleman.” Grandpa served up a nasty, greasy laugh that might have sounded like the giggle of a serpent, if serpents could in fact do that.

“Hi, Grandpa! I see the Devil let you come out to play.”

“Well, hello, my little slick-tongued black sheep. How was your evenin’ in the Harris County lock-up?”

“About as good as you are at takin’ rejection and gettin’ an erection without a little blue pill. Grandpa, I’ve got some bad news.”

“Do ya now? What’s that, Roman?”

“Well, like Sheriff said, there’s a bloodbath in my cell, but all I got was a couple cuts. Your plan backfired, just like your neck when it formed your face.”

Grandpa laughed all the harder, though Roman wasn’t convinced the man believed that this would be the outcome.

“So, you had a fight in jail. Happens to the best of us.”

“I know you asked for that arrangement. Big boy Miller was rushed to the sanatorium, thanks to you. I’ll give his left eyeball, the cut across his neck, and several broken ribs my kindest regards.”

“Well, I always knew you were the sparrin’ type, black sheep. I figured you could hold your own.”

“…Sure you did.” Roman leaned back and rolled his eyes.

“The only problem is that was just an appetizer, son. Are you ready to play ball before I turn up the heat?”

“Play? We’re way past playin’ ball, or any sort of games at all at this point. I’m the black sheep of the family according to you. With all of this wool, I’m used to things gettin’ a little hairy, and a little hot, too. Turn that shit up. I’ve danced with the devil before.”

“I agree with you, Roman. And that’s all the more reason for you to come under my wing. You’re just out there in a big ol’ field. Lost.”

“You ain’t no shepherd, Farmer Wilde. I’m not part of a flock, and you won’t be leading me to slaughter, either. That’s what you do to this family. Lead everyone to their depression, destitution, or demise. You can try to steer me, but not before you, yourself, fall over the fucking cliff. I hope you die!” He freed his hand from one of the handcuffs in a flash, pressed his finger against the END button, and terminated the call. His wrist throbbed with pain, the skin twisted with abrasions and rings of red as the sheriff looked down at his hand in shock.

“I told you I could get them cuffs off, motherfucker. I’ve been in the system since I was a juvenile. My father was one of the biggest thorns in the Houston police side. Me and my brothers ain’t nothin’ to sneeze at, and I can tell by your expression, you’ve underestimated me.”

“Don’t. You. Fucking. Move.” Sheriff Gomes snuffed out his cigarette and got up from his seat, his hand on his gun.

“I’ve been workin’ on these cuffs from the moment your boys slapped ’em on me, because one thing I’m not going to do is sit down for a set-up. I have no desire to run outta here, or ’cause you to become some Olympic athlete, tryna chase me down. But if you know what’s good for you, you’ll make sure I’m out of here in no time flat.”

“I can’t do that, and you know it. We need to first come to an agreement.”

“I agree only to one term. To turn this town every which way but loose if you don’t take me seriously. I have work to do. Now I expect you to start makin’ moves to get me the fuck outta here! NOW!”

“Boy, I’ll shoot you dead before I take orders from the likes of you.” He snatched Roman’s free hand and re-cuffed him, huffing and puffing all the while and occasionally squeezing the torn skin to drive his point home. All Roman did was laugh as loudly as he could through the pain. “I don’t give a shit where you work, boy, who your father is, and what you think you know. That’s plenty tight. Ain’t no gettin’ out again.” Sheriff Gomes sat back down. Seemingly out of breath. “Now, you sit here and we’re going to talk. Come to an agreement like I stated.”

“I already know what you’re plotting. I’m not giving you one red cent. You’ll lie to my grandfather and tell him that I called August and was released on account of my lawyer, all the while you’ll pocket his money, and mine, too. First of all, it’s real foolish to try and double cross old man Wilde, especially if you’re not blood, and it’s also real foolish to call my bluff. As you just learned the hard way.”

“If you want out of here, I can make that happen, but first—”

“Go get my shit, Sheriff. Every dollar that was in my wallet, every credit card, every piece of jewelry that hung from my neck and dangled from my fingers, and every stitch of clothing I had on my body from last night better be in my possession when I get up off this phone that you’re about to hand to me. Gotta call August to make sure you walk the straight and narrow.”

“I’d never double cross your grandfather.” He offered a slick smirk. “I thought I made it clear that you don’t call any shots around here, either, Wall Street.”

“My name ain’t Wall Street. My name ain’t Lennox, either. See, Lennox Wilde, my cousin, he tried to play nice with y’all for a mighty long time. He let ya railroad him on behalf of Gramps when he was fresh outta high school and look where it got him? It practically ruined his life, but see, I’m different. Y’all know my daddy. Grandpa was right… The fruit didn’t fall too far from the tree.” The sheriff’s eyes narrowed on him. “…And I come from rotten roots.”

“Again, let’s negotiate. Now, what do you bring to the table?”

“You know I don’t bring shit to the table but smashed plates, ripped napkins, and cracked glasses for you to chew on, you snaggle toothed bastard. All that’s for dinner is your ass on a platter, and nobody eats for free.”

“Don’t you threaten me, boy.” The sheriff leaned forward and shoved his finger in his face. “I’m done playin’ nice with you, clown. You’ve got a real smart mouth. You of all people know that I can personally have you in here for much longer than you ever dreamed, and make it feel like a lifetime in hell as each second ticks. I can put you away with two or three guys… You can’t beat ’em all.” He jeered. “You’ll be in a cell that is colder than a witch’s tit for as long as I like. You’ve gotten too big for your britches. Think you’re smarter than every damn body!”

“I’ve got a long history with the law, Sheriff Gable, and I know what crooked cops behind closed doors do. I know the tricks pulled when you conveniently turn off body cams to make bogus arrests, plant drugs on folks, and say motherfuckers were resisting arrest when they weren’t doing anything of the sort. Sometimes you like to teach guys like me a lesson… ’specially if you’re being paid to do it, feel inferior, or have an axe to grind. My daddy made a fool of you many years ago. When my grandpa called you, you happily obliged. This is personal for you.”

“Shut the hell up.”

Roman burst out laughing. “Yeah… you’re crooked as a country road. You blame it on a glitch when the bodycams go black, don’t you? I know about the little rooms for secret meetings, money you stole off folks you pulled over, and the bribes you brag about around the water cooler, too. I also know there’s some good cops on the force, ran into a couple, but they don’t always last long, or you find some way to corrupt them, too. Usually I’m pretty optimistic, but there’s far too few good guys left in this country.”

“You know, Roman, I wish things were so black and white as your imagination paints them out to be. You’ve been watching far too many CSI episodes.”

“Maybe so.” Roman shrugged. “We both have been watchin’ the wrong thing, I suppose. You were watching your bank account grow, instead of watchin’ me mop the floor with Miller before it was too late.”

“We saw it…”

“…Oh? Finally, a confession.” Roman nodded, then laughed. “You turned off the cam, right? Just in case your wish was Miller’s command. I’d end up beaten to a pulp. Blamed for it all. My word against his. No evidence. No problem.”

“If you would have just taken your beating and kept your fucking mouth shut, all of this would’ve been over.” He said through gritted teeth.

“No, it wouldn’t have. It would have just gotten started. You’ve mistaken me for easy prey, and an even easier payday. I can’t roll over and play dead. It’s not in my nature. Choose your lane. Be crooked or be a good guy, makes me no difference, but either way, I’m going to be out of this motherfucker so fast, it’ll make your head spin. Beetlejuice! Beetlejuice! Beetlejuice! August-juice! August-juice! August-juice! HE’S COMIN’! I SUMMONED HIM. UH OH! Here comes my attorney!”

“Just a big ol’ jester, aren’t ya?! Mr. Slick!” Sheriff Gomes shook his head, as if sickened.

“Slick like baby oil? You been to one of my grand-daddy’s wild and crazy shindigs haven’t you? Southern style freak-off? Fried chicken dipped in pussy sauce, and peach cobbler sprinkled with flakes of cocaine? When Diddy or Grandpa Wilde wanna party, Sheriff Gomes, you got to tell them, ‘No!’” He burst out laughing.

“Shut the fuck up!”

“That’s a good idea. Silence. I have the right to remain silent. Anything I say can and will be used against me in a court of law…”

“You think this is how you go about this?! You believe that—”

“I believe only that I have the right to an attorney. If I cannot afford a motherfuckin’ attorney, one will be appointed for me, but we know that I can afford an attorney just fine, and his name is August Lyle. Now, you’re gonna abide by the law, Sheriff Gonad, and make sure I get one by handin’ me that phone.”

“Your grandfather wants you to remain here a little longer.”

“Well, in that case, let’s see how well things go when I remind everyone that my Miranda Rights were never read. In fact, I had to recite them myself. Then, there’s the fact that I wasn’t allowed to contact my lawyer after asking several times. Let’s also see what happens when I mention that I was placed in inhumane conditions even though I haven’t been charged with a crime in over a decade, and my prior record was expunged. Last but not least, let me offer some of them upset boys in them cages back yonder a reward for their service. After I beat up their nemesis, they were happy as could be. I could pony up a bit of cash for them to talk, so they can tell the truth. Vouch for me.

“You know all about taking kickbacks. You know how this works, man. You told me I can’t fight off two or three more dudes all at the same time. Well, you can’t silence all fifty of ’em, now can you? You of all people know that money makes people do interesting things. Would you like to call my bluff again? Find out if I’m some slick talkin’ lying bastard who can’t almost kill a man twice my size, and get handcuffs off like they’re made of butter? Walk the walk and talk the motherfucking talk. If you’re a gambling man, place your bet. The choice is yours.”

Sheriff Gomes’ jaw tightened, then he slid over the phone…