2. Damien
Damien
The night whispers death, and I am its messenger. My knuckles whiten against the steering wheel as I navigate the winding road through the redwoods.
“You know, Dom, if you grip that wheel any tighter, you'll snap it in half,” Elias says from the passenger seat. “Lighten up. It's just another job.”
I grunt in response. The heir to the Bellandi empire shouldn't be here. His father would skin me alive if he knew I let his precious son accompany me on a hit. But Elias has a way of wearing people down, even me. The moment his father called me into his office and to issue orders, I knew that I’d find Elias waiting in my car.
Fucker never misses a chance to pop by Crimson Howl to get a taste.
It’s not as if he doesn’t have females falling at his feet.
Eligible heir status tends to draw them in.
Not that I would know about that even though I am an heir myself.
The females always seem to give me a wide berth.
Maybe it is the fact my father loaned me out to the Bellandi family, or, according to Elias, my not so cheery disposition.
Either way, I haven’t gotten my dick wet in months while the jackass next to me can barely shove a she-wolf out his bedroom door before the next one is coming in. Fucking prick.
“You shouldn't be here.”
Elias grins, his blue eyes gleaming with mischief behind the half-mask he's already donned. “What, and miss all the fun?”
Fun. Of course he sees this as fun. He may very well be the only heir who has never gotten his claws bloody.
Alpha Anselm, his father, likes to out source that out to his enforcers.
Mostly me. Growth and learning opportunities, he likes to call them, but it’s really a punishment from my father.
My penance for allowing my sister, Rhea, to get kidnapped by one of my his rivals.
Despite getting her back when his own enforcers failed, it was my job to protect her.
“You know what will happen to me if you lose so much as a single hair?”
“My father will gut you and hang you for all to see like a prized buck?”
“Something like that.” I downshift as we approach the turnoff that leads deeper into my current alpha’s territory. “Your father doesn't make idle threats.”
“Neither does yours, from what I hear.” Elias leans back in his seat, studying me with that calculating look he gets sometimes.
The one that reminds me he's not just some spoiled prince playing dress-up.
“Tell me, Dom—when's the last time you talked to your father? Not through intermediaries. Not through my father. Actually talked.”
My jaw clenches.
“That's what I thought.” He pulls out his phone, scrolling through messages. “You know, there's a rumor going around that—”
“I don't give a shit about rumors.”
“This one you might.” His voice drops, losing that playful edge. “Word is your sister has been asking questions about why her big brother disappeared right after saving her ass.”
My foot eases off the accelerator without my permission. Rhea. I haven't spoken to her in eight months. Haven't been allowed to, more like. Part of my punishment—complete severance from pack ties.
“Bullshit.”
“Is it?” Elias pockets his phone and turns to face me fully. “Maybe she's finally figured out that Daddy dearest threw you under the bus to save his precious reputation.”
He isn’t wrong, but I will never admit that out loud, even amongst a wolf I consider a friend.
“Drop it, Elias.” The words come out sharper than intended, my wolf stirring restlessly beneath my skin. The beast doesn't like being cornered, and right now that's exactly what this conversation feels like.
“Fine.” He raises his hands in mock surrender, but I catch the satisfied smirk on his face. The bastard is under my skin, and he knows it. “But when this whole enforcer gig gets old, you've got options. My father respects you more than half his own blood.”
I don't respond because there's nothing to say. Options. Like I have any real choice in the matter.
Finally, Crimson Howl comes into view. “Speaking of options,” Elias continues, seemingly oblivious to my darkening mood, “there's this new girl at the club. Redhead. Curves that could make a saint sin. She's been asking about you.”
“I'm not interested.”
“When's the last time you were interested in anything besides work?” He studies me with that calculating look again. “You're wound tighter than a fucking spring, Dom. One of these days you're going to snap.”
Maybe. But not tonight. Tonight, I have a job to do, and dwelling on things I can't change won't help anyone—least of all me.
I pull into the designated parking area behind Crimson Howl. The club's rear entrance looms before us, darkened by the shadows. Music pulses through the walls, a steady heartbeat promising sin and secrecy. I kill the engine and sit for a moment, gathering myself.
“Let's be clear,” I say, turning to Elias. “You stay in the VIP section. You don't interfere. You don't draw attention. This isn't a fucking field trip.”
Elias rolls his eyes but nods. “Yes, sir, Reaper, sir.” He adjusts his mask, a sleek black affair that sharpens his already aristocratic features. “Though I’d think you’d appreciate the backup.”
“I don’t need backup to put down a rat.”
Tonight’s target is simple. A low-ranking were who thought skimming from the books was a smart career move. I’ll find him among the writhing bodies inside, drag him to one of the back rooms, and make an example of him. Clean. Efficient. The way Anselm likes it.
We exit the car and approach the door. The bouncer—a hulking were named Diesel—inclines his head at the sight of me, his posture stiffening when he notices Elias.
“Sir,” he says, inclining his head respectfully. “We weren't expecting—”
“Just observing,” Elias cuts in smoothly. “Pretend I'm not here.”
Diesel’s gaze flicks to me, and I give him a slight nod. “Tell Viktor to make sure the black room is open for me.”
He gives a curt nod, stepping aside to let us enter, “Of course. I’ll radio him now. It will be ready whenever you need it.”
The heavy door swings open, and the scent hits me immediately—sweat, sex, alcohol, and beneath it all, the unmistakable musk of wolves.
The Crimson Howl lives up to its name tonight, packed wall to wall with bodies moving to the pulsing beat.
Masks always hide faces, but they can't disguise scents.
My nose picks out at least three rival packs mingling, everyone playing nice under the club's sacred neutrality.
I scan the crowd, searching for my target.
Marco Ruiz. A wolf with expensive tastes that his income can't support. I smelled his scent on the safe myself. He’s dipping his hands into the Bellandi money pot and not even trying to hide it.
The idiot didn’t think the first person we’d check was the accountant.
“I'll be upstairs,” Elias murmurs, already drifting toward the VIP staircase. “Don't have too much fun without me.”
“Stay put,” I growl, but he's already gone, swallowed by the crowd. One of these days, he’ll learn how to fucking listen.
I push through the mass of bodies, ignoring the inviting looks from various females. My focus narrows, senses heightening as I track the familiar scent. The wolf in me stirs, eager for the hunt. For the kill. I tamp it down. Not yet.
I spot him near the main stage, a glass of top-shelf whiskey in his hand as he watches two she-wolves put on a show for the crowd. His scent is stronger now—nervous sweat mixed with expensive cologne and the bitter tang of guilt.
Marco notices me across the room, and I see the exact moment recognition hits.
His face goes pale beneath his mask, and he starts pushing through the crowd toward the back exit.
He knows why I'm here. They always do. Amateur.
Does he really think he can outrun me in a building I know better than even Elias?
I follow at a leisurely pace, letting him think he has a chance. The crowd parts around me without conscious thought. Something about my presence makes even the most dominant wolves step aside. It's a useful trait in this line of work.
Marco reaches the hallway leading to the private rooms, glancing back to see how close I am. The panic in his movements sends a thrill through my wolf.
“Going somewhere, Marco?” I call out over the pounding music.
He spins around, backing against the wall. “Look, Reaper, I can explain—”
“Save it.” I close the distance between us in three long strides. “You've been skimming from the Bellandi accounts. We have proof.”
“It was just a few thousand here and there. Nothing that would hurt—”
My hand shoots out, gripping his throat and lifting him off his feet. His expensive shoes scrabble against the wall as I pin him there.
“Nothing that would hurt?” I repeat. “You stole from the Bellandi family. That hurts their reputation. Their trust. And when you hurt them, you hurt me.”
Marco's hands claw at my wrist, but he might as well be trying to bend steel. “Please, I have a family—”
“Should have thought of that before you decided to bite the hand that feeds you.” I lean closer, letting him smell the predator on my breath. “Alpha Anselm doesn't tolerate thieves. Neither do I.”
I drag him toward the black room, his feet barely touching the ground. The hallway empties as other club patrons sense the violence about to unfold. Smart. They know better than to witness what happens when the Reaper comes calling.
The black room door swings open at my approach—Viktor must have unlocked it remotely. The space beyond is soundproof, windowless, and designed for one purpose. The walls are lined with disposable plastic, and drain grates dot the concrete floor. Everything necessary for cleanup.
“Wait, wait!” Marco's voice cracks as I haul him inside. “I can pay it back. Triple what I took. I have connections, information—”
“Information?” I pause, my hand still wrapped around his throat. This could be useful. “What kind of information?”
His eyes dart around the room. The smell of his fear spikes, acrid and sharp.
Normally this room is used for blood play. Easier to clean up when the room comes with drains, and a sanitizing system installed in the ceiling. Plus, it comes in handy when you have to put down a wolf. Dual-purpose room, so to speak.
“The Lockhart pack,” he gasps out. “They're planning a move against your territory.”
I tighten my grip slightly. “Be more specific.”
“They've been recruiting. Offering protection to businesses that pay tribute to Anselm. Undercutting your rates by thirty percent.” His words come out in a rush now, desperation making him talkative. “They think with you busy playing enforcer, the family's spread too thin to retaliate.”
Interesting. The Lockharts have been testing boundaries for months, but this is the first I'm hearing of organized recruitment. Alpha Anselm will want to know about this.
“Who's leading the recruitment?”
“Thomas Lockhart. He's been making the rounds personally, promising better terms and less...violent collection methods.”
I almost smile at that. Less violent. They have no idea what violence looks like when it's truly unleashed.
“What else?”
Marco's breathing becomes more labored as my grip remains constant. “There's a meeting. Tomorrow night. Warehouse district, the old Kellerman building. Thomas is supposed to finalize deals with at least six businesses.”
Now we're getting somewhere. I release his throat, and he collapses against the wall, gasping. But I'm not done with him yet.
“Information doesn't erase your debt,” I remind him, moving closer.
“But—but I told you everything I know!”
“Did you?” I grab him by his shirt collar and slam him against the wall. The impact makes his mask slip, revealing the sweaty, terrified face beneath. “Because I'm starting to think you're holding out on me.”
I lean in close. “You said Thomas is finalizing deals with six businesses. Name them.”
“I—I don't know all of them,” Marco stammers.
My fist connects with the wall beside his head, leaving an impression in the concrete despite the sheet of plastic acting as a barrier. “Try again.”
“The Golden Paw Brewery,” he blurts out. “Redwood Apothecary. Sierra Supply Co.” His words tumble over each other as he struggles to remember. “Blackridge Auto Shop. Um...Moonlight Diner.”
“You're still one short.”
Marco's throat works as he swallows. “The last one...it's new. Not a business, exactly.”
“Explain.”
“It's a person. Someone inside the Bellandi organization. Thomas has been bragging that he's got a big fish on the line.”
“A name, Marco,” I demand, my patience wearing thin. “Give me the name.”
He hesitates, scanning the room as if searching for an escape that doesn’t exist. Sweat beads along his hairline, sliding beneath the edge of his mask.
“I—I don’t know for sure,” he stammers. “Thomas never said specifically, just that it was someone close to Anselm.”
My wolf stirs, catching the lie. His pulse hammers, the sour tang of fear laced with deception bleeding into the air.
“Bullshit,” I growl.
“I swear, I don’t—”
In one fluid motion, I draw my gun and press the cold barrel to his temple. The dull thunk of metal against bone makes him flinch.
“Tell me, or you die now.” My words are flat, stripped of emotion. Pure fact. “I’m not asking again.”
Marco freezes, pupils blown wide with panic. The stench of urine fills the air as a stain spreads across his tailored pants.
“Jesus Christ, please,” he whimpers. “They’ll kill me if I tell you.”
“I’ll kill you if you don’t,” I counter, snapping off the safety. “And I promise my way will hurt more.”
His mouth opens, then shuts again. His throat bobs as he swallows hard, torn between two terrors—the brutal certainty of me, and the looming shadow of Anselm’s wrath.
But in the end, he makes the wrong choice.
“I can’t. You don’t know what they’ll—”
“You should’ve been more afraid of me,” I say, and pull the trigger.
The shot rings out like a final judgment. Marco’s body jerks, a red bloom spreading across his temple as he drops to the floor with a lifeless thud. Blood pools beneath him, seeping into the cracks of the drain like a stain the house will never forget.
I stare down at what’s left of him, no flicker of remorse in my chest. He chose silence. I chose death. A more peaceful end than anyone in his position deserves.