Chapter 2 Kane #2
“Thank you for your input, Cleland,” Kane said loudly, speaking over the commotion that erupted.
Cleland’s cry became a bellow; the alchemological bullet had passed through both his hand and the pewter cup, sending a mixture of blood and alcohol dripping to the floor at his feet.
It could not have been clearer that a brawl was dangerously close to breaking out as a few of Kane’s supporters moved to hold back the dissenters.
He fired a second shot into the ceiling and snarled, “QUIET!”
It worked. Of the kingpin’s men, very few had been given alchemological firearms, and now Kane had access to Ward’s entire collection.
The crew’s fear was warranted. Magic was the most lethal thing you could fire from a gun.
It ripped through flesh and bone with ease, as evidenced by Cleland’s destroyed hand.
Kane dragged agitated fingers through his hair, cognizant that it was a bit of a mess.
He hadn’t bothered with his usual slick appearance these past few days.
“You all know exactly what kind of work I did for Ward,” he hissed.
“Of everyone here, I know the most of his contacts. I’m familiar with his suppliers, and I’m aware of the plans he’d set into motion.
If you want things to continue as they were—if you want to keep your jobs, that is—I’m the only option.
Not your best option, your only one.” He shrugged.
“Or you can throw your support behind someone like Davies and see if you make it to the end of the month. You should know full well there are always people rallying to take a kingpin’s place. ”
It was only a partial bluff. Ward hadn’t told Kane much of anything where his strategies and contacts were concerned.
That said, he’d left plenty of information behind.
Ledgers, lists of names, notes that hinted at future assignments…
It wasn’t everything, and some of the documents were barely comprehensible, but it was more than anyone else had.
Kane had spent hours compiling his findings and mapping out a mental plan.
News of Ward’s death would spread quickly—hell, it was probably common knowledge already—and any indication of weakness would indeed have the kingpin’s former rivals flocking to Devil’s Acre.
Kane’s rivals now, he supposed. The realization should have been sobering. Instead, he was possessed by the overwhelming urge to laugh.
“Davies would still be a better option than you,” Yardley spat. “You were nothing more than Ward’s little bitch. You think everyone doesn’t know how he got us to rough you up whenever you disappointed him? Best part of my week, it was, watching you whimper for his affection like a—”
The man never got to finish his sentence.
Something in Kane abruptly bottomed out: a deep well of rage that overflowed, demanding to be released.
He felt disconnected from his body, and not in the dreamlike way he’d become accustomed to since the night he’d killed Ward.
This time, there was a chaotic edge to the sensation. He raised the gun. Pulled the trigger.
And put a bullet in Yardley’s head.
There were approximately six other people Kane could have hit in the process, but his aim was impeccable.
Raphael Aubert relinquished Yardley the moment he was struck, leaping back from the man’s body as it crumpled.
Yardley was dead before he hit the floor.
Kane knew as much without having to check.
He was well apprised of how quickly these dark market guns could kill.
This time, there was no outrage. Not from anyone save Davies, who let out a roar that was abruptly cut off as Kane shot him, too. The sound cracked through the foyer, the air ringing in the aftermath. Then there was silence.
Kane thought about the bullet he’d put in Ward’s chest. How he’d dreamed of the moment for so many years, and how it hadn’t felt anything like he’d imagined.
There was no triumph. No satisfaction. Only a bone-deep sense of unreality.
A sense that had persisted for the rest of that day and still lingered within him now as his mind recoiled from the memory.
Ward’s empty face became Fletcher’s, arranged in utter betrayal and contempt.
Emotion speared through Kane in a way that threatened to snatch the air from his lungs.
Furiously, he tried to shove the thoughts away, but then Fletcher’s face became Zaria’s, her features twisted in utter horror, the way they’d been as the pawnshop burned.
Kane’s insides turned molten. He was glad to have horrified her. He hoped she’d lived in terror every day since. In one fell swoop, Zaria Mendoza had taken everything from him. His life had fallen apart in a matter of hours. It was only fair that he’d sent hers up in flames.
And now here he was, standing before the crew that had once followed Ward. Rebuilding himself the only way he knew how.
He stowed his gun back inside his jacket, scanning the room as he did so.
The energy in the foyer had shifted. Most of the men were wide-eyed, even if they’d managed to control the rest of their expressions.
Some looked resentful, though none dared say a word.
Others were openly fearful. But all of them had their attention trained on Kane, waiting to see what he would do next.
“Did I not make myself clear,” Kane said softly, “when I indicated there were to be no interruptions? Was I not explicit when I told you that whatever you once expected from Ward, you could now expect from me? Is this what it takes for me to make my point?” He gestured in a jerking arc at Davies’s and Yardley’s bodies. “Tell me, who’s in charge here?”
Still nobody spoke. Several of the men exchanged glances.
“I asked you a question.” Kane raised his voice. “Who’s in charge around these parts?”
“You are,” came the response from his most ardent supporters. A couple others echoed the sentiment, albeit grudgingly.
“All of you, answer the fucking question,” Kane bellowed, lips pulling back from his teeth in some echo of a smile. “Who is in charge?”
This time, the answer came in a resounding chorus.
“That’s right. Now get out.” Kane’s abrupt order had everyone hesitating once more, thrown. He let the smile slip from his lips. “OUT!”
The crew complied, some muttering, others practically tripping over themselves in their haste to leave. Kane didn’t move, waiting until only Tom, Adam, and Elijah remained. The trio watched him expectantly, and Kane released a breath as the door slammed shut a final time.
“Get rid of the bodies,” he said, surprised to find his voice detached and steady. “I don’t care what you do with them, but whatever it is, make sure you don’t cause a scene.”
Adam and Elijah made quick work of that, mainly because Tom made no attempt to assist. A moment later, Kane found himself alone with the doorman, staring unseeingly at the mess on the floor.
“I think that went fairly well,” Tom said, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. “Do you?”
Though Kane heard the question, it didn’t register.
“Durante?”
“Ah.” He blinked at the other man. “It went about as well as expected, I suppose.”
Tom peered more closely at him, brows drawing together. “You all right?”
“I’m fine,” Kane snapped. “Deal with the blood, would you, Tommy?”
When he’d made it back upstairs to his office, Kane shut the door and leaned heavily against it, facing Ward’s cabinet of curiosities on the other side of the room.
A collection of tiny skulls and skewered bugs stared back at him.
He thought, absurdly, that he understood how they felt.
Pinned in place, primed for observation, their wings useless.
As the solitude washed over him, his lungs seemed suddenly ill-equipped to deal with air.
Each breath came too fast. He was being crushed from the inside, his organs squeezing together, the cavity of his chest caving in.
Kane slammed his fist into the door again and again and again.