Chapter 5 Kane
KANE
Kane left the manor in the hour after dusk blanketed the sky, his mood as tumultuous as the clouds threatening overhead. His pace was quick, his coat drawn up tight to his neck. The knuckles on his right hand ached incessantly.
People skittered out of his path as he rounded a corner into the very outskirts of Devil’s Acre.
He’d spent much of today making rounds with Adam and Elijah, visiting local shopkeeps or landlords and alerting them to recent changes.
It should have made him feel something, to see so many faces shift from horror to relief and back again when they learned of Ward’s death—and then of Kane’s succession—but the frigid emptiness persisted.
He hadn’t even addressed the issue of tax collection in the slums, and had shooed Adam away when he’d tried to broach the subject.
How many times had Kane gone to collect money from the poverty-stricken at Ward’s behest?
How many people had he run out of town when they wouldn’t—or couldn’t—comply?
It struck him as useless. Ward had left enough money in his coffers for Kane to run things without shaking down factory workers. His iron grip on the dark market proved to be a much more lucrative source of income anyway.
This last visit, however, Kane didn’t need Adam and Elijah for.
It began to rain lightly as he drew up to his destination, water trickling an icy line down the back of his neck. He’d had young Harvey Solomon watching the place all day, and once the boy delivered the update Kane had been waiting for, he knew he wouldn’t have long to strike.
The slum house was slightly less miserable than others Kane had seen, but only just. The narrow front window bore a long crack, and the door hung oddly off-center in such a way that he could only assume one of the hinges was broken.
Dull light was visible inside. Kane took out his gun.
According to Harvey, the homeowner didn’t carry a weapon, and Kane didn’t expect the rest of the occupants to be armed, either. In short, this ought to be easy enough.
Given the state of the door, he could have simply kicked it in, but that contravened one of the first lessons Ward had taught him: Always start with a veneer of politeness.
Something about presenting a calm front, Ward said, unnerved people far more than immediate violence.
So Kane lifted his fist to the wood and knocked.
A brief commotion ensued within, and the homeowner’s name was called. A moment later, the door swung open inward, revealing a tall tanned man with a stern brow. He frowned upon seeing Kane, mouth opening to form a question that trailed off when he registered the gun pointing at his chest.
“Good evening,” Kane said pleasantly. “You must be Mirko Petrov.”
He’d given considerable thought to killing the man in the interest of removing obstacles, but ultimately decided against it.
Mirko was a respected figure in Devil’s Acre; he owned a couple of functioning pushcarts thanks to his delivery job and was often willing to lend them out.
The last thing Kane needed just now was to garner more hatred than a kingpin already dealt with.
Mirko raised his hands, eyes large in his broad face. “Who’s asking?”
There was no need to answer. A familiar figure swam into view behind Mirko’s left shoulder, scowling at Kane with more hatred—and fear—than even Davies or Yardley had been able to muster. “What the hell do you want, Durante?”
Kane still had a visceral reaction to hearing his true surname, but he’d decided there was no point in going by Kane Hunt any longer.
Not when he intended to become notorious in this part of London.
Instead of reacting in anger, he pasted on his most irritating smile.
He could only imagine how he must look, framed by the shadows on the threshold, the top few buttons of his shirt undone beneath his open coat.
“Julian Zhao. Just the person I was hoping to see.” He returned his attention to Mirko, indicating with the gun. “Take a seat at the table. Now.”
Mirko complied without argument, and Kane was pleased to see that George Zhao already occupied the other chair. His gaze flicked warily between his son and Kane as he processed the scene. “Jules, what in God’s name is the meaning of this?”
The table was pushed up against a wall, and Kane did a quick scan for potential weapons before advancing farther into the house, stepping sideways so as to keep all three men in his line of sight.
“Julian!” George said again, this time with anger edging his voice.
Kane spun to point the gun at him, making Mirko gasp and Jules start forward. “Quiet,” he warned George, then aimed at Jules without taking his gaze off the older man. “It’s thanks to you I’m here at all, Mister Zhao.”
Confusion permeated the room in the wake of his declaration. Jules was breathing hard, chest heaving. “We all know why you’ve really come, but Zaria isn’t here.” One corner of his mouth twitched. “I guess you picked the exact wrong time to show up, huh, Durante?”
Kane gave an exaggerated shrug. “Well, this is embarrassing. Can you imagine? The only time since you moved here that Zaria hasn’t been around, and that’s when I decide to drop by. An almost improbable stroke of bad luck.”
A vein pulsed in Jules’s temple as he picked up on Kane’s tone, uncertainty overtaking his features.
Did the other boy really think Kane’s actions would be so poorly planned?
Harvey had seen Zaria and Jules leave the house together.
Harvey had seen Jules return to it alone, inexplicably escorted by a large man who didn’t linger.
Kane wasn’t particularly interested in the man’s identity—it didn’t matter.
“I suppose by now you’ve heard I’ve been making the rounds,” Kane went on, pacing to the other side of the room, never lowering the gun. “Absurd, really, how many people in Devil’s Acre are owing.”
There was a beat of gravid silence.
“You’re the new kingpin.” Jules spoke from between clenched teeth. It wasn’t a question.
Kane’s smile grew broader. It had taken him some time to decide the best avenue for revenge.
After all, Zaria didn’t have anything he wanted, and she didn’t hold her own life in very high regard.
Throughout the course of their brief partnership, her objectives always revolved around a single thing: Julian Zhao.
Her best friend, her brother in all but blood, and the only important person in her life.
If Kane wanted Zaria to regret crossing him, Jules was the ideal target.
And Kane knew exactly where he needed to strike. Ironically, he had Ward to thank for that.
Behind Jules, Mirko Petrov’s tanned face was leached of color.
He tripped over his words in his haste to mutter an apology, but Kane held up a hand.
He wasn’t interested in anything Mirko had to say.
George, conversely, looked furious. Kane had to hand it to the Zhao men: They weren’t cowards.
They felt anger first, fear second. It made them relatable in a sense, but it also made them difficult to deal with.
“What does Zaria have to do with any of this?” George demanded, addressing Jules rather than Kane. “Why would the kingpin want to see her?”
“I don’t,” Kane answered, regardless, never tearing his calm gaze from Jules’s furious one. “I’m well finished with Zaria Mendoza. It’s your son I’ve come for.”
“Do you intend to kill me?” Jules spat. “Is that how the inimitable Kane Durante gets his revenge? Are you so cowardly that you didn’t want to face her? That you’d leave my body for her to find?”
At the mention of Jules dying, George started to rise, but Kane indicated with the gun for him to sit back down.
“Fucking relax. I didn’t come here to end a life.
As the new kingpin of Devil’s Acre, I’m seeing to it that Ward’s outstanding matters are dealt with.
And if I’m not mistaken, Mister Zhao, the two of you had an agreement. ”
Understanding hit George and Jules at the same moment; Kane saw it in their faces.
“Screw you,” Jules said, fingers flexing at his sides. “You can’t seriously want me to join Ward’s crew.”
“My crew,” Kane corrected him. “And I’m very serious indeed. I believe Ward was very clear in his terms: If your father didn’t pay up, you would put in the work instead. Unless I’m mistaken, no payment was ever made.”
Now George did stand, all but vibrating with indignation. “I assumed that agreement became void when Alexander Ward died.”
“As the new kingpin, I decide which agreements remain in effect. Of course, if you have the money, this all goes away.”
“I’m sure you know full well that my pawnshop burned down. I’ve got no money, and no longer am I operating any business on which dues should be owed.”
“Yes, the loss of your business was unfortunate,” Kane said blithely. “Yet losing it doesn’t erase your past debts. Do you have the money, Mister Zhao, or do you not?”
He knew they didn’t. He wouldn’t have come here otherwise. And from the expression on Jules’s face, the other boy knew Kane knew. “The deal was that either my father would agree to give me up to the kingpin’s crew, or we would lose the pawnshop. Since the pawnshop is gone, you’ve already won.”
“Ah, but it only counts if your business is taken from you. Accidents don’t factor in.”
“You’re the one who started the fire, you bastard!”
“What?” This from George, who frowned at his son in bewilderment. At the same time, apprehension creased the skin around his eyes, as if he’d only just realized the depth of the trouble they were in. “Julian, what are you going on about?”
Kane let out a sharp laugh. If he was understanding correctly, George Zhao didn’t know that Kane or the former kingpin had been in his house that fateful day. He clicked his tongue. “Did you lie to your father, Julian?”
Jules ignored both questions, taking another step forward. “I think it’s very clear we owe you nothing. So get the hell out of here—you’re mad if you think I’m coming anywhere with you.”
“Since it appears you’re not used to these types of situations,” Kane said, “let me make things very clear: When someone has you at gunpoint, you do whatever they ask. If you don’t, they shoot you. Does that help?”
“You won’t shoot me. If you do, Zaria will never forgive you.”
Kane held up a finger. “First of all, I wasn’t going to start with you.
I was going to kill your father while you watched, knowing all the while that you could have saved him.
And secondly”—he held up another finger—“I could give a fuck what Miss Mendoza thinks of me. She lost every ounce of my goodwill when she betrayed me. Now, make your choice.”
The slew of curses Jules uttered was virulent, but it only served to confirm that Kane had won.
It should have felt good. He should have felt triumphant.
Instead, he harbored only a vague sense of unease.
He didn’t know how to do it, this job, and it seemed the only path available to him was to imagine what Ward would have done.
That wasn’t difficult, given how many years he’d spent observing the man, but Kane felt like a weak imitation of a true kingpin.
All he had were threats, violence, and threats of violence.
Since he lacked Ward’s inherent ability to command respect, he supposed that would have to be good enough.
Bright spots of pink had appeared in Jules’s cheeks, and he shot a grim look in his father’s direction. “I suppose I’m going with him. Tell Zaria what happened when she returns.”
George’s nostrils flared as he sat there in helpless fury. Eventually he nodded, a single lift of his chin, before turning to Kane. “I thought no kingpin could be as much of a bastard as Alexander Ward. You’ve proven me wrong tonight.”
“I won’t lose any sleep over it,” Kane said, crossing the room a final time as he indicated the front door. “After you, Julian. And should you possess the urge to try anything funny, just remember I know exactly where to find your dear dad.”
Jules set his jaw. Ventured one last look at George and Mirko, the latter of whom still sat in stunned silence.
He inclined his head at his father, the barest of nods.
“Don’t worry about the money, and don’t feel guilty.
No matter what he says, this isn’t about you.
Take care of yourself. And Mirko? Make sure he takes care of himself.
” Finally, Jules turned back to Kane, his tone acerbic.
“You’re getting what you wanted, Durante. I hope it was worth it.”
Kane held the other boy’s glare without flinching. “Oh, I think it will be.”
Then he followed Jules out into the dark, letting the door slam hollowly behind him.