Epilogue Kane
EPILOGUE
KANE
KANE SWEPT INTO WARD’S MOST RECENT PLACE OF RESIDENCE as dusk stole across the rooftops of London.
A few of the kingpin’s cronies still surrounded the building, but not a single one spoke as he shoved past them. Perhaps it was the blood on his shirt, the scent of smoke, or the air of unsteadiness about him. Perhaps they could already guess what had happened.
His footsteps echoed along the gilded walls as he made his way to Ward’s office. Poured a glass of the finest whiskey and tossed it back like a man seeking water in the dead of summer. Slammed it down on the bookshelf, then took a seat.
With his ankles crossed on top of Ward’s desk, he could finally think.
He was alone. No Ward. No Fletcher. No Zaria. Who was there to stop him from doing whatever the hell he wanted? Ward had paid for what he’d done, and if killing him had knocked any sort of emotion loose in Kane, he hadn’t felt it yet.
Maybe Fletcher would come find him. Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe it was better that everyone understood precisely what and who he was now. There were no more secrets.
He leaned back in the chair as the door creaked open.
A man in an onyx hat and lapel appeared in the entrance to the office. Well-dressed. A dark market contact, no doubt. Tom, Ward’s doorman, appeared just behind the man’s shoulder.
“Sorry, Durante, but he insisted—”
“It’s fine.” Kane waved a hand. “You can go, Tommy.” He lit his pipe, peering at the man through the smoke between half-slitted eyes. Tom backed away, shutting the door behind him.
“Sit,” Kane said to the man, who frowned.
“I’m meant to be meeting with Alexander Ward. Who are you?”
“Who am I?” Kane echoed, and the laugh that clawed its way out of him was more Ward than any other answer he could have given. “Who am I?”
The man’s expression shifted to one of wariness. Kane grinned widely, interlacing his hands behind his neck.
“I’m the goddamned kingpin of Devil’s Acre.”