Chapter 7
SEVEN
FENRIR
PRESENT
Devall’s office is sickly hot, and it has nothing to do with the six bodies occupying the space.
We stand in a row, facing the gang lord, who sits behind his desk like a man about to press the launch button on the atomic bomb.
Markus is all official, hands clasped behind his ramrod-straight back.
Bastian Ford is tanned, with watery eyes that are preoccupied—like he’s counting down the days until his retirement.
Willa appears exhausted, which is understandable—she has a tough job and a pregnant wife at home.
I’m not sure what I look like—other than my usual hostile self.
The only other person who’s sitting—no, hunched is probably a more accurate description—is Junko Devall, Barrett’s third wife.
He brought her to Rothkor and married her after a business trip to Japan over twenty years ago.
I imagine that once, she stood tall—her hair glossy black, eyes sharp and focused, skin as fresh as Hayami’s.
But here, now, she looks haunted. Her skin is a pallid grey. Her hands wring something invisible. Her eyes are cloudy, as if misted over to unsee the things she must have witnessed over the two decades of being married to a man like Barrett Devall.
And if that isn’t enough to add to her sorry state, there’s a hint of a dark shadow cocooning her—a shadow I know only too well. It looks like the Grim Reaper has nibbled at her.
Like mother, like daughter, they both carry the death mark.
Coincidence? No.
They both share the Devall surname, and some curses come with more than just a reputation.
“Markus, update me.” Devall steeples his fingers as the head of security steps forwards.
“Robert Castro is dead,” Markus replies, letting it land in the room before Devall picks it up.
“You sure?”
“Positive. He was shot yesterday, sniper style, from long range whilst entering the Kaleidoscope, one of his clubs down on Gorring Avenue. He was taken to a private hospital, where he died later on in the evening.”
Devall shifts his gaze for a second before firing it back at Markus. “And the sniper?”
Markus shakes his head. “No one has any idea. It appears to be a lone gunman, someone working on his own. But my sources are dry, and Callan has heard nothing through the grapevine. No one knows a thing, or if they do, they aren’t saying anything.”
Devall tuts. “Who the fuck would have the balls to take out Robert Castro?”
“That’s the million-dollar question, sir, and unfortunately, the Castros think they have the answer.
” Markus waits a beat before continuing, the room hanging on his every word.
“An email came through to one of your business accounts—the Amalfi bar you own on the southern side of town. Our IT guys are trying to trace the email, but there’s so much encryption it’s going to be nearly impossible to track. ”
“I don’t give a fuck about the technicalities.” Devall slams his hand on his desk. “Robert Castro is dead, and you called in a code red, so what the fuck is going on?”
“The email was a direct threat, sir,” Markus says, then pauses.
I’m not sure if it’s for dramatic effect, but Devall is about to open his mouth, so Markus quickly pulls his phone from his pocket and scrolls until he finds what he’s looking for.
“It says, ‘Devall will fall. It starts now. This blood is on your hands. And the next to be spilled will be the blood of your heir.’”
Fuck.
“The Castros think we shot Robert,” Devall says.
“It certainly looks that way.”
“But we didn’t,” he confirms. “I never made such a call.”
“No, but I’m not sure how we’re going to convince the Castros that this wasn’t us. Not after Tyrone Miller’s death six months ago. And we can’t forget Morris Hamlin several months prior.”
Devall raises his eyebrows. “Hamlin was in a brawl outside a nightclub,” he says. “There was no evidence to suggest it was gang related.”
“No, but no one was ever found responsible for his death, despite how hard the Castros looked. Add his death to Tyrone Miller’s, and we have three members of the Castro gang all dead within a year of each other. You have to admit, it looks suspicious.”
Markus waits as Devall appears to be thinking. When it’s clear he isn’t going to say anything, Markus takes up the thread.
“There’s more, sir.”
Devall’s eyebrow arches.
“We lost surveillance on the cameras in the Premier Suite at the Amalfi around seven o’clock this evening.
The security team down there headed to the suite to see what had happened and found every single person with their throats cut.
They’re all dead, including the staff. This was just before the email came through. ”
Silence clings to the heat in the room, making it feel sickly and claustrophobic.
For the first time, the gang lord looks uncomfortable behind his desk. Finally, he speaks. “Are you suggesting we’re all in danger?” he asks Markus.
“I would say yes—it certainly appears that way, sir. The Castros have launched a very open and violent attack on us, which is understandable considering Robert Castro is dead.”
Devall nods. “Vincent will want heads on fucking platters.”
“He’s made that clear, sir, with a direct threat to Hayami,” Markus replies.
“Then we leave for one of the safe houses tonight.” Devall slaps his hand on the desk, making Junko jump.
“If I may, sir, from a security angle, I wouldn’t recommend the family moving together. It’ll only make you more of a target and more vulnerable,” Markus points out.
Devall surveys the room, and I wonder if he’s weighing up the odds, working out just how much the safety of his family means to him. “Then what do you suggest?”
“I suggest you all leave for one of the secure houses, but separately. Vincent will send his best recruit from outside if he has to, so we need to make it as difficult as possible for his men to find you. I suggest some of the more remote locations you have.”
Pursing his lips, the gang lord responds, “Fine, Junko can leave tonight and go to Hanover House. Her team leaves with her. I’ll stay here. I’m not going to be threatened out of my own home by Castro’s men.”
“And Hayami, sir?” Markus enquires.
Devall looks to Willa and then to me before replying. “You two will take her to Belial House.”
The air crackles as Junko sits up as if she’s just been electrocuted with a cattle prod. She hasn’t reacted to anything she’s heard in this room. Not the threat on her family, not the throat-slashing of some of their employees, nothing. Only now does she sit up and take notice.
“Belial, sir?” Markus asks, his face changing from very sure of himself to suddenly being thrown into the ring.
“Yes, you heard me. Belial. She’s the target, after all—the email explicitly said ‘the blood of your heir.’ If it were me, I’d go for Vincent’s children first and make him suffer their deaths before having to face his own.
She needs to be somewhere that no one will find her.
There’s nowhere safer and more remote than Belial House. ”
“No.” The word is so quiet, so small, we barely hear it, but Junko stands. Devall shoots her a look that would put anyone back in their place. “You can’t send her to Belial House.” Junko shakes her head and puts her hands out towards her husband, pleading with him. “Anywhere but Belial.”
“Enough,” Devall snaps, then nods at Markus, who moves towards Junko and rests a nonthreatening but very commanding hand on her shoulder. “There’s nothing to discuss. She’ll be safe at Belial House.”
Junko looks like she’s about to cry, but Markus’s hand remains on her shoulder as Devall rises from his seat.
“You two will go with her.” He motions to me and Willa. “No one else. The fewer people who travel, the less we’ll draw attention to the fact that she’s being moved. You leave within the hour. Get my daughter ready.”
“There might be a problem with that, sir,” Willa pipes up. Devall glares at her, and I’m sure we can all feel the sharpness of his stare. She quickly explains, “When the code red came through, Hayami was reluctant to leave the club. We had to sedate her to bring her back here.”
Devall considers this before saying, “All the better to move within the hour, before she has time to come round.”
Willa stares blankly at him. It comes as no surprise to him that we’ve had to sedate his daughter. After all, he was the one who suggested that we resort to sedation when we reported to Markus that she was becoming volatile and difficult to handle.
“Do you understand what I’ve just said?” the gang lord barks.
“Yes, sir,” Willa replies quickly.
“Good.”
The room feels uneasy, as if the walls are waiting to pounce.
“Then what the fuck are you waiting for?” He whips his head around to me. “You have fifty-eight minutes before you need to be on a fucking plane, so get a fucking move on.”
“Yes, sir,” we chorus.
Willa is the first to move. I follow as she marches down the hallway. Jogging to keep up, I grab her by the arm. She turns, eyes wet, face ashen.
“Are you okay?”
“No. God, this is the worst.” She sniffs. “Marta is eight months pregnant. I can’t be flying to some godforsaken shit-hole because the family has had some shitty death threat. What if Marta needs me? What if she goes into labour?”
“It’ll be okay,” I tell her, even though I know it isn’t.
“And of all the fucking places, we’re being sent to Belial House.”
Willa swipes at her face with the back of her sleeve. I’ve never seen her like this. She’s always the pillar of calm and control. She must register the confusion on my face. “Has no one ever told you about Belial House?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“It’s a monstrous house stuck in the mountains, where all it does is rain and snow. It used to be where the family would go to get away from everything—to take a break, be cut off from the world and everyone in it. That was until….” Her lips quiver.
“Until what?”
She hesitates. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
I’m about to push her on this, but then I remember the ticking clock.
“And where exactly is Belial House?” I ask.
Willa stares at me, her usual warm smile nowhere to be seen.
“Hellion Ridge, above the town of Hellion Vale.” She laughs—but it’s not a funny laugh, more hysteria than humour. “No surprise that the names start with ‘hell,’ because that’s where we might as well be going.”