Devils of Seattle (The Devils Duet #1)

Chapter 1

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Rounds leave the muzzle in quick succession. Three perforations appear between the eyes of each training dummy's silhouette. My head tilts as I admire my accuracy; neither my father nor my brother equals it.

This skill belongs to me.

When I was seven years old, my father gifted me the smoking gun used to execute a man who betrayed him. I still recall his desperation, the way he begged for mercy.

“A gift for my heir,” he gloated as he handed me the weapon, smoke still leaking from the barrel. “Never let revenge escape you, son. Be a hound on her heels until you take back what is yours and more. Be relentless, and revel as you bathe in her blood.”

Enzo, my twin brother, never warmed to guns like I did.

Knives suit him as if they were his own personality—vicious and intimate.

I fit a firearm the way he fits a blade: each of us perfect in our chosen violence.

While the weapon may differ, the lesson will always remain the same—loyal to the blood.

Ruthless as the father. Devils of the night.

The oath brands our souls, leaving a scar which will never heal. It is our bond, our sentence, who we are. Italian mafiosos, the Alessi Twins, the Devils of Seattle. One born to lead, one to hunt, both destined to kill.

For eighteen years, we forged ourselves without weakness. We’ve doubled the kill count of every man in father’s command, Enzo surpassing even me.

I execute the order, extracting no joy from the tedious, filthy task. My twin, however, delights in the terror he carves out with his blades. Unforgiving, like an addict chasing his next high, he can never have enough.

“That made me fucking horny. How do you get those shots perfect every time?” Speaking of my unbalanced other half…he grips my shoulder, admiring my work and I shrug him off.

The shooting range’s dim lights don’t soften the glare I throw at my brother.

He never reads the warning in my eyes; if anything, it entices him further.

“Too bad it’s a pussy’s weapon. Way too quick and clean,” he taunts, a grin pulling up his lips as he flings three throwing knives.

One landing into the chests of each dummy.

His cocky grin elicits the urge growing inside me to use his face as target practice, but I refrain.

Just barely.

One of us must show some semblance of control. Besides, I would like to avoid busting my knuckles open yet again.

“A knife allows for retaliation and survival. I prefer a swift, sure kill,” I growl between gritted teeth. I don’t know why I bother defending myself; it’s pointless with him. But Enzo keeps on with his lifelong mission to provoke me.

“Well, that’s why you’re the boring twin.” A sharp flick in the middle of my forehead catches me off guard, but only for a second.

My more annoying half turns his back on me, but his feet don’t carry him far before I wrap my arm around his throat and pull him backwards. “Never turn your back on the devil, Enzo. Have I taught you nothing?”

A dull pain vibrates in my abdomen as his elbow meets my navel. The bastard slips from my grip as I lean forward, hissing through my teeth while glaring at the menace before me as he dances out of reach. “Stick to your shiny guns, Raf. You’ll never beat me hand to hand.”

“One day, Fratellino. One day.” I rise to my full height, smirking at the annoyance I call my brother.

“Three minutes! You are three minutes older!” he whines as we both begin walking up to the library for our reading.

The childish tradition still claims most of our nights, but Mamma insists on it, always reminding us a well-educated man is a well-read man.

Even now—grown, and among the deadliest men in the United States—she still asks for our time each evening.

And because we love her, we give it, with only minimal complaint.

With her light, she counters the dark in us from our father. Her presence ensures our lingering humanity endures. I could not imagine the untamed monsters with no semblance of mercy or remorse we would have become without her.

Her devotion to reading us classic novels, and the way she makes us hot tea with honey when we are ailing, to her unrelenting need to demand manners and kindness when we speak with anyone we meet is the only reason we are not the vicious monsters our father desires us to be.

Don’t get me wrong, we have our moments.

We are half-devil, half-angel after all.

When the diavolo inside us peeks out, and we get lost in the fray of demons that pull us under…we surface to find our mother’s disappointed eyes. The sorrow which leaks from her evokes a guttural, physical pain in my stomach when she sees our father in us.

I’ll never understand why she stays, but Enzo and I do our best to care for her. Which reminds me, I need to clip her roses from the garden tomorrow. I forgot last night, wrapped up in meetings with Father and his business associates from San Francisco.

But tonight, we continue with Pride and Prejudice.

I’ll never admit it aloud, but I am enjoying it.

Many focus on the story of choosing true love over societal expectations, but Elizabeth Bennet had a fire in her that rivaled expectations placed upon women of that era.

Burning defiance in a woman makes my dick fucking hard—I’m no better than Darcy.

My brother nudges my shoulder as we climb the stairs, interrupting my thoughts of Ms. Bennet. “Did you hear the whispers?”

Tucking my hands into my pockets, I resist the urge to roll my eyes—the action far too childish, and I refuse to succumb to such levels. “I hear many things, Enzo. Please elaborate.”

“Word on the street is the Romanovas have finished training their new Owl.”

Ah, yes. The Russians out of New York have a few disturbing traditions, this one being my least favorite. The youngest daughter trains to serve and protect the eldest son, future heir to the empire. Trained mercilessly to be silent, lethal and above all else…loyal.

The cost of her failure, death.

However, their Pakhan, Alexey Romanova, never had a daughter. His wife died a few months after their son, Ilya, was born. Which left me to wonder which poor, innocent child found themselves in his ruthless grasp?

“Yes, I have heard. She must be fifteen according to what Mother has told us. She should be sent on her first assignment soon.”

Thank fuck Mother has the intel she has, or we would not have the knowledge we do of the infamous White Owls.

Enzo doesn’t waste a second before opening his mouth, most likely not even processing the last minute. “Do you think she’s hot?”

I roll my eyes. Disregard what I said about the action being too childish.

“Always thinking with your dick first, Fratellino. One day, it is going to get you killed.”

“What a way to go.” He chuckles as his elbow knocks into my ribs, throwing me off balance. “Am I right?”

“You are incorrect,” I reply with a sideways glare.

A sliver of light peeks through the cracked library door as we make our arrival at our favorite spot in the house.

But something is wrong.

The absence of Mother’s soft hums fills my stomach with dread, and my heart rate kicks up three notches.

We both pause when a familiar tang thickens the air, tainting the usual smell of her warm, book-laden library.

Pushing the door open, I take one step over the threshold, eyeing the floor to ceiling cherry oak bookshelves, the crystal chandelier lighting the space and her favorite sandalwood candles flickering away.

Leather-bound novels line the shelves, the fire blazes in the hearth, pillows rest neatly on the chairs—everything in its proper place.

Everything, except the captivating irises of the girl perched in the open window.

One blue iris, one green. Her stare clings to mine, wide and glistening, full of raw, unspoken fear.

All-white attire, light blonde hair shimmering like diamonds in the night, and dual blades sheathed at her back alert me to who trespasses in our home—The Belaya Sova.

The White Owl.

Those terrified eyes entrance me, emerald and sapphire at war for attention on a single face, and for a moment, I am stunned by this wild, beautiful creature.

“Rafael!” Enzo’s scream pulls me from the enchantress. Every muscle in my body, even my diaphragm, solidifies to stone. A fire floods my veins, and ice solidifies my heart as I take in the deep crimson inking my mother’s glacial hair, pale skin, and white silken nightgown.

Her eyelids rest closed as if she were merely sleeping, her expression the epitome of peace except for the blanket of glistening red she lays upon.

Time seems to freeze with the cold winter breeze floating in from the open window. Her loss hangs in the air, as if waiting for our acceptance before falling upon us and obliterating who we once were.

My head snaps back to the now empty window, and I fight with the need to chase her like a hound on the heels of a fallen angel.

But then my brother lets out a brutal cry, shattering the silence and allowing reality to descend upon us.

He rushes to her, falling to his knees to cradle her in his arms. “Mamma?!” Pure anger stresses his accent and his body trembles, unsure what to do with the emotions rolling through him. “No. No! Non lasciarci, per favore.”

My twin collapses before me as he brushes her hair from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. My chest constricts with the knowledge that neither of us will ever be the same. As resolve sweeps over me, my father’s words enter my mind.

Never let revenge escape you, son. Be a hound on her heels until you take back what is yours and more. Be relentless, and revel as you bathe in her blood.

I never knew what he meant until now.

Enzo lifts her onto his lap, her limbs falling limp to the floor. We both watch as a single white plume floats from her fingers into the crimson pool below her.

Fly, fly malen’kaya sova, for when I catch you, I will clip your wings and send you to hell myself.