Chapter 9
NINE
KANE
“I didn’t do it,” Kennie sobs, tied to the chair, struggling to lift his head. One of his eyes is swollen shut, and his broken nose sits at an unnatural angle after a few rounds with my brother’s ruthless fist.
Cash lets out a harsh laugh, flexing his bloodied fingers while pacing in front of him. My twin has a penchant for violence and is always eager to inflict pain. I’d say he thrives in moments like these.
“Wanna try that again?” he taunts, cracking his busted knuckles.
Noah watches from the far wall of the abandoned warehouse, where he leans up against the graffiti-covered metal with one ankle crossed over the other, chill as anything.
Unlike Cash, Noah’s violent tendencies are less explosive in nature and more calculated, but no less lethal.
“Please,” Kennie pleads. “You’ve gotta believe me. It wasn’t me.”
Cash’s fist flies again, striking Kennie’s cheekbone with a sickening crunch.
I jerk my chin to Maverick, who brings up a recording on his phone from the hidden cameras on the property, and he holds it up with a smug smile.
Kennie pales and shakes his head when the obnoxious sounds of fucking echo through the warehouse.
“After you dicked down Mrs. Huntington, you stole from her husband while she was in the shower.” I circle his chair, hands behind my back.
Maverick plays another recording of Kennie with his fingers in the cookie jar, and it’s not Mr. Huntington’s wife this time. But his safe.
“It wasn’t money you stole, was it?” I stop in front of him, and he quakes as he stares up at me.
I carefully fold up my sleeves, one by one. “What did you steal, Kennie?”
“It wasn’t me,” he says again, his voice desperate.
People always say the stupidest shit to get out of trouble. There’s video evidence, yet he still tries to deny it.
I step back and continue folding up my sleeves while my brother roughens him up some more, just enough for him to lose a tooth or two.
“That’s enough,” I say, and Cash steps out of the way, blood splattered across his shirt and throat.
“Let’s try that again, Kennie.” I motion to Noah, who pushes off the wall and hands me a roll of Saran Wrap.
“Please,” Kennie begs. “I’ll do anything.”
Honestly, he’s a pathetic sight with all that blood and snot all over his face. Why we recruit these low lives to deal the drugs we provide them is a damn mystery. They’re nothing but a waste of space.
“One thing you don’t know about me, Kennie, is that I don’t like to be kept waiting. I’m not a patient man.” I slide out a strip of plastic wrap, pretending to inspect it.
“It was just a dagger,” he blurts, looking between us all with wide eyes. “That’s all. No big deal.”
Maverick barks a laugh, and Cash whips his head up.
“Just a dagger?” My voice is calm and controlled. It’s never a good sign when I’m this calm. Seriously. Most people tremble at the knees, but this guy just keeps digging that grave deeper.
“You got it back. No foul done. I mean—”
“Kennie.” I take a step closer, and he leans as far back as the chair allows. “You fucked a founding father’s wife and stole The Founders’ Relic.”
“Yeah, but—”
“That dagger is only trusted to inner-circle members. You undermined their authority.”
He’s visibly sweating now, darting his panicked eyes from me to Noah over by the far wall, and then to Maverick, who gets his phone out to switch on Franz Liszt’s classical song “Totentanz,” also known as the “Dance of Death.”
Across the room, Noah’s shoulders shake with amusement as I pinch the bridge of my nose.
Not a-fucking-gain.
Slowly rolling my head in Maverick’s direction, I say, “Really, bro? Always with that tune, man. I just wanna kill a traitor without the song and dance.”
Cash points at us with a laugh. “Ha! I see what you did there. Nice.”
“You’re a spoilsport, Ravencourt.” Maverick makes a point of turning the volume up until the tinny music blasts obscenely loud. “What’s a little murder without showmanship. Gotta entertain the audience, am I right?”
Honestly, they’re all kids. The lot of them.
I turn back around, ignoring Kennie’s loud protests, and quickly wrap the plastic wrap around his beat-up face several times. Once I’m done, I tear off the strip, then step back to let Noah record the killing for the founding fathers.
Kennie’s body convulses, and he jerks and thrashes against the ropes, the clingfilm taut against his mouth.
When we were younger, I found it interesting to watch someone die, but now it’s just another task to be completed. Kennie is just another snake who thought he could get away with insulting the society.
It’s a death sentence to fuck a founding father’s wife, for sure, but Kennie’s real mistake had little to do with sticking his limp dick in someone old enough to be his mother. He stole the relic. That action alone condemned him to hell.
As seconds stretch into minutes, Maverick hums along to the beat, pretending he’s a composer and Kennie’s violent death is his orchestra. I’ve never known anyone who loves theatrics more than him.
Eventually, after a long wait, Kennie stops thrashing, and his body slumps. Noah forwards the recording to me while I call for cleanup, and I’ve barely had time to hang up before my father’s name flashes on the screen.
Here we go.
“We’re having dinner with the senator and his wife tomorrow night. I expect you and Cash to attend,” he says when I pick up.
My teeth grind, and I turn away from the room.
“We’re busy,” I grit out.
He tried to talk us into it the other day, but there’s only so fucking far we’re willing to crawl for him.
“The man you killed.” Dad’s voice is a low threat. “He thought he could stand against me. Now he’s gone. Remember, son… No one stands against me or the society. Not even blood.”
Shoulders tensing, I grip the phone harder. The old man seems to have forgotten that it was I who killed the traitor.
Me! Not him.
The deep rumble of my father’s voice brings me back from my racing thoughts.
“Senator Blackwell offers the society protection in exchange for certain… favors. You know this.”
Unfortunately, I know it all too well.
I close my eyes and inhale a controlled breath before I do something that will get me killed.
My measured words slip through my gritted teeth. “I’ve told you, Father. I won’t keep doing this. We won’t. Enough is enough.”
He ignores my statement. “I’ll see you both tomorrow night, son. Don’t be a minute late.”
The call ends, and I almost hurl my phone at the wall in my rage. Cash and I lock eyes when I turn around, and he grits his teeth.
He knows exactly what the call was about. What it’s always about.
Dance monkey, dance.
For once, though, he looks resigned instead of angry, meandering out without looking at anyone.
“What’s up with him?” Noah asks, the phone held to his ear while he waits for the person on the other end to pick up.
“Dinner with our father,” I reply drily.
No other explanation is required. We all have complicated relationships with our families.
Especially our fathers.
We had barely turned ten when we were sent away to learn survival skills for the first time.
Unimaginable horrors no child should be subjected to.
I was eleven the first time I took a man’s life as part of some sick initiation ritual.
By that point, I had watched countless men be tortured for information, and I’d witnessed grown men scream as their limbs were severed. I’d witnessed men gag and throw up while they were force-fed their own body parts.
The reality is that we were desensitized to violence by design. All thanks to our fathers, and it was all to prepare us to take their place one day as founding members.
A legacy handed down from generation to generation for centuries.
A legacy none of us can escape.
An hour later, we’re walking down the main street in Bleakmoor Falls, when I notice a certain blonde through the shop window.
I draw to a halt.
Well, hello, little rabbit.
Jessica looks carefree, nursing her coffee while smiling at her purple-haired friend. The blonde next to her is a younger, pastel version of her… with the same blonde hair, albeit curly, button nose, and plump lips. Younger. Innocent.
That must be her sister. They look a lot alike, yet also not.
Noah stops first, turning halfway. “Ravencourt?”
The others still haven’t noticed. They have their heads bowed together in conversation as they continue down the street. Noah whistles sharply, and they turn.
I enter the cafe, the bell above the door announcing my arrival. Warm air rushes over me, thick with the smell of roasted coffee, cinnamon buns, and something buttery from the oven.
It’s almost comical the way Jessica’s eyes bulge when I sit down beside her. I’m the last person she expects to see in the Falls, because we have no reason to visit this part of town unless we are taking care of business.
I fling my arm around the back of her chair and relax into my seat. Her friends blink at me before turning their curious expressions back on Jessica, and a blush crawls up her neck, either from embarrassment or anger.
Possibly both.
She opens her mouth to speak, to explain why someone from Bleakmoor Heights has pulled out a seat beside her, but Cash’s too-wide smile interrupts the moment when he slams down a chair that he drags over from a different table. As he turns it backward and plops down, Noah and Maverick join us, too.
I fight a smirk. Jessica and her friends resemble deer caught in headlights.
“You haven’t responded to my latest texts,” I say, toying with the ends of Jessica’s hair.
Days have passed since she followed me on social media. I’ve been texting her every morning and evening, but she always leaves me on Read.
The little thief is ignoring me.
Unlike other women, she’s not falling all over herself for my attention, which is strangely intriguing, yet frustrating at the same time. Chasing someone is a new concept to me, and I think that’s why I’m doing it. Because she doesn’t want my attention.
Everyone wants it. She just doesn’t know it yet.