Chapter 5
LEGION
The rain had stopped twenty minutes before I crossed into Hell’s Kitchen.
The New York streets glistened under the bright city lights and steam rolled upward from sewer grates, wrapping through the crowded sidewalks.
The familiar scent of gasoline, wet pavement, and every not and then really good food from a restaurant carried through the air.
My stomach growled, I hadn't eaten in hours.
The hustle and bustle of the city carried with it the natural confinement of too many people packed together, chasing money and a career that in ten years would mean nothing.
Most peple stepped into Manhattan and saw opportunity.
They saw towering buildings, expensive restaurants, and they believed they mattered in a city that swallowed millions whole every single day without remembering a single fuckers name.
I, on the other hand, saw city transplants who moved from their clean Southern homes into a two by two studio and paid out of their ass just to say they are now a New Yorker and have cockroaches as roommates.
News flash, I can guarantee those idiots are not New Yorkers.
Especially the influencers who decide a ten dollar pizza deserves an award.
A two-dollar slice is better. Just sayin.
But when you looked deep, corruption always hid beneath those polished smiles you saw walking down Fifth Ave.
Blood soaked into concrete beneath thousand-dollar shoes, politicians bought girls young enough to make them do things they were disgusted by, and cartel money slipped through nightclub back rooms, while bankers washed dirty cash beside men who ordered executions over dinner reservations.
Violence fed this city. The entire place functioned on power, greed, lust, fear, addiction, and that ever present dream.
Every block held another version of sin dressed up prettier than the one before it.
But all in all, they never hid it. As beautiful and exciting as it was, it was a shithole. A shithole us New Yorkers called home.
Louisiana carried ghosts in the swamps and death in the rivers behind the compound, but New York carried its darkness openly. It never pretended to be clean. The city embraced its ugliness and its beauty all at once. I felt more myself here than anywhere else in the country.
My old Harley Road Glide crawled through traffic.
Rainwater streaked across the windshield beneath glowing neon signs.
Exhaustion settled deeper into my body with every passing mile.
I had barely stopped during the ride from Louisiana.
Too much shit piled up too fast. Too many moving parts.
Too many unknowns surrounding the Harlots, Duchess, and the woman who occupied my thoughts far more than she should.
Lantana.
Hoax had handed me a shit ton of equipment and instructions. I had two of his tablets and the bag he gave me tucked away in the luggage compartment. When I had first glanced at it, maps and security layouts covered the screen. Her photograph remained pinned in the upper corner beside an address.
That dark hair, and dark eyes…fuck. She did something ugly to me.
Tattoos crawled all over her soft skin, and that mouth of hers was painted in deep crimson lipstick. That mouth looked sinful enough to ruin a man’s life if she smiled the right way.
My fingers tightened against the steering wheel as I got off the interstate just as I received a call.
"Tell me you’re calling because you missed me," I said into the Bluetooth as I turned onto Tenth Avenue.
"You’re in my fucking city," F.O.C.U.S. answered.
His voice was a heavy gravel grind. "Which means my night has just gotten worse."
"Rotten Apple hospitality must be slipping," I said with a smirk.
"We save hospitality for people who don’t leave bodies behind every goddamn place they visit."
"Can’t control everybody’s bad decisions, F.O.C.U.S., you know that. Besides, who told them to fuck with us."
"Bullshit," he muttered.
I pictured him probably sitting in the Rotten Apple clubhouse office with whiskey in one hand and a brunette draped across his lap.
Brothers moved through the background. The New York chapter carried themselves differently than Louisiana.
They were a mean bunch. Couldn’t blame them.
This city forced men to adapt or die. Every bastard inside that chapter understood how to blend into Manhattan while remaining dangerous enough to carve someone apart behind a nightclub dumpster.
"You should’ve stayed at the clubhouse," F.O.C.U.S. continued. "Security. Girls. Booze. Real beds. Half the women here are already asking if the Louisiana psychopath finally rolled back into town."
"Sounds tempting."
"It was supposed to be."
"I’ve got a place lined up already."
"Yeah, Hoax mentioned that." His voice lowered. "Hell’s Kitchen safehouse?"
"Closer to the target."
"You mean closer to Violent Delights."
I said nothing.
"You need to watch yourself around the Harlots, Legion. I’m serious about that shit."
My eyes drifted toward the glowing skyline. Traffic slowed near an intersection crowded with pedestrians.
"I know who they are."
"No, you know the stories you’ve been fed. Big difference."
The rain started again. Droplets tapped against my helmet as I watched a woman in thigh-high boots sprint across the street, holding her jacket over her head.
"The Royal Harlots didn’t build power in this city by being pretty," F.O.C.U.S. said. "Those women are vicious. Duchess carved territory out of New York by making examples out of men who underestimated her. They don’t bluff. They don’t hesitate. They don’t scare easy."
"I’m not underestimating anybody. And I’m not here to scare them."
"You better not be. Those women will cut your balls off and send them back to Louisiana gift-wrapped to Jameson if you cross the wrong line."
“Why is everyone wanting to cut off my balls all of a sudden?” A grin touched my lips despite the exhaustion grinding against my skull.
“Suit yourself. I warned ya’.”
"You always this dramatic?"
F.O.C.U.S. grunted. "I watched Duchess slam a broker’s hand through a glass table because he lied during a meeting."
"That sounds expensive."
"It was. She didn't pay for the table, either. The broker's firm did."
I laughed quietly. I turned down a narrower street lined with industrial buildings, bars, and tattoo shops. Glowing signs painted the wet pavement in streaks of red and blue.
"You think Lantana’s harmless because she owns an apothecary and plays Road Captain?" F.O.C.U.S. asked. "You think that girl’s soft because she smells good and dresses nice?"
"No."
The answer came too fast. Nothing about that woman struck me as soft.
Not from the reports. Not from the surveillance footage.
Not from the photographs Hoax had collected.
Everything about her radiated control. Even standing behind a counter mixing herbs and oils, she carried herself with the confidence of someone who understood exactly how dangerous she could become if pushed.
"You sound interested," F.O.C.U.S. muttered.
My jaw flexed. "She’s part of the assignment."
"Mhmm."
"You got something else to say?"
"Yeah." His chuckle rumbled through the speakers. "You’re already fucked."
The line disconnected.
I stared ahead at the warehouse conversion waiting near the corner.
Thunder rolled over Manhattan. The RBMC safehouse sat inside an old industrial building renovated into loft apartments.
Exposed brick, rusted steel, and security systems hidden behind expensive architecture.
The neighborhood carried the dark energy New York perfected.
Expensive enough to attract money, yet dangerous enough to remind people it was okay to be paranoid.
I parked along the curb and stepped out into the cold rain, carrying two duffel bags, one of them full of expensive surveillance equipment.
The elevator groaned during the ride upward. Old machinery rattled through the shaft. I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes. Fatigue settled heavily into my muscles. My shoulders ached and my stomach burned from too much coffee and not enough food. But underneath all of it sat anticipation.
The loft door unlocked with a heavy metallic click as I stepped inside.
The apartment looked exactly how an RBMC safehouse in Manhattan should look.
Industrial and functional, with dark hardwood floors stretching beneath exposed brick walls.
Oversized factory windows overlooked Hell’s Kitchen while black steel beams cut across the ceiling.
A leather sectional sat near the center of the room facing a mounted television.
Shelves held liquor, ammunition, burner phones, and a safe was well hidden holding emergency cash.
No unnecessary decoration. No softness. Just enough comfort to sleep and enough weapons to survive.
I locked the door and set my bags down. I moved automatically through the apartment, checking exits, windows, sightlines, blind spots, and access points. It was instinctual to check surroundings, men who stayed careless ended up dead.
I walked over to one of the duffel bags and unpacked equipment next. Hoax had loaded everything I would need from tiny cameras, microphones, and signal boosters. He’d even thought of battery packs. I had to respect that the bastard treated surveillance the way priests treated religion.
I stripped off my jacket and tossed it over the back of the couch as I moved toward the kitchen.
I grabbed a beer from the fridge and twisted the cap off with one hand before moving toward the massive windows overlooking the city.The first swallow hit cold, dragging life back into me.
Rain hammered harder against the windows, and I stood there for several long minutes in silence. I watched New York breathe.
My first priority sat three blocks away.The thought alone stirred something hot beneath my skin.
Somewhere out there sat my mark and thoughts of her mouth ran through my head.
I imagined ruining that crimson lipstick with my tongue.
I wanted her sitting in my lap, fighting me for control, her nails digging into my shoulders.
I wanted to feel her thighs gripping my waist, pulling me deeper.
I imagined the sound of those sharp, jagged breaths leaving her throat after the first hard thrust of my hips.
My cock stirred, straining against the denim of my jeans.
I sat down on the couch taking another pull of the beer in my hand.
I pictured forcing her onto her knees on that cold concrete floor.
I wanted her dark hair wrapped around my fist, pulling her head back to expose her throat.
I wanted to see her eyes water from the size of me pushing against the back of her throat.
Fuck, I wanted to feel her gag, her throat muscles squeezing my shaft while I fucked her mouth into submission.
A rough curse slipped from my mouth. The thoughts grew darker, more insistent.
I reached into my pants, tugging on my cock letting thoughts of her roll over me. I wanted to know how loud she screamed and if she scratched when she came apart. And I wanted to know if she tasted sweet beneath that poisonous attitude she carried.
I imagined spreading her across black sheets. Ivy tattoos flexed over soft skin beneath my hands. I wanted to bite her inner thigh hard enough to leave purple bruises, marking her as mine. I wanted to hear her beg. I wanted her naked and trembling and overwhelmed beneath the weight of me.
I stroked harder, rougher, grunting as I got off on my thoughts of her.
I could almost feel her as I imagined the sensation of her wet pussy replacing my hand.
I pictured my fingers sliding into her, the sound of her wetness as I pushed past her tight lips and found her clit.
I wanted to feel her twitch and shudder beneath me.
I wanted to bury my cock deep inside her, feeling her cervix take the hit of every thrust. I wanted to hear the squelching sound of our bodies colliding, the slap of my balls against her ass, the air being pushed out of her lungs in ragged moans.
I wanted to feel her come, those violent ripples of pleasure clutching my shaft, before I filled her deep with a hot, thick load…
“Jesus Christ!”
I exhaled slowly as I gave a slight shudder. I slid my hand out of my pants taking another swig of the beer. Too much exhaustion mixed with too much isolation turned my thoughts dark and Lantana was occupying way too much space inside my head, which could become dangerous.
That woman was part of a job. Nothing more. Nothing less.
I finished the beer and forced myself toward the equipment cases stacked beside the dining table.
I had to focus. No distractions until I had every camera in place. No distractions until every blind spot inside Violent Delights belonged to the RBMC instead of the Harlots.
Only then would I make my presence known.
I popped the latches on the hard case. The metallic snap echoed in the quiet loft. I began sorting through the lenses and the wireless transmitters. My mind tried to drift back to the curve of her hip, the way her skin would feel under my tongue.
"Get it together," I whispered to the empty room.
I picked up a tablet and began mapping the entry points of her shop.
I studied the layout of the apothecary. I traced the paths she took from the back room to the storefront.
I imagined her walking those paths right now.
I imagined the scent of lavender and sage clinging to her skin, mixing with the musk of her own arousal.
I wondered if she ever thought about a man like me. A nomad. A man who brought violence in his wake.
I bet she liked the idea of it. Women like her, women who played at power and control, usually craved the one thing they couldn't manipulate. They wanted to be broken. They wanted someone strong enough to strip away the mask and leave them raw.
Was it fucked to say I wanted to be that man for her?
I continued to look over the information Hoax had provided. The Harlots protected their territory better than most criminal organizations I’d encountered. Cameras already covered surrounding streets. Armed prospects rotated patrols around the club.
I wondered how the fuck I was going to get into Duchess’ office let alone any entry point in this building.
Tomorrow night, I’d have to start planting cameras. And once I stepped into her world, there would be no turning this thing back.