Six Years Later
“Happy birthday, big brother!” Khloe wraps her arms around me.
Twenty-three. I'm twenty-three years old and I feel fucking forty.
Mom sits across the table, her hair swept up in a high bun and the diamond on her finger glinting under the lights. Not as much as the ones around her throat, though. Those fuckers are blinding, and not because of their cut.
Someone taps my leg beneath the table. Atlas. “You've got about thirty more minutes until we gotta be on the other side of town. Wanna wrap this shit up?”
The low light of the restaurant should be relaxing, but it does fuck all to calm my thoughts.
“Nah, they can wait.” I reach for my glass, the ice clinking against the sides as I bring it to my mouth. Whiskey is a weak man's drink. It suits my mood.
There’s too many people. Most I don’t give a fuck about. Atlas' college pack, Mom, Khloe draped over some new toy who won’t be around long enough for me to bother learning his name.
A waiter circles the chaos, young, my age. Her hips roll when she leans to refill glasses. The assessment takes three seconds. Available. Willing. Not worth the effort.
My fingers tap the stem of my empty glass. The ice has melted into something sad and watery. She catches my stare, offers that smirk again. I don't return it.
I drink.
Even with my mother watching me from across the table, judgment radiating from her eyes. My throat tightens. Did she want this life for her sons? The question burns in my chest. Probably not. But you are who you marry.
Fifteen minutes later, we're halfway across Chicago. The street is dark and quiet. No one sets foot on this side of town unless they want their next step to be their last.
I slam the car door and cross the road toward a metal door that gleams under the sickly glow of a streetlight. I'm late. I don't fucking care.
The underground bar reeks of stale beer and something else. Desperation. Or blood. It's hard to tell in places like this.
I descend the concrete steps, each footfall echoing off the damp walls. The bouncer at the bottom doesn't ask for my name. He just nods and pulls the door open.
Smart.
Inside, the lighting is shit. Red bulbs cast everything in a hellish glow, making the dozen men scattered around look like fucking demons. They probably are. The Chicago Outfit doesn't exactly recruit choirboys.
Three of them sit at a booth in the back. The leader, Carmine something, I don't give enough of a fuck to remember, watches me approach with dark, calculating eyes. His suit is expensive but dated. Old money trying to hang on to relevance.
I slide into the booth across from them without invitation.
“Delacroix.” Carmine's voice is gravel and cigarettes. “You're late.”
“I'm here.” I lean back, spreading my arms across the worn leather. “That's what matters.”
The guy to his left snorts. “Bold of you to come alone, kid. We could kill you right here.” He’s either too young or too stupid. Or both.
I don't even look at him. My eyes stay locked on Carmine. He's the only one in this room who matters, the only one with half a brain.
“You could try,” I say, my voice level. It doesn't need to rise. “But then what? You think killing me stops anything?”
The young idiot opens his mouth again, but Carmine raises a hand, silencing him with a single movement.
“Your father,” Carmine says slowly, “had certain… arrangements with us. Dealings that remained unfinished when he passed.”
Passed.
“I'm aware.” I pull my phone from my pocket and set it on the table between us. The screen lights up with a flood of notifications. Comments, shares, reactions. “The question is, are you aware of how things work now?”
Carmine's jaw tightens. He knows. They all fucking know.
La Maison du Mal doesn't just control territory or smuggling routes. We control information. The narrative. With one post, one carefully crafted video, I could turn the entire city against the Outfit. Make them pariahs. Untouchable in the worst way.
“We had an agreement with Alderic,” Carmine continues, but there's a new hesitation in his voice. “Product routes through the ports. Protection in exchange for—”
“Those agreements died with him.” I tap my phone screen, pulling up my Instagram. “But I'm willing to renegotiate. On my terms.”
The young guy shifts in his seat, his anger radiating off him like heat from asphalt.
“You think you're untouchable because of your followers?” He spits the last word like it's poison. “This is the real world, pretty boy. Not your fucking screen.”
Now I look at him. Really look at him. I let him see exactly what I am.
“The real world runs on perception,” I say, with enough patience to make him think I’m bored.
“And I control perception. A video of your boss leaks. A story about your operations goes viral. By morning, the FBI will be knocking on your door, not because they give a shit, but because millions of people are screaming for them to give a shit.” I tilt my head. “Wanna know why they’re screaming?”
His mouth drops open a little.
I glare at him. “Because I made them scream.”
Silence.
I lean in further. “Why do you think La Maison du Mal is so untouchable?” I raise my brows, pretending I think he has the brains to answer.
The other suit at Carmine's side shuffles, his unease crawling through the low bass of whatever song is playing.
My mouth curls. “Because while you lot were measuring each other's cocks for generations, we hid in the fog, building aliases that would last wars. We didn't just think about money, fucking drugs, or any of the other trades we ran. We thought of the bigger picture.”
The kid's face falls.
“You know who I am?” I ask, more because I’m enjoying this too much.
He snarls, leaning back in his chair. He's got balls, I'll give him that. It's a prerequisite for the job.
My smirk deepens. “So you know just how deceptive I can be.”
Carmine studies me for a long moment. Then he laughs, cutting it short. “You really are Alderic's son.”
My jaw clenches.
“Nah.” I stand, pocketing my phone. “I'm better. For one…” My gaze drifts over each of their faces. Four of them. Enough to take me, especially in their own club.
My eyes settle back on Carmine. “I don't fucking deal with The Cove.”
Their faces pale.
Carmine shoots up from his chair, enough to have his boys flinch in fear.
“Watch your mouth, son. I don't fuck with…”
I raise a hand, shaking my head and cutting him off. “Never said you did. I'm just telling you I'm not like him. From now on, shit is about to change.”
I don't wait for him to answer. As my hand lands on the doorknob, his words stop me. “Heard La Maison du Mal is dealing with inner issues…”
I don't react. That's what they want. They want to see the fractures in a kingdom that has been impenetrable for generations. People don't think of the French when they picture crime families. They picture the Bratva, the 'Ndrangheta. The ones who make noise.
Exactly how we want it.
“The inner issues have been dealt with,” I say over my shoulder, just enough for him to see my smirk. “That's why you're dealing with me now.”
Everything was about to change.
But first, it had to start with her.