3. Mine

THREE

Something I've learned over the years is how easily a perfectly cooked rib-eye steak and a nice Malbec can blunt the murderous edges of even the most ruthless of gangsters.

My Family owns Il Sogno, an upscale ristorante in the heart of Dragonfly territory on the East End. Whenever I meet with the head of the Sinners Syndicate, we alternate between his turf and mine. Tonight it was my turn to host, and the staff didn't disappoint. Dinner was delicious as usual.

Company was better than I expected, too.

Lincoln leans back into his seat, legs spread as one hand sprawls out lazily on the tabletop. The other is hidden beneath it, no doubt on the Sig Sauer that is his constant companion. His dark eyes aren't as narrowed and suspicious as they usually are, though I'm not fooled. The Devil of Springfield will never be truly relaxed when he's the only Sinner visiting his old friend turned years-long rival.

Smart man.

Technically speaking, we have a truce. My counterpart on the West Side agreed to it last summer, nearly nine months ago, but we're both very aware that he was manipulated into giving me what I wanted.

Holding his beloved bride at gunpoint while I suggested the Sinners Syndicate join up with my Family might have been a little… much, but when the safety of my family was on the line, there isn't any length I won't go to to protect those I care about. Proving that my old friend still thought similarly enough to me, Lincoln gave me what I wanted in order to save his wife.

Ava Crewes was never in any danger. I might be jealous of what Lincoln found in his Saint Ava—the woman he was willing to sacrifice everything for—but she was just another pawn in the game of chess I've been playing for more than a decade now.

From the moment I formed the Libellula Family, marking the East End of this seedy city as our turf, there's only one thing I've ever wanted: security and safety for anyone who shares my surname. Money provided that. So did loyalty from every soul branded with a dragonfly. Joining up with Lincoln and his aptly-named Sinners? To combine our might and block any threats to our power and control, I'd do worse than rekindle the friendship we once had.

So long as I never forget for a moment that he's visualizing hacking my head off the stump of my neck before twisting it off with his bare hands as he slices into his steak, that is… and since it's been nine months and Lincoln isn't any closer to forgiving me for using his wife as leverage to get what I want, I haven't.

Still, we fake it. Because if I'm fanatical about protecting those under my care, that's at least one thing I still have in common with Lincoln. Especially now that Ava is only months away from giving birth to Lincoln's child, nothing will keep him from stamping out any and all threats. If he really thought I'd go after his family, I'd be eating his Sig Sauer right now instead of dipping my spoon into the tiramisu set down in front of me as Lincoln watches me enjoy my dessert.

He snorts. "Any day now, Damien. I get why you insist on these monthly meets to check in, but I'd like to get back home to my wife before my kid's in fucking college."

Considering his wife is still pregnant, that would be quite a feat if I kept him that long. Point taken all the same.

"I thought bad news might be easier to swallow with something sweet," I tell him. "Not my fault you passed on dessert."

His brow furrows. "The fuck you mean, bad news? Don't tell me you made me sit through a whole meal talking bullshit about numbers and how the Breeze business in the Playground is doing only for you to drop this on me now." A rough sigh as he shifts in his seat. "Lay it on me. Is it Eclipse? Because I told you last month, I can handle Breeze as long as the cops keep their noses out of my club. But that newer shit is killing kids. I won't have that in my club."

Breeze started out as a hopped-up version of E, but some of our suppliers discovered that if you cut it with some other pharmaceuticals, it turns into a newer, stronger formula we call Eclipse.

I lower my spoon, letting it clink against the bottom of the glass bowl holding my dessert. "Our Eclipse is clean."

"Tell that to the three DBs Rolls and his guys have had to do clean-up duty on since the new year started."

I didn't say that there hasn't been a problem with somebody's supply. I said that our Eclipse is clean. It has to be. A dead body can't buy more drugs or line my pockets with their money.

I want addicts, not corpses.

I don't waste my breath explaining that to Lincoln. One of the reasons we went our separate ways all those years ago was because we couldn't agree on how to make crime pay for us. Back then, he was a brawler who fought for money, and I started out as a dealer for the guy who ran our gang. He went guns. I went drugs. We've both branched out since then, but even now, I'm sure he thinks I only wanted a truce so I could push my product on his turf.

And while, yes, of course that's true… there's more to it than that.

I want the security having more men at my back can provide, and if that means certain… concessions, that I'll do what I have to.

Lifting my hand, I snap my finger. Waiting for the signal, Christopher rises up from his table, striding over to mine while carrying the small briefcase he'd kept on the floor beneath his seat.

Lincoln doesn't blink as Christopher appears. Truce or not truce, he has to know that I have a handful of my men nearby to serve as any backup I might need?—

—just like I spotted at least four Sinners conveniently positioned around the restaurant, barely touching their meals as I joined Lincoln at the table about an hour ago.

Christopher is a loyal soldier. Too gangly and thin to be muscle, and too sensitive to do any wet work, I only took him on because he's Genevieve's closest friend. Honestly, he's her only friend. They met when they were eight in one of Gen's ballet classes, and my sister earned his loyalty for life when she started to beat the shit out of anyone who made fun of him for wanting to be a dancer like her. By the time was eighteen, he could do fouetté turns like a beast, organize distribution, and even handle my calendar for me all while keeping a surreptitious eye on Gen for me.

I might not have wanted to hire him, but for the last seven years, he's made my life easier. I have plenty of enforcers. I only have one Christopher, and my assistant hands me the briefcase before vanishing into the shadows of the restaurant.

Flipping open the case, I remove the black gun.

Guns are Lincoln's speciality. He's instantly alert.

"Where did you get this?"

I could answer him. Lincoln wouldn't bat an eye if I mentioned that one of my enforcers had lent his truck to another, had to order a ride on his phone two nights ago, and he just so happened to notice the gun when it fell out of the young driver's purse. That he took it because the mark on the bottom caught his eye, but that he specifically chose her to be his driver because I asked him to…

Because I know exactly who she is even if I had no idea that she had an illegal gun on her—or why she would.

I could answer Lincoln.

I don't.

"It doesn't matter," is what I say instead.

"Fuck that, Damien. You can't insist on this Goddamn truce, drop this in my lap, then clam up when I ask you a question."

I can't?

Without a word, I purposely glance down at Lincoln's arm. With the heat in the restaurant cranked up high, he removed his suit jacket, tossing it on the back of the seat behind him. Sometime between the salads being served and the steaks being brought out, he rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, leaving the inked rosary wrapping his meaty forearm on display.

When I first met Lincoln Crewes fifteen years ago, the kid was a devout Catholic. That lasted until about the time he killed Skittery after the old junkie threatened Ava, but he didn't have that rosary back then. It's a more recent addition—he probably got it during the years following Heather Valiant's tragic death when Lincoln and his Sinners firmly became our rivals—and it's amused me since the moment I first saw it a few months ago.

A murderer who curses like a sailor, worships the woman he considers a saint, makes his money from selling death and women… and he wears a rosary on his arm as he blasphemes.

It's the small things in life that make me smile, and I would've if I wasn't holding a gun with an unfamiliar symbol on it.

Before I can show Lincoln that, he shrugs. "Maybe it's legit. Not every gun in Springfield has to come through me?—"

Sighing, I angle the gun so that he can see what's been etched into the butt of the handle.

Every illegitimate gun that makes its way through Springfield has Devil's mark. Even if he buys from Valdez or Reno, once the serial numbers are filed off, the devil horns and tail are engraved somewhere on the weapon.

So why the fuck does this Glock have a snowflake etched instead?

I don't know, and I've spent more than a week searching for answers about this mark even before I found it on a confiscated weapon. Now that I've seen it on a gun, things have gotten a little more complicated—and it's Lincoln's turn to understand that.

His hand snatches out to grab it.

I disappear it back into the case before he can. "My enforcer found it. To show I'm not freezing you out, I'm letting you know, but it belongs to the Dragonflies now. Understand?"

A muscle tics in his jaw. "Keep the gun if that's what you want. I saw enough. A snowflake… who the fuck does that belong to?"

If I knew, I would've dealt with this situation myself before bringing it up to him. "I thought you could answer that for me. In the spirit of our truce. Remember, it's us against them now."

"Yeah? Well, that's nothing I've even seen before—" He pauses, eyes flashing angrily. "Wait. What are you telling me?" The hand on the table flexes, tugging on the tablecloth. "Is some other operation trying to move in our turf?"

Just for this meet, I placed the gun Vin took off the girl in the briefcase where I can keep tabs on it. As for what I have in the pocket of my suit jacket…

I reach inside, pulling out one of the baggies that's found its way through my properties. The Dragonflies might not have a trademark nightclub like the Devil's Playground on the West Side, but we own two concert halls, three clubs, countless restaurants, twelve bars, and more coffee shops than I can even think to number. That's not even mentioning all the businesses on our turf that we have a hand in, either.

If it was just some outside operation trying to give Lincoln and his boys a run for their money by bringing guns into Springfield, that would be fine. But once I discovered that someone else thinks they can cut into my business…

I show Lincoln the baggie full of white crystals, knowing he'd recognize it as the dirty Eclipse giving him trouble.

Tossing it onto the table, I tap the plastic, drawing his attention to the stamp on it.

It's a motherfucking snowflake.

Leaning back into my seat, I cross my arms over my chest, comforted by the weight of my stiletto's sheath and holster tucked beneath my pit.

Meeting the stunned look on Lincoln's face, I cock my head. "You tell me."

He can't,and that pisses me off as much as it does him.

I don't like to get angry. Bad things happen when I lose my cool, but knowing that there's some upstart out there who thinks they can push their drugs through my city and run their guns past Lincoln? It's close.

We spend the rest of the meal trading intel. Lincoln vows that he'll have at least a name for the syndicate behind the snowflake within twenty-four hours; with his genius tech guy, Tanner, on the payroll, I don't doubt it. Then, when I can tell I've kept him from his pregnant wife long enough, we head out together as though half the restaurant didn't get up to leave when we did.

Lincoln has a personal driver. Years ago, Luca St. James was the getaway driver for a small-time burglary trio in Hamilton, the next state over. When their last job went south, he hopped in his car and headed right to Springfield, figuring he could get lost in the big city.

He didn't. He had a run-in with a couple of Sinners almost immediately, and while my intel is good, it's not infallible. I don't know how he managed to not only talk his way into joining Lincoln's syndicate, but also getting the gig of driving the Devil of Springfield around the city. He did, though, and he's been working for Lincoln ever since.

I can't do it. And maybe it's my control issues manifesting in a whole other way, but if I'm in a car? I'm going to be the one behind the wheel.

That doesn't mean I'm about to climb into my vehicle without checking it over first. Vin is paranoid enough that he'll always hop in my car to see if it'll explode on me, but there's a difference between being paranoid and cautious. A cautious man who makes it to forty in a hard life knows precisely how to look for signs of tampering without having to open the car first—and that's exactly what I do.

Vin is at home with Genevieve tonight. I made sure Christopher leaves safely with his boyfriend du jour, then slip into my driver's seat. Only then, under the pretense of checking my rearview mirror, do I search for my shadow.

The ugly, banged-up dark blue four-seater is parked along Verona Avenue, about six spots behind mine. Even though it's dusk, the setting sun playing tricks on me, I see the silhouette in the front seat and smile.

It's her.

How she thinks I don't notice that she's been following me around Springfield, I have no clue. The car might have been enough to escape my notice, but the first time I caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of my eye, I knew I'd never forget that face.

She's stunning. With hair as black as mine without any of the silver, and pretty light brown eyes that always seem to be watching me unblinkingly, she'd probably have an easier time passing as my sister than Genevieve does. My attraction to her, though… the way she has my cock twitching is nothing like the deep affection I have for Gen.

Her face is narrow and thin, her features sharp. I've seen her in a sundress, in jeans, in a pair of baggy sweatpants with her hair pulled on top of her head in a messy bun. She's worn a baseball cap, a floppy hat, and sunglasses that conceal her stare. It doesn't matter. I recognize her anywhere, and though I'm too busy for a relationship, the first time I saw her, I thought about taking her home for the night.

Then I realized she was stalking me and, instead of making a move on her, I've spent months waiting to see what it is she wants with me.

I'm used to women throwing themselves at my feet. In Springfield, the name Libellula means something—and I'm not referring to its literal translation of ‘dragonfly'. Women in this city think that, if they fuck me, they'll get a taste of my wealth.

My infamy.

My power.

Sorry, but no. If they fuck me, they get a night to remember, but that's about all. I haven't had a real relationship in nearly four years, and even that only lasted eight months before she was pushing for a kid to tie me to her for life.

So I keep all my tête-à-têtes to one-night stands in a hotel my Family has a stake in, all the while ignoring how envious I am of Lincoln, who gets to return home to a wife who adores him every night.

I'm jealous, but realistic. Even I know that that kind of life isn't meant for me. At least I already have my Family.

Still, I can't deny that this woman has me intrigued, and even though I know I shouldn't pay her any mind, I didn't get to where I am by ignoring my instincts.

And when one of my soldiers lucked on ordering a ride last month and she was the driver, I figured it couldn't hurt to do just a little digging into who she might be.

The app gave the driver's name as Savannah Montgomery, but if that isn't the fakest shit I've ever heard, I don't know what is. She's good, though, I'll give her that. At first glance, the identity passes all tests.

But I've been in organized crime my whole life. First, when I watched my old man work for his crew before he was just another statistic. Then, when I followed in his shoes, working for Gunner while plotting my way to creating a Family of my own.

By the time I was thirty, I'd done just that. I'd taken over half of Springfield, creating a tight-knit group of men loyal to me. To the dragonfly. Whether they were soldiers, enforcers, underbosses, or lieutenants, they were mine. They do what they're told, and those who betray me, they do so only once.

She's a mystery. An enigma. The shadow that I haven't been able to shake in months, though I can't say for sure that I've really tried.

But most of all? She'll be mine, too.

She just doesn't know it yet.