Chapter 1

1

ROMEO

“ D on’t fuck this up, and you might get a seat at the table.” Dante Vitorri brings his car to a stop in front of Mayfair Manor.

Lightning cracks behind the monolithic construction and thunder rumbles the Earth beneath us. The car rattles violently against nature’s war cry. And yet—ill, foreboding signs and all—the Demon of Delta County smokes his cherry cigar, cool as a cucumber.

“Hard not to when you haven’t told me what I’m supposed to do,” I say and shift uneasily in my seat.

“Billy Mayfair’s hosting a get-together for wealthy pricks and low-down degenerates.” He ashes the tip of his cigar out of a crack in the window. “The Don wants you to get information out of them.”

“Simple enough.” Too simple. I’ve got a bad feeling about this. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch. We’ve heard good things about you and want you on our side. Trouble is, there’s no telling the truth from horse shit without seeing you in action.” Dante lodges the stogie between his lips again. “So, a simple job to test the waters. Should be hard to fuck up. Don’t prove me wrong.”

“Then why not do it yourself? You’re risking a lot on the new guy.”

Don’t get me wrong, I want to join the Lion’s Den. The power, structure, and order of Salvatore Lione’s organization call to me. Doesn’t mean I won’t ask the hard questions and do what I’m told without question.

The juice has to be worth the squeeze, and being alive sure beats joining a family.

“The party’s invite-only and Mayfair forgot to mail the Don’s.” Dante speaks with calculated charm.“We found one anyway, but it might cause unnecessary problems if the Lion or his cubs pitch up. That’s why it’s you.”

“And if I get made?” I know the answer, but I still want to hear it.

“Then you proved me wrong.” Dante turns the key, and his engine roars to life.

Another bolt of lightning lights the night sky, and with it, the first drops of rain begin to fall.

I get out of the car. A kid no older than twenty waits for me outside it. He raises an umbrella over us and has to stand on his toes to get it over my head.

“Good evening, sir. May I see your?—”

No need for questions. I was briefed on how to act with the staff—treat them as less than human.

I cut him off by holding a gold leaf-encrusted envelope in front of his face. Dante gave it to me on the drive. The front reads Jerome Whitaker. I wonder what the Don did to the guy to get this, but my pondering falls short when the kid hands it back.

“Right this way, Mr. Whitaker.” I’d like to think he’s smiling, but I can’t tell in the darkness.

Does it even matter?

We don’t speak again. Not that we’d be able to hear each other over the sound of gravel crunching underfoot and machine gunfire from heavy rain overhead deafening us.

Another guy waits at the front door. Different from the kid, he’s dressed in black with a pistol on his hip.

Armed guards. Great.

He takes the envelope from me and scans it intently before dropping it in a small wooden box holding hundreds more.

“Enjoy your stay, Mr. Whitaker.” He palms open the door, and an instant wall of noise rattles my brain around my skull.

The entryway is littered with people shouting over one another to get a word in. Empty suits and bland dresses. Devious cunts who laugh and smile to your face but prepare their knives for when you turn around.

They give me the fucking creeps.

I brush past the crowd, hovering around the front door and toward my destination. I follow an older couple, navigating the swarm until we break out of the hallway and into a massive ballroom.

Right. Where’s the bar? Gotta calm down somehow, and there’s no better way than drowning my woes.

On the far side of the room stands a makeshift wooden structure. Behind it, twelve diligent troopers dance around with excellent proficiency, slinging one drink after the next without faltering.

“Lager. Ice cold.” I fall into the bar and grab the attention of whoever’s closest to me.

They’re staring at me. I can feel the hive mind mass burning holes into the back of my suit. Part of me wants to believe it’s because I tower over these little people. That one look is enough to scare them straight into the marrow.

But let’s face it, it’s because they know I don’t belong. They smell it on me. I’m fresh meat for the hounds, and they want me to remember it.

I grab my wallet and draw a crisp fifty-dollar note when the bartender returns. I hold it out to him while he cracks the top off the first bottle.

“It’s an open bar, sir.” The sincerity in his tone soothes the swirling fire barreling through my chest.

“It is?” I down half the bottle in one big gulp.

Lucky for him, I planned on spending a lot more than a fifty tonight. I lean over the counter and shove the fifty into the front pocket of his blazer. He mumbles a thank you, but unlike the kid outside, I can see his smile. He shuffles off to the next person awaiting service.

Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Are we customers if we don’t pay? Or just entitled assholes swallowing shots of whiskey that cost more than these poor sods make in an entire night without so much as a thank you?

Feeling refreshed, I set my eyes back on the party. Enormous floor-to-ceiling windows have the intensifying storm outside on display, while a sea of bodies amble across the room like zombies.

Those brave few who dare to continue staring at me don’t get my attention. Why should they? Their judgment of me has been reserved from the moment they saw me.

An outsider trying to pierce the bubble of their perfect society.

A monster.

These thoughts swirl in my head until I feel the ground vanish from underneath me, my heart stopping, my breath hitching.

I nearly drop to my ass as a perfect crack forms in the crowd. Through it, I’m graced with my first sighting of something pure in this den of lies. An innocent face. A pure beam of absolute beauty.

She’s trapped like me. Staring dull-eyed out over the patrons, so lost in their own delusions that they haven’t noticed her. All apart from one—a tweed-wearing dickhead droning on with righteous passion against the side of her face.

Well, Mr. Tweed, you’ve had your chance and failed terribly.

It’s my turn to be her knight in shiny, silken armor.