Prologue

PROLOGUE

Profile #4

Name: Ares (a.k.a. The Chameleon)

Age: 47

Marital Status: Single

Net Worth: 1.5 Billion Euro

Bio:

Gun Trafficker/Smuggler.

Murderer.

Money launderer.

Family unknown.

Lover disappeared under suspicious circumstances.

Unique Identifiers:

Scar across neck, rough features, speaks with a French accent which sometimes changes.

Into rough sex.

Ares pressed down on the tiny silver button and watched as the front of the silver pocket watch popped open. He stared at the surface, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness around him.

You're getting old, old man , that pesky inner voice told him as he struggled to see the time on the watch. Back in his youth, he would have been able to see the tiny digits even in the faintest of lights.

Fuck , he was only forty-seven. Hardly an old man. Still decades away from his retirement—if he didn't get taken out before then—and still able to beat a man to death with his own two hands.

That last one he had accomplished only two short weeks ago.

Young punk didn't like taking orders and thought he would mouth off behind Ares's back. Little did the mouthy shit realize, but Ares had cameras everywhere, including the back of the bar Ares used to clean his dirty cash.

An example had to be made of the mouthy little prick, so Ares took him down to the basement and showed him what happens to people who disobey Ares. He brought hellfire down on their punk ass. He was the god of war after all.

Okay, perhaps he didn't kill the mouthy shit—he wasn't that psychotic—but he did beat the little shit within an inch of his life. By the time he was done with the kid, his jaw was broken, his face was all puffy and bleeding, and he had at least one fractured rib.

The kid ended up spending a week in the hospital, and everyone else was reminded of what happens when you disobey the boss.

Staring at the numbers, it took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the tiny digits circling the edge of the surface.

Five minutes.

It was almost time.

Holding the elegant object in his hand, he was reminded of the one who gave it to him—someone who exuberated elegance, class… style… and a warm heart—well, most of the time. Lately, it was only frostbite and daggers directed his way.

But could Ares blame him? Ares had done this to himself.

No. This wasn't the time for examining his fucked-up life. He had a job to do and death to deliver.

Ares snapped the watch shut and slid the treasure back into his Armani suit jacket where it would be safe. Yes, even when it was time for murder, Ares liked to dress with style.

"You boys almost ready?" Ares asked, glancing over at his crew as they worked quickly to set up their trap.

"Yes, boss. Just setting the last charge."

Nodding, Ares took a step back and stared up at the tiny explosives that had been strategically placed in the rock just above their heads.

The gadgets formed a perfect circle as if they were attempting to open a portal to some other dimension. Well, they kind of were. One could argue they were opening a gateway to death and destruction.

Ares smiled.

Most people would think they were insane for setting off explosives right above their heads. Knowing that—thanks to gravity—rocks fall downward and hurt like a bitch when crushed under. Most people would tend to avoid what they were about to do.

But Ares was not most people. He was a god among men—well, at least when it came to the criminal underworld. Most men feared him, and rightfully so. If one disobeyed him or didn't deliver on promises made, they suffered a wrath that made him famous.

Yes, hearing Ares's name instilled fear in those who heard it.

Being in Ares's position limited the number of people he could trust, which meant that there were very few people he considered as friends. But there were a small few, like the ones he was here to help tonight.

Above them, voices shouted, muffled by a thick layer of rock and clay—a barrier that was not long for this world.

They were standing below what remained of an old bar that also doubled as a theatre in the early 1900s. The establishment was built into the side of a stone wall along the Seine River in Paris. The location was perfect, as it allowed the owners to smuggle in booze and other contraband while avoiding French authorities and pesky taxes.

Known only to a few, which included Ares, was the network of tunnels running beneath the bar and under the streets of Paris.

When running a criminal enterprise, having hidden passageways and escape routes readily available meant the difference between breathing fresh air and chewing on a metal bullet.

This was one of the reasons he had been able to avoid being arrested or captured by his enemies for so long. He always had an escape plan. He was like a rat, able to maneuver through any tunnel, any dark place, and any hostile environment. His need to survive made mucking around through sewers or old freight liners bearable.

"Here, take it. No one has to die," a distant voice shouted from somewhere high above their heads.

Beside him, Elijah's watch beeped. "It's time," Ares's head of security announced, turning off the alarm set on his watch.

Ares nodded, giving his men the "go ahead."

He watched as the tiny red light on each explosive lit up, indicating that they were armed and active. There were six explosives in total, enough to break through the solid rock and surprise their guests above.

Taking a step back, he adjusted the red tie around his neck before folding his hands in front of his body.

Three… two… one…

Bang!

The rock above them exploded as all six explosives went off in unison.

Ares watched with fascination as bodies and stones fell, sending dust and debris into the air as people landed with a painful thud.

To his left, a young man quickly rolled along the ground before throwing his hands up above his head.

"I'm one of Mickey's guys!" he shouted, eyes wide as he scanned the number of armed men currently holding assault rifles at him.

"Hold your fire. This one's not a target," Ares barked, raising his hand and pointing to the buff young man whose muscles were too big for his body. Seriously, did this guy eat nothing but protein shakes all day?

Then recognition set in. Ares had met the young man a few months ago in New Jersey when he was delivering a shipment of guns to the O'Brien crew.

Yes. The young man had been used as a distraction to help entice Ares into giving the O'Briens an extension on the money they owed him for a few shipments.

Ares had seen through the charade, but it was fun to watch the gorgeous young man sweat and squirm when he realized that he was being offered up as a juicy steak to a closeted homo who specialized in trafficking guns and killing people—not that Ares would have taken them up on the offer, but he appreciated the view.

Above them, fire raged, and gunshots erupted. All hell was breaking loose, yet the Devil himself was down here with them.

"Put your hands up," Ares barked at the sleazy-looking man with the scrunched-up face. The man must be the leader, the one they called Seamus .

Ares's attention was briefly interrupted when two screaming men fell through the hole in the rock above them.

"Cillian, you okay?" Mickey, the leader of the O'Brien crew and the reason Ares was here, called down from the gaping hole the two men had just fallen through.

It appeared that Mickey and his crew were just tossing evil men into the pit that Ares and his team had just created.

Efficient.

"Yeah, just chillin' down here with Ares and his army," Cillian shouted back up with a smile on his face.

"Got room for some more?" Mickey hollered as two other young men peeked their terrified faces over the edge of the hole.

"Yeah, we got room. Send 'em down," Ares chuckled up at Mickey.

They watched as three more of Seamus's goons were tossed down into the pit like they were nothing more than rag dolls.

Two nights ago, Mickey had reached out to Ares, explaining that a man by the name of Seamus had a journal in his possession that listed personal information about Ares and other wealthy, powerful men and that Seamus planned on using this information to blackmail Ares into giving him control of the gun trade in Europe—something Ares had worked his whole life to achieve.

Apparently, Seamus had already used the information contained in the journal to gain control of the criminal underworld in Ireland and was looking to expand his reach eastward.

Like fucking hell.

Naturally, Ares offered to help Mickey take down this ambitious asshole, offering up the venue, weapons, and some of the best-trained killers he had working for him.

"Stand up," Ares ordered, looking at Seamus and his group of pathetic-looking gangster wannabes. "This is what happens when you fuck people over for power. True power comes from making friends, alliances, and having respect for one another. Take me and Mickey. I've been doing business with him and his family for over twenty-five years now. We work together, and we respect each other. This is why we have both been in business for so long. Ain't that right, big guy?" Ares called up to Mickey, who was standing alongside members of his own crew, watching the execution that was about to take place.

"Damn right, buddy," Mickey responded with a hint of an Irish accent.

Mickey was the head of the O'Brien crime family in New Jersey. Originally from Ireland, the O'Briens had spent the last few generations making a name for themselves in the United States.

Following the murder of his father and former head of the family, Mickey had spent the last few years making his crew a force to be reckoned with. He had a monopoly on the drug trade in the area, ran guns for local gangs, provided private services for high-powered clientele, and even ran legitimate businesses to launder his money.

Oh, and ever since Mickey had met his cute little twinky, the man had been rolling in cash from the gay strip club he co-owned with his husband, Seth.

Times were changing.

Gay men of power were popping up all over the criminal world.

Ares envied Mickey. There was a strong and powerful man who embraced his homosexuality and lived the life he wanted out in the open with the man he loved. Mickey's crew seemed to have embraced their leader's sexuality, and his business had not suffered in the slightest.

Too bad Ares was not as strong. Even with all the power and fear that he had amassed over the years, he still struggled with admitting who he really was. He enjoyed power too much to chance coming out as gay. What if his crew lost all respect for him? What if people stopped fearing him?

Was he really ready to take that chance?

Over the past year, he'd struggled with that very question.

Times were changing.

His life was passing him by.

"Any last words?" Ares asked the group of men standing before him, some bloodied, some disoriented, some looking stunned and confused. None of them had been expecting the floor beneath them to cave in, only to find a group of heavily armed men holding assault rifles ready to execute them that very moment.

No. None of them had any idea. Which was also the whole point of the plan.

With stunned looks in their eyes, Seamus's crew stared at their executioners.

Seamus spit at Ares. "You and your homo alliance can go fuck yourselves."

"Hey, pretty boy, you may want to step out of the splash zone," Ares warned, nodding for Cillian to step out of the firing squad's kill area. The man might be cute, but he was dumb as a doornail.

Ares locked eyes with Seamus, the man who planned on trying to blackmail him. What a fucking idiot. No one threatens Ares, the god of fucking war , then gets to live to tell the tale.

The man simply glared at him.

Smug Irish asshole.

Ares lowered his hand, and his crew opened fire on the last of Seamus's men.

Laying in a heap of bodies, Ares watched as the life drained from Seamus's eyes, and he let out his very last breath.

This was the life they all signed up for. Only a lucky few ever made it to a ripe old age, and even fewer ever made it out of the game alive.

Once the last of the dying moans came to an eerie halt, Ares watched as Cillian pulled a ratty black journal from the back of his jeans. He flipped through the pages until he came to the section he was searching for. Without reading them, the green-eyed Irish hunk tore out the pages.

"Here. These were the entries on you," Cillian noted as he passed Ares the damning pages.

The pages had been written in black ink, beginning with a summary profile of the individual—their name, address, net worth… shit like that—before going into the sins that they had supposedly committed.

Scanning through the pages, Ares smirked.

Dumb fuck.

Of all the things written on the pages, most were lies and stories that he had fabricated over the years to either misdirect his enemies or instill fear into others. There was only one fact that the asshole who wrote this journal got right.

Ares reached into his suit pocket and fished out the silver lighter he always carried with him. He flicked open the cap, igniting the flame.

The room stood silent as Ares set fire to the pages.

Eyes fixed on the words, he watched as the fire consumed the one true fact that his enemies would have killed to learn—the one true weakness that he kept so closely guarded.

Relief set in as the last of the words disappeared.

Thankfully, the idiot who wrote the journal hadn't realized what he had accidentally stumbled upon.

Ares dropped the remainder of the pages to the ground and let the lies burn by his feet. Nothing in those pages could harm him. They were all lies and misdirection, tools used by a masterful criminal to help build a lucrative empire and seize control over the weapons trade across large parts of Europe, Mexico, the Americas, the United Kingdom, and the Middle East. Ares was a chameleon of deception and prided himself on the illusions he had created. He was not called the god of war for nothing.

"What are you planning on doing with the remainder of that journal?" Ares asked, nodding toward the ratty-looking book. "I could take that off your hands and make you a very rich man."

It wasn't lost on Ares how valuable the information contained in those pages could be in the right person's hands. Seamus, the low-level punk with sights set way above his IQ level, had wasted the opportunity by only focusing on the potential that was right in front of him.

Typical Neanderthal. No imagination or foresight.

But Ares, having control of all that information and potential, could think of so many possibilities.

Not that he needed more power and money, but hey, wealth was an addiction. The more you have, the more you want.

Cillian looked down at the journal he held in his hand. "I think Mickey is giving it to some guys to investigate. This info in the wrong hands can do a lot of damage."

So the Irish hunk had a brain inside that muscle-filled body of his after all. Ares smirked.

"Or a lot of good if you know how to use it," Ares quipped. Good for himself, but not so good for the people listed on those pages.

The young man shifted on his feet uncomfortably.

Ares had had his fun. The poor boy was trying to honor his boss's wishes and didn't want to offend Ares in the process.

This was why Ares loved working with Mickey and the O'Brien crew. His crew were decent and loyal and would never dream of fucking over their boss.

Smiling, Ares stepped over the dead body of one of Seamus's men. Ares's crew would dispose of the bodies, but for now, he wanted to spend some time with his new friends.

"Come. Let's get out of this shithole. I'll take you all out for dinner at this fantastic little restaurant that I know along the river. The owner is a friend of mine," Ares suggested, putting his arm around Cillian and guiding him to a hidden staircase that led back up into the bar.

Ares glanced over his shoulder at the pile of ash that had once contained his greatest weakness.

Perhaps one day.

Forcing that thought from his mind, he turned his attention back to the row of bloody men waiting for him at the top of the stairs. Perhaps they needed to shower and change first before heading out to dinner.

Tonight had been a massacre; tomorrow would be a new beginning.