He runs the candle along the back of the silver cross. The flame licks the precious metal. Without looking down at me, he speaks. “Down on your knees.”
My heart pounds, and blood begins to rush in my ears. There’s no stopping what’s to come. Either I will willingly do as I’m told, or he will force me, which will just make it worse. With shaky knees, I slowly lower myself to the cold floor.
“Place your chest to your thighs and reach your hands out in front of you.”
Tears begin to blur my vision, but I blink them away, refusing to cry or look weak. To him, weakness is a tool. Something useful. I heard him once say, “A man must willingly sacrifice himself with dignity.”
I hear him set the candle back and my body shakes as he places his hand flat on my back, holding me down while kneeling beside me.
“Dad—” My voice breaks as I try to catch my breath.
He interrupts me. “Bless him, Father, for he does not know what he does.” Then he places the burning metal against my back, and I bite down on my tongue, refusing to scream into the silent church. The smell of burning flesh hits my nose while blood slips between my lips and onto the floor under me. Every muscle in my body is taut while I hold my breath. “But he will. Being a King has a price that very few are willing to pay.”
Sucking in a breath through gritted teeth, he removes the hot cross, and I sag to the floor.
“You must learn to endure pain, son,” my father says, pulling me to my feet.
I sniff and quickly rub the back of my hand under my nose to catch the snot. When I swallow, I taste the lingering blood.
“People don’t understand what it takes to be us.” He goes on, and I look at my shoes, unable to meet his eyes. The shame I feel right now is too much.
My back is on fire from the branding he just gave me. As if a fucking cross is going to guarantee me a trip to heaven.
“You will see, son.” He taps my shoulder, and I pull away from him.
He turns and walks away, leaving me standing alone at the front of the church. Moments later, I hear my mother’s heels clap on the floor as she makes her way to me.
“He is teaching you to be better,” she states, coming to stand next to me.
Lifting my head, I glare up at her, hating her for marrying him and for having me. Why would anyone want this life? Why would anyone want to hurt the innocent?
“Happy Birthday,” she says once again. Reaching into the pocket of her jacket, she pulls out a small rectangular box.
I just stare at it.
“Go ahead and open it.” She holds it out to me.
I take it from her hand and gently unwrap the white paper and see it’s a black Zippo.A lighter?My birthday present is a lighter?
“We all have a cross to bear,” she reads what’s engraved on the back. “Fire is a symbol of the Holy Spirit.” She goes on to explain. “Fire can bring warmth, but it can also be uncontrollably dangerous.” I look up at her. “You’ve always been fascinated by fire, Cross. Just like your father.” I flinch at that thought. I hate being like him. “This is your faith. Your redemption. A reminder that we must all do what needs to be done.” With those words, she takes my hand and guides me back down the aisle of the church.
CHAPTER ONE
CROSS
Thirteen years later . . .
CLICK.
The sound of my Zippo in my right hand, flipping open and closed, fills the meat locker—a room at Kingdom where the Dark Kings and I handle our business. The kind that others can’t know about. An underground concrete room where no one can hear the screams of whatever unlucky bastard we drag down here. It’s nothing more than one chair and table in the middle of the room—screwed down, of course, so neither one can be used as a weapon against us. Four concrete walls and floor. One light in the center of the ceiling.
It’s our hell. We drag the sinners down here to make them pay for their sins.
My three best friends and I grew up being exactly what the Three Wisemen—our fathers—hoped we would be. And I’m thankful that none of them are alive today to witness that. I’d hate for my father to feel any satisfaction in regard to what kind of man I’ve become. I know the other Dark Kings feel the same way.
Our fathers knew us as weak little boys. Now at twenty-six, the world knows us as Titan, Bones, Cross, and Grave. Each one of us earned our nickname at different times in our life for various reasons. None of them good. People bow to us because we fucking earned it, not because our fathers gave it to us. We’re nothing like them. We’re worse. We just choose not to hide who we are. No, we parade it around Las Vegas in broad daylight.
Our newest victim sitting in the chair glares up at me as I lean casually against the concrete wall across from him. His brown eyes fall to my Zippo.
