CHAPTER1
JACK
The first hitwas always the hardest one to take.
The guy swinging at me was drunk enough that he’d given up aiming at my face—those were easy to dodge, especially coming from someone so juiced—but he got lucky with his fifth jab toward my middle.
Fifth jab. First connection. My muscles contracted painfully, but I shoulder-charged him hard enough that he ended up ass-planting on the hard concrete of the back alley.
The Beartrap Bar wasn’t always so lively, but this particular asshole had picked tonight to make a fuss. With no bouncer in the place and an awful lot of booze under his belt, it must have seemed like a good time to push the concept of consent with a few of the younger patrons. He’d been cornering them in the bathroom and waving his dick around.
Literally.
Unfortunately for him, Friday nights weremyBeartrap nights.
He was shouting as he stumbled back to his feet, his words slurred and insensible, but I managed to pick outkill youandgoddamn motherfuckerin there among them.
“And here I thought tonight was gonna be dull,” I chuckled, straightening up. Never let them see you hurting. That’s the secret to a good, honest fight.
And then the guy pulled out a switchblade.
“Oh, come on,” I groaned. “Why’d you have to go and do that?”
He lunged at me. I darted back. He stabbed at me again, surprisingly nimble on his feet, and I grabbed his wrist. I was about to disarm him…
But I hesitated.
It was a growing battle these days of what Ishoulddo versus what my darker half was telling me to do.Screamingat me to do.
What Iwantedto do was kill the guy. Eradicating this particular cockroach would be an overreaction, sure. But it would also besatisfying. For a few minutes, anyway…
And it would be so simple. A quiet, easy kill. Bend his own arm back until the knife met his throat, slid in firmly to the hilt. Bundle the body behind the dumpster a little ways down the alley until I could come back later and clean up.
Result? One less asshole on the streets, one less problem for me as I made my protection rounds of West Hollywood nightlife. I was getting tired of making people mind their manners. Tired of pretending I was something different than what I really was.
Killing was what I’d beentrainedfor, from the time I was six years old and my father had first shown me how to take apart a gun, clean it, and put it back together. Killing was what made me useful to my employers in Vegas or LA or anywhere else I might decide to go in the future.
Killing was mycraft. It was hard not to practice it.
But I’d been under strict no-kill orders from Don Ciro Castellani ever since he’d stripped me of my position in the Family and told me I had to learn better judgment. Not to mention the shit that wiping out this guy would pour down on my idiot Capo, Luigi “Legs” Liggari, if word got out.
And word probablywouldget out. There was no telling what spies Legs had sent after me tonight.
I’d stood there contemplating my fucking navel for way too long, and the asshole seized his moment. He yanked his wrist out of my grip, swiveled, and aimed the knife right at my heart with a shout of triumph.
Resigned to keeping this fool alive, I shoved his arm aside and gave him a hard, high kick to the back as he stumbled past me. In combination with his own momentum, it sent him headfirst into the wall opposite. He crumpled to his knees, the knife dropping from his hand.
“You know, this could’ve ended less painfully for you,” I sighed, as I picked up the knife. The guy struggled a moment, trying to heave himself up.
“No—stay down,” I told him, crouching down next to him so I could hold the blade to his throat. I pushed his face into the wall. “Here’s the deal. I’m areallyfucking nice guy, so I’m gonna let you live tonight. But I ever see you around here again? Iwillkill you. Artistically, even—but you won’t be around to appreciate the art of it. Do we understand each other?”
And then he said it, the thing every second asshole in LA said when I’d kicked them out of somewhere. A little muffled, since he was eating bricks, but clear enough. “Do you fucking know who Iam?”
I slid a hand into his sports coat, piercing the skin of his neck when he moved to stop me. The sting of the cut quieted him down. I took out his wallet and flipped it open. “Paul Bunnings, 1639 South Maple Street. So yeah. I know who you are—and where you live. Understand?”
“Fuck you.”
I pressed the knife a little harder into his throat, and he yelped. “Since we’re getting to know each other,” I said in his ear, “most people call me Jack. Butyoucan call me ‘sir.’ And you should probably know…” I stood up, sliding his switchblade into my pocket. “I work for the Castellanis.”
