PROLOGUE
Eian Dempsey
New York City—Thirty-One Years Ago
Keep them guessing.
That’s what Da always says, and he’s one of the most powerful men in this city, so my guess is he knows what the fuck he’s talking about.
Since I turned sixteen, Da has been showing me the ropes of the business, and two days ago he told me the brothel on Thirty-Second Street is now my responsibility.
I don’t take that lightly, just like his warning scowl.
I came by that same day too... gave James notice that I, a nineteen year old punk, am now his boss, and I didn’t like his attitude. I could be wrong about him, but I’m nottaking any chances because I’ve been preparing for this moment my whole life. I need to make it clear who’s in charge now.
Today I’m going to find out if what I think I saw was correct.
Coming round just two days later is not what James expects of me. In fact, most of Da’s underbosses think I’m a spoiled brat—that’s by design.
Da’s a canny man, a cruel man, yeah, but fucking brilliant.
He doesn’t want anyone to know I’m more like him than they think or that I’ve been more involved with the business than any of his men know.
But something changed two days ago.
“You need to make it very fucking clear, son. You need to prove to them that you’re someone they should follow, because you are.”
That’s was a very... sentimental thing for him to say. Not that he’s always a cold man, not with me at least, or with aunt Iris, my cousin Harrison... and he wasn’t like that with Uncle Theodore when he was alive. When it’s just us, he’s funny, kind, loving.
To everyone else... well, Ronan Dempsey is the Devil, so when I open the door to the brothel, I know I have to be the Devil’s Spawn.
It’s not hard to put on that mask, not when I hear a hard slap followed quickly by a woman’s cry of pain.
There’s one thing we Dempseys were put on this earth to fight, and that’s predators, or at least fuckers who think they’re predators.
I can’t go in guns blazing, no matter how much my instincts are screaming at me to kill whoever just hit a woman.
Being smart is more powerful than violence... at first.
So I walk in slowly, but the scene before me—a woman curled up in the corner of the stinking office, James standing over her with a butcher’s knife in his left hand—tests my intelligence.
“Did she steal?” I ask calmly.
“No, I didn’t!” she shouts, bordering close to hysterical. I don’t look at her, not yet, but I feel Mac standing behind me, poised for a fight. I sure hope he remembers what I said on our way over here.
“Only do what I say, when I say.” That’s an easy enough instruction for my best friend.
“What did she do?” I ask James calmly, but my veins are made of lava at the moment, and soon enough I’m going to need to let off a little steam.
“The bitch was complaining.”
I tilt my head to the side, wondering if he really believes I’m going to let this go.
I walk over slowly and hold out my hand for the knife. His frown is infuriating, and he takes his sweet fucking time, but he hands it to me.
I grip the hilt and take his right wrist, pull him to the desk, pin that hand against the dark wood, and bring the knife down on his fingers with all the strength I have. His three, fat middle fingers roll over the edge and fall to the ground.
His scream is . . . annoying.
