“I piss on rules,” I said as smoke slipped from my mouth, “and wipe my ass with their consequences.”
After realizing Jett would never be a Son, Reginald had approached me last year with a request. He wanted me to choose Clarissa as my Fawn. He refused to let his bloodline be shut out completely.
At first, I’d laughed in his face at the nerve of asking me for a favor. I didn’t take requests from politicians who smiled for the cameras and then fucked over their constituents.
I fucking hated politicians.
With two exceptions: Brooks and his father, the sitting president of the United States.
President Byron had done my family more favors than any senator or governor in the country. He’d helped my father bury his crimes, erase evidence, and quietly remove his name from half a dozen FBI watch lists.
Of course, the feds always added him back eventually.
It was a tedious little game we played with them.
Reginald, on the other hand, was a different breed. A wolf wrapped in wool. The kind of man who shook your hand while plotting against you.
I preferred working with men who were openly ruthless and conniving.
Still, I’d changed my mind when Reginald placed a million dollars on the table in exchange for my choosing Clarissa. He also threw in a Hamptons beach house and the keys to a shiny, brand-new red Porsche.
I didn’t want the Porsche. I only liked red when it was blood, and I didn’t trust gifts that could be tracked.
But I accepted the deal because taking things from people I disliked was deeply satisfying. And every government official under our thumb made my family stronger.
I gave the Porsche to a random homeless guy outside a gas station, signed the Hamptons property over to our housekeeper, and kept the cash for myself. It wasn’t that Ineededthe money. I just liked taking it from people.
The problem was that the Night Sons’ rules strictly prohibitedpayment for selecting a Fawn. I’d broken that rule, but I wasn’t the one punished for it.
Reginald was now missing a middle finger for it. The Elders knew better than to touch me.
“Circling back to Jett,” Cassian said, dragging me out of my thoughts. “We need to get rid of his body.”
I cut a look at Nico. “That’s on you.”
Nico’s fingers stilled over his keyboard. “Damn it, Enzo.” He shoved his glasses higher on his nose and glared at me. “I just finished dealing with Marv’s hand. Give me a break.”
“Breaks are for the weak.” I returned the joint to the ashtray before resting my elbows on my knees and leveling my stare at him. “Are you weak and need a break, Nico?”
Cassian snorted, finishing off the vodka in his bottle. “Yeah, what are you? A fucking Kit Kat?”
“Nico,” I said, my tone carrying a clear warning, “dealing with bodies that aren’t completely mutilated is child’s play compared to what you’ll be handling later.”
On paper, in the Marchetti bloodline, Nico technically outranked me.
Benny—his father and my brother—stood next in line.
Then Benny’s first son and Nico’s brother, Cedric.
Then Nico.
Being the youngest son of the boss was a raw deal because every time my brother knocked his wife up and produced another heir, my place in the family hierarchy shifted down another notch.
It was like watching your inheritance get chipped away piece by piece.
But that hierarchy existed outside Saint Vale.
Here? I had more power and a higher rank, and Nico knew that.
