1
DOMINIC
Blood pools around my feet, the metallic stench seeping into my nostrils and staining my lungs. The body strapped to the chair in front of me slumps forward—–limp and lifeless. I step back, surveying the mess we made—of him—and the cellar below Dom’s—one of a chain of businesses we use as a front for our other… businesses.
I don’t enjoy torture—contrary to popular belief—but it’s part and parcel of running The Syndicate. I do whatever it takes to ensure we call the shots in this city—shots which strictly forbid trafficking women—which is what this fucking beast in front of us was caught doing.
‘Only the brave survive,’ I say dryly. It’s a motto I live by. Carved an entire empire upon.
‘Which is why he,’ my brother, Ciaran, points to the chair, ‘didn’t manage ten minutes down here.’ His dark eyes flick to meet mine. ‘Do you think he told us everything?’
‘It’s a little late to ask questions now.’ I arch a wry eyebrow.
Ciaran gets a little trigger-happy sometimes, especiallywhen it comes to dealing with scum who steal young girls, hook them by getting them stuck on smack, then sell them off to the highest bidder. Which is why our friend here is missing eight of his fingers—cut with bolt cutters, one by one.
‘I can’t believe he was working with Kavanagh.’ He shrugs, wiping the sweat from his brow with his forearm.
Rory Kavanagh wants what we have.
The docks.
The supply lines.
The weapons.
The city.
The only reason he’s still breathing is that fifteen years ago his father brokered an accord with my uncle when we took the city. A non-aggression pact. No encroachment. No blood between families. No touching what belongs to the other.
It’s the only thing standing between him and extinction.
I’ve been silently begging him to break it for years. Because the moment he so much as lays a finger on a Kincaid—the accord dies.
And so does he.
The same courtesy isn’t extended to his henchmen, which is why this bastard in front of us drew his last breath two minutes ago.
I wipe the sweat beading on my brow with my forearm and blow out a breath. ‘Kavanagh is a cunt. Always has been. Always will be.’
I’m no saint.
Far from it, in fact.
But women, children, and civilians are not part of our world.
They shouldn’t be dragged into it by beasts like him.
‘Someone thinks he’s alright.’ Ciaran shrugs. ‘Heard he’s getting married today. At the Shelbourne, no less. Flash fucker. He won’t be so flash when he realises we released the women he was planning on selling to pay for it.’
‘If he can find someone to love him, there’s hope for us yet.’ I push my thick-rimmed black glasses up onto my nose.
‘There’s hope foryou,you handsome fucker.’ My brother punches my bicep playfully. ‘Marriage and babies aren’t on my agenda. Never have been, never will be.’
‘You just haven’t met the right woman yet.’ Neither have I, but I know she’s out there somewhere. I’ve always known it. A fact that earned me an interesting nickname—the romantic psycho. I believe in true love. I believe in soul mates. But I also believe in The Syndicate.
My brothers are convinced we can’t have both.
I can’t wait to prove them wrong.
