Lords of Wrath: Chapter 8

Even if I didn’t have my earbuds in, I wouldn’t have to worry about talking to the guys on the way to the South Side. The cab of the truck is silent. Killian is still pissed at Tristian for disobeying him and putting Story at risk. Tristian is holding a grudge that Killian’s been nailing her every night. I’m pissed at both of them. Tristian for getting us called down to the South Side and Killian for using Story as his personal fuck every night.

That’s not how this is supposed to work.

Killian parks the truck in front of the late 70s-era renovated office building. It’s beige with brown trim, and the first floor is windowless. There are no signs identifying what kind of business operates inside. Daniel bought it for his real estate headquarters, which works out nicely, as it’s tucked up right on the edge of South Side. Presentable enough for clients and investors while still being close enough to the heart of his territory that he gets to monitor things.

“No one mentions Story, do you understand?” Killian says when we arrive. He turns to glare at me over his seat. “Not a single fucking word.”

Tristian impatiently replies, “We should just tell him what they did. If anyone would understand the importance of keeping what’s ours, it’d be him.”

“He does need us to win,” I point out. “He’ll still be mad, but he’d get it.”

“What do you think is going to piss him off more?” Killian’s jaw goes sharp and tense. “Retaliation, or the fact we let them get a hold of our Lady in the first place?” He looks between us, even though the question is rhetorical. We all know the answer to that. He jabs a finger toward the building. “You’re both so fucking concerned about her? Fine. She’s off-limits in there. Otherwise, we’re dragging her into a clusterfuck that she couldn’t even begin to comprehend.”

Despite the tension between us, no one disagrees. Daniel has to know by now that Story is our Lady. After the football game and dinner with Killian and Story, there’s no way his dad missed the bracelet. Knowing Killer, he probably agreed to dinner that night to show her off to him, stake his claim, make it known. The pissing contest these two have had over her is legendary.

We take the elevator up to the top floor, silent and tense. Killian looks like he’d rather be shoving needles into his balls than attending this meeting, which is probably fair. I almost feel bad for him. Almost. I’m sure getting massively laid for the last three nights in a row is dulling some of the sting. Hopefully Ms. Crane can suss out how bad it is. I’d pulled her aside before we left and asked her to see to Story’s…condition.

Whatever the fuck that may be.

Eventually the doors slide open to a lobby.

Vivienne, Daniel’s secretary, looks up when we walk in. “Oh, if it isn’t our strapping boys!” She pushes her hair blonde hair back over her shoulder. “I heard you were coming in.”

“Viv,” Killian greets, giving her a tight nod. “Can you tell him we’re here?”

“Sure thing.” She picks up the phone and speaks softly. Once she hangs up, she says, “Can I get you some coffee?” She looks at Tristian. “Tea?”

“No, thank you,” Tristian says, walking over to her desk and propping himself on the edge. She’s sitting in her chair, giving him a perfect view of her tits. They were naturally big, but that wasn’t enough for Daniel. He told us one night over cigars that he paid ten grand for those babies. Five for each side. “You’re a vision today, Miss Viv. Love that necklace.”

Her hand flutters to the chain around her neck, the pendant nestled obscenely in her cleavage. “Aw, thank you! It was a gift.”

She doesn’t have to say who it was from.

Vivienne was one of twenty applicants Daniel interviewed when he opened the office. He wanted someone local. Someone who understood the South Side and would be loyal to his interests. Loyal to him. Vivienne was young back then, having just graduated from high school. Daniel showed us the video of her interview before we did our own with the prospective Ladies. Imparting wisdom, he called it—as if we needed it. Now, being that she’s his right hand, she’s basically the queen of this whole scene, and I can’t look at her mouth without getting hard.

The phone buzzes on her desk and she picks it up, listening for only a moment before telling us, “He’s ready. Go on in.”

Daniel is sitting behind his massive desk when we enter the room. Framed black and white photographs depicting the South Side decorate one wall, and a series of flat screens occupy the other. A massive window fills the wall behind his desk, overlooking his territory—our territory. On a shelf is an award made of crystal, announcing him as Civic Leader for the prior year. Daniel grew up three blocks away in a housing project owned by the city. He was raised on the streets and watched his friends either go to jail or die young and hungry. He didn’t want that. He got an education. He clawed his way out, ruthless as ever. Then he came back to take care of the people left behind. Despite the antagonistic relationship between him and Killian, he’s determined for his son to have a vested interest in the community. There was never any other option for Daniel’s son. Killian was born to be a Lord. To own. To have. To keep.

“Gentlemen,” he says, in a deceptively professional tone. “Thank you for coming down so early.”

Killian drops in the chair across from the desk. With his wide sprawl and inked arms, he’s a stark contrast to his father’s formal demeanor and crisp suit. Tristian and I both greet Daniel, but neither of us sits. The power play between Killian and his father is unique and twisted. We learned a long time ago not to get in the middle of it.

Until high school, Killer had been more than happy to follow in his father’s footsteps. If Story had never come into the picture, I’m betting things would be different. Killian might have been a preppy little business major, just like Tristian. Instead, he’s chasing NFL dreams and LDZ glory. It’d probably make any other dad disgustingly proud, and to his credit, Daniel plays the part. He always attends the home games. Donates handsomely during fundraisers. Hangs his jerseys and displays his championship victories. But the four of us know better. Football was a statement, which is kind of hilarious to think about. Most kids rebel by fucking up their lives, not becoming NFL hopefuls on track to stardom. Classic Payne energy.

Despite his shows of support, all his father wants for him is this.

Killian Payne, Lord of South Side.

I think he’d rather let it topple than do it on Daniel’s terms.

“I’m not sure we had much of a choice,” he says to his father.

Seeing the two of them across from one another brings back the memory of the first time they got physical with one another. Killian was fourteen and had gotten into his dad’s coke stash. Daniel revealed a side of himself I didn’t know he had until then. He’s always so calm and methodical, downright Machiavellian, but there’s a simmering rage buried underneath that cool exterior that no one wants to see.

Killian inherited the rage, but not so much the ability to hide it.

Daniel regards his son with a flicker of annoyance. “Your choices evaporated when I got a call from the chief about that fire last night.”

“Yeah,” Killian says, stretching his long legs out. “You sent the picture. I’m not sure what this has to do with us.”

It’s a ballsy move, playing it off. There’s no chance Daniel doesn’t know it was Tristian. He’s a total firebug. Killian could save himself a shitload of grief by throwing him under the bus, but he won’t. Even if he’s pissed at Tristian—even if he thinks it was reckless and stupid—he’s still got our backs.

“I wondered the same thing until I learned that this particular car—a very expensive Mercedes—belonged to one of the Counts.” He turns to his computer, sending a photo to the flatscreen on the wall beside us. It’s obvious from where I stand that it’s the shell of a G-Wagen. “Didn’t you boys have a run-in with them lately?”

Daniel is the kind of person who makes everyone’s business his own, not just here in South Side, but also with the people he has professional dealings with. Since he’s our LDZ supervisor for the year, that doesn’t just include the Lords. It encompasses it.

Of course he’s perfectly aware of the shit going down with the Counts and our Lady.

“That’s been handled,” Killian lies.

“So you didn’t burn a skull into the hood of the Mercedes as an act of revenge?” He leans back in his chair, leisurely inspecting the photo. He shakes his head. “This is some sloppy, sloppy work, boys.”

Tristian cuts in, “Daniel, look—”

Killian cuts him off. “That area has so many criminals, one sweep by the police would bring in half-a-dozen solid suspects. Perez was a fool for taking a car like that down to the bar. He was asking for it.” Killian’s voice never wavers, face hard as stone. “If you brought us down here for something, then cut to the chase. We all have busy schedules.”

“As do I,” Daniel states, pointing at the photo. “In fact, it’s become much busier now that there’s an arsonist on the loose in South Side. The business community is unsettled—understandably, since more than half the members pay for my protection. Tell me, does this look protected to you?” He looks between the three of us, waiting for an answer. When none comes, his expression hardens. “I’ve got the media champing at the bit for any excuse to question the safety around here. I’ve got the feds pacing outside the city lines, waiting for any opportunity to investigate my assets. Most importantly, I’m in the middle of re-launching my most lucrative venture, which means this is all attention I can ill afford. And then I’ve got the three of you,” he adds, eyes darkening, “pissing in my goddamn corn flakes with your shoddy revenge schemes.”

I try, “We didn’t—” but my voice clips off at the glare he shoots me.

“You’re lying to me, which tells me you know just how idiotic that stunt was, but I don’t actually give a damn. Even if you weren’t responsible for the fire,” his expression implies heavily that he knows we are, “you three are cleaning up the mess.”

“Now?” Killian asks, mouth pressed into a tense, annoyed line. “It’s a bad time. We’ve got homecoming to deal with. Coach is riding my ass.” He looks back at me. “Rath has to perform for the alumni, and Tristian’s heading up the frat while we’re busy. We don’t have time for this.”

“Your responsibilities to your coach are so far down the list of priorities, they barely even register a blip.” He’s watching his son with a curled lip, his words oozing with condescension. “But if it means so much to you, then you should have thought of that before running off to terrorize my city,” he says, holding up a list. “You know how this shit works. You go in early, before everyone is awake, while the kids are at school. Collect money, assure our clients the area is safe, shake wallets, shake hands, shake dicks—whatever it takes. If anyone pushes back…well, you know what to do then, too.”

Killian opens his mouth to say something, but Tristian steps forward and takes the list. “Yes, sir. We’ll get this done immediately.”

It’s clear that we’ve been dismissed, and Killian takes the lead, looking fully prepared to storm out in true Payne fashion. But before we can leave, I hear Daniel call Tristian’s name. When I glance back, he has an arm slung around Tristian’s shoulders and his phone clutched in his other hand.

“Before you go, I need to show you something.”

He thumbs something on his phone and another TV flickers to life. The video is a jerky loop, but it’s obviously from a security camera. The room is shadowy, but two things are clear; it’s a male and a female, and one is holding a gasoline canister. He pauses the screen and looks at Tristian, who’s stiff and trapped by his arm.

“Whoever started that fire used my materials. They brought an outsider into my warehouse—a girl, from the looks of it. They compromised my organization, I assume in some effort to get between her scrawny little legs.” He squeezes Tristian’s neck, hissing into his ear, “That road head better have been worth it. Right, son?”

“Yes, sir,” Tristian replies, and even though his poker face flawless, I can see the flash of dread in his eyes. How the fuck would Daniel know about Story giving him road head?

Daniel releases him with a barely restrained shove before stalking back to his desk, tossing the phone with a clatter. “You remember that little talk we had your senior year, Mercer?”

Tristian dips his chin in a nod. “I do.”

“I hope so,” Daniel says, pinning him under a glare. “Because your inability to choose pussy has caused more property damage than a goddamn wildfire. You’re still in my debt for covering up that incident with the boat. You just remember that, too.”

“I will,” Tristian says, the corners of his eyes tight at the mention of his ex-girlfriend, Genevieve. It wasn’t a boat—it was a yacht—and the primary fuck-pad for our high school softball coach. Tristian had fucking lost it when he found out Genevieve was screwing him behind Tristian’s back. In hindsight, we’re probably lucky it was a yacht that got torched. His throbbing rage-boner could have burned down this whole fucking city.

Tristian leaves, squeezing past me, and I take one last look at the screen. Even I can’t tell it’s Tristian and Story, but Daniel has a way of knowing.

He always has a way of knowing.