Consider the Faustis Kings of the Night. They were the highest animals on the food chain.
But back to the point.
It had only been a couple of months since this tiger’s release. I had to bide my time and do most of the work behind the scenes. My father’s men had all either sworn alliance to Cormick Grady or moved out of Hell’s Kitchen, hoping to honor my old man by doing what he had set out to do.
See to it that everyone in this neighborhood had a better life.
I didn’t have my brother to depend on, so I looked to my cousin, Rafferty (Raff) O’Connor, to become my right-hand man. He wasn’t my cousin by blood. My old man had married his father’s sister, Molly, after we moved to America from Ireland when I was ten.
Raff and I started speaking to some of our old alliances, making friends again, and letting it be known that I was going to take back what had belonged to Ronan “Maraigh” Kelly, and now rightfully belonged to his only heir willing to accept it.
Me.
Things were steadily moving forward until Cormick Grady’s car was blown to smithereens. An entire leg was found down the street from his doctor’s office. Not even all the king’s men could put old Cormick back together again. It wasn’t me, though I wished it fucking was. I hadn’t gotten that far in war strategy—they knew I was out of the cage, and things were going to get interesting soon enough.
Cormick’s son, Lee, assumed it was me. Hell, I’d assume it was me with the way things went down. My father was known for explosives when he wanted to send a message—he taught me well.
Lee was out to get me, especially since I reclaimed my streets after Cormick’s death. The Scarpones were out for blood, too, since I’d killed one of their men.
More than that, though, what it all boiled down to was money. I was determined to fight the war on drugs. I wanted them off my fucking streets. Businesses would flourish. Children would play without worry. People of this neighborhood would feel safe.
The Gradys were one of the most savage families to ever run Hell’s Kitchen. Because of this, men were coming to me in droves, ready to start the work my old man never got to finish.
I had stepped into my father’s shoes, the head of a connected Irish family, and no blood had been shed by me. Yet. I could smell it coming, though.
Hell’s kitchen was just getting warmed up after being cold for far too fucking long.
War II: Scott Stone was never far from my mind.
In general, I never had a real problem with the law. It was one of those things that just worked in life. Without the lawless, there would be no need for the law. Men like me gave them a purpose.
Scott Stone’s purpose was to get me.
That was fine, but the problem came when he decided to make his hunt against me personal. The Stones were known for picking a target and keeping at them until they fell, never able to get up again.
At night when Scott went home, badge and gun on his side table, I knew he still thought about me. Just like his uncle in Louisiana still thought about Luca Fausti, the man who became his worst nightmare.
I never killed one of his, yet my blood stained his soul at night. For what fucking reason? Maybe because his father could never catch mine? Not like he wanted to. Other than that, who fucking knows why one person becomes a personal devil to another?
Yeah, I should’ve done my research years ago on the Stones, but I never realized what a dick Scott was until he started coming after me not long before my old man was killed right in front of him. He’d caught my scent back then, and it refused to leave his mind.
So it became personal. He didn’t want me in a cage for ten years. He wanted me in a cage for the rest of my life.
As for me?
He owed me a heart, a life, and I’d hunt until no one in his life felt safe. I’d steal and steal until the one I knew would cost him the most was mine. And when he saw me with her, that look, the one I saw on his face when my father was killed, would be on mine.