A visit to Purgatory may be overdue. Knox’s antics, Landon’s calculated silence, Vane’s relentless ambition—they’re chaos and order in equal measure. My brothers: my greatest assets and liabilities.
I grab my helmet, mentally shifting from one kingdom to another. The night is still young, and Purgatory waits for its king.
I shrug into my leather jacket, the familiar weight settling on my shoulders like armor. The garage is silent save for the soft echo of my footsteps as I approach my BMW. She waits like a predator at rest—one of the many reasons I had to have her: crimson red with matte black accents, a machine built for dominance and deviance.
The engine growls to life beneath me, vibrating with barely contained power. I don’t need to check my watch. Five minutes since Vane’s call. I’ll arrive in fifteen minutes.
The city streets blur into streams of light as I push the motorcycle to its limits, weaving through late-nighttraffic. Lesser men fear death; I refuse to acknowledge its dominion over me.
Downtown’s skyline rises before me, glass towers reflecting the neon glow of sin and commerce. I bank right, the bike leaning at an angle that would send amateurs sliding across the asphalt. Ten minutes ahead of schedule.
The gate to the private parking beneath Purgatory recognizes my number plates as I approach, and the gate lifts without pause. My designated spot sits empty, as it should. The last employee who parked there found himself working security in our Alaskan warehouse. In January.
I kill the engine, pocketing the keys as I stride toward the private elevator. The bass from above reverberates through the concrete, a steady heartbeat of debauchery and profit.
The doors slide open directly into the VIP section. The air is thick with the scent of expensive perfume, imported liquor, and the charged atmosphere of deals being made. My kingdom of indulgence.
Knox spots me first, his laugh cutting through the ambient noise. He’s sprawled on a black leather couch, a blonde wearing what might generously be called underwear perched on his lap. His hair is disheveled, and his eyes are bright with mischief.
“The king graces us with his presence!” he calls out, raising his glass in mock salute. “Told you he wasn’t past his prime yet, sweetheart.” This is directed to the woman, who giggles on cue.
Vane lounges in the adjacent booth, one arm draped around a redhead, the other holding a tumbler of amber liquid. His gaze is sharper than Knox’s, assessing my mood before he speaks.
“Twenty-two minutes. You’re getting predictable, brother.”
“Only to those paying attention,” I counter, scanning the room. “Where’s Landon?”
As if summoned, our quietest brother materializes from the shadows near the bar, nursing what appears to be sparkling water. No female companions. Like me, Landon prefers to keep business and pleasure distinctly separate.
“The Russians are in the back room,” he says without preamble. “Getting impatient.”
Knox snorts, setting his companion aside with a playful swat. “Always business with you two. When’s the last time either of you enjoyed what we built here?” He gestures expansively to the club below.
“When I review the quarterly profits,” I reply dryly.
Vane smirks. “Some of us can multitask.”
Knox pushes himself off the couch, adjusting his disheveled shirt. “You know what your problem is, X? You’ve forgotten how to have fun.”
“I’m touched by your concern for my recreational proclivities,” I reply, signaling the bartender. He immediately abandons his other customers, bringing over a crystal tumbler with three fingers of Macallan 25—my standard. I take a slow sip, letting the smoky notes linger before addressing my youngest brother again. “Some ofus prefer to maintain enough brain cells to run an empire.”
Vane laughs, the sound sharp as glass. “He’s got you there. Though I’d argue it takes more brains to balance both.” He gestures to the redhead still draped against him.
“Balance,” Landon murmurs. “Interesting word choice from someone who fell off the balcony last month attempting to impress that new acrobat from the carnival.”
I raise an eyebrow at Vane, who shrugs unapologetically.
“Speaking of our colorful business partners,” I say, “Tyson called earlier. Their route through Montana hit complications. DEA checkpoint caught them by surprise.”
Knox straightens immediately, his playfulness receding. “Casualties?”
“None that concern us. Product secure.” I swirl the amber liquid in my glass. “But he’s adjusting the timetable, which means we need to rework distribution for the next two weeks.”
“I’ll handle it,” Landon offers, already reaching for his phone.
“After the Russians,” I remind him, finishing my whiskey in one smooth motion. “Tyson’s Carnival provides our product, but these Russians could expand our market threefold.”
Vane pushes himself to his feet, and suddenly, he’s all about business. “Then let’s not keep them waiting. I’vehad Ilya’s people vetted thoroughly. Clean enough for our purposes.”
