Page 4 of Beastly Armory

“I can take care of myself.” The chair squeaks as I push it back, then stand and brush past Markus, leaving him to organize the rest of the day.

Two

MAXIMILIAN

By that evening, the manor has power and water. Markus has arranged for a housekeeper to arrive tomorrow and staff by the end of the week. How I will pay everyone’s salaries is another day’s problem. Hopefully, my new employees can be patient until I get our rightful properties back. If they can wait, I can do it. Nothing will stop me.

Donning a suit for my first task, I undo the top two buttons of my black dress shirt. One bullet sits in the chamber of my Glock’s magazine, and I run the polishing cloth over the barrel before tucking it into the holster beneath my gray suit jacket. Brass knuckles weigh down my dress pants. The Cold Steel SRK fits snuggly inside my waistband. Condoms in the wallet. I’m locked and loaded.

Cheap cars fill the small parking lot, as if this is the only place of entertainment for miles around. Ironically, the joint is in the basement of an old Gothic church, witha derelict cemetery housing Asa Donovan’s ancestors squatting next to the stone structure. I wonder how pissed Ace must be to have lost this place a few years ago, likely in a rigged gambling match. I’d heard the rumors from Markus or my work associates over the years: Ace’s nickname had become a mockery as his luck drained along with his money.

Looming over me is the lofty bell tower, looking like it’s ready to give me a lecture on bad behavior. Ace and I would sneak up the rickety wooden steps and hide in the belfry to avoid Sunday school. We tried to shoot spit wads through straws at churchgoers as they entered the chapel far below us, but Mama would find us before we rained down too much terror. If she could see me now, she’d tsk until her cheeks sunk in.

Opening the heavy wooden doors, the vestibule washes an old wet smell over me, casting childhood memories back into my vision that I’m quickly snapped out of as I make my way into the tall nave. Shaking my head in disgust, I walk down a carpeted aisle to get to the side door leading downstairs. An iron archway stands at the altar, set up for an autumn ceremony. Strauss has turned the upstairs into a wedding venue. Nothing he does surprises me anymore.

Catacombs lurk as a sub-basement beneath the lounge. While our parents held secret meetings there, Ace and I would crouch behind the coffins, and whenever Cal would gain enough courage to come find us, we’d jump out and scare him. He’d get so mad; he wouldn’t talk to us for a week. Then Livia would kick ourshins in until we apologized to her brother. Everything looks completely different now.

The steps are doubly wide and lead to a circular landing room in the basement. All the walls are still stone, but not moldy and weeping. It looks clean, brighter than I remember, though the room is lit mainly by candlelight. My feet almost slide on a velvety red rug as I trip into a small table with a large bouquet of white flowers. Like this isn’t some dirty brothel. Without thinking, I reach out and rub a petal of a lily to see if it’s real. At least something in here is fresh.

All the black wooden doors surrounding the room are closed. Rotating, I check for any labels to see where I should head for a drink. Just as my pulse thuds harshly with the sense of being trapped, a woman emerges from a skinny door beneath the stairs. The first thing I notice is her exorbitant cleavage and wide, curved hips. My dick thickens in my dress pants as she sways toward me. Her dark skin sparkles in the dim light of the room like she’s wearing glitter. Black hair twists in intricate braids on top of her head and her thick lips smile briefly at the sight of me. Strauss certainly knows how to pick them.

“Need a room or the bar?” A deep, sultry voice resonates through the empty air. Deep-set brown eyes linger on my chest, then drop lower as she scans my body.

“Both, but I’ll start with the bar.”

Turning in a graceful motion, she walks in front of me, her stiletto leather heels making temporary holes in the rug. Her ass is one of the best I’ve encountered in awhile. “This way.” With a flick of her fingers, she motions to a door on our left.

Purposefully returning my focus to the strategy I’d set for the night, my hand rubs at my stubble, trying to get my mind off the goods on display. The plan is to be seen here, to make some waves and possibly serve up a Molotov cocktail, but I think I’ll hit up a room before I tear the place down. It’s been a few weeks and I need to fuck.

She knocks three slow raps on the door, which is opened by a large man, dark shades covering his eyes. The seductress waves me in with her long arm. As I brush past him, the bouncer doesn’t even pat me down, so I confidently stroll straight to the bar. That must mean everyone here is packing. Knowing that makes me feel safer, relaxing enough to order a tall pint of tap beer from the well-built bartender. He nods with a smile and eye-fucks me, but I turn my head, uninterested in what he’s got to offer. I’ll use him to spread some information, however.

A one-step stage and a grand piano, unoccupied tonight, update the lounge area. Mismatched chairs line little tables, with small candles flickering light in the darkness for a romantic atmosphere. The place is almost empty for a Monday night, or perhaps the other rooms are crowded. My ears buzz from the red fluorescent sign blaring Strauss’s sigil, hanging proudly behind the barkeep. Its bull horns bore holes into my outwardly calm demeanor.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I scratch at my temple,willing my temper down. If I can maintain control, I’ll light the curtains upstairs on fire before I walk out. Every indication of Strauss irks me, but before I can act on any homicidal thoughts, the bartender sets a glass in front of me.

“You’re new.”

A sip of the cold hop soothes my irritation. “I’m old.”

“You don’t look old to me,” he says with a coy smile. He’s flirting with me.

“Freidenberg.”

His grin turns into an open-mouthed gape and a slight turn of his head as curiosity has rendered him momentarily speechless. “Haven’t heard that name in a long time. Not since I was a kid.”

“I’m sure you haven’t, but I’m back. Let it be known.” If Strauss didn’t already know, he certainly will now. I need to meet with him and what better way than to fuck up his establishment. He wouldn’t chance hurting his Northerners at the risk of losing their loyalty. The Strausses have a long history of keeping up the charade of caring consort. People like those hanging in this dungeon tonight like to be fooled by it. Probably gives them some type of sadistic hope that things will improve in their lives if they just put their faith in him one more time.

Looking toward the end of the bar, a lithe blonde woman slips onto a stool while glancing in my direction. Bright green eyes catch the glow of the lights behind the liquor shelves, her puffy mouth painted to match her nails. She’s put on a good show tonight and my dick seems interested.

“Scotch on the rocks, please,” she says to the bartender, who now is too afraid to speak to me. Lifting one corner of her pink lips, she blinks as she asks me, “You here for a room?”

“With you? Yes.” She’s a bit older, maybe in her late thirties, but she’s enticing. As she turns more toward me, her long, fine strands wisp across her bare shoulder. The tightness of her emerald silk dress lets me know she’s bendable. Before I can ask her to grab her drink to go, a tall, but skinny guy approaches her from behind and slides a hand along the small of her back. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he spots me.

“I’m Janna. This is Duke.” She leans back into the man’s chest.

“Sup, man.” Duke nods at me, his light brown hair falling over his forehead when he does. Shoving it back with an open palm, an expensive gold watch peeks out as his black dress coat sleeve rides up.

“Hey. I’m Max.” Despite their obvious money, they don’t look to be Strauss’s people. Perhaps Ace’s. Definitely not Calum’s—I don’t smell a hint of patchouli.

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