There's an unspoken law on the Davens Port—etched into its jagged cliffs, whispered in the fog, and understood without being said.
You don't mess with the King brothers.
It's not just a warning. It's survival. The Cosa Nostra runs deep here, and the Kings name is sewn into every shadow and soaked into every drop of salt air. From Cove to Hollow to Dip, every club, hotel, and greasy diner owes something to them. They own the real estate, the people, and the silence that follows when someone asks the wrong question.
I should've known better. Hell, I did know better. I grew up in the belly of the beast—the Kings Grand Hotel and Casino. Learned to walk on marble floors beneath their poker tables. Had my first shot of whiskey behind one of their bars. Bled for the first time in a stall with gold-plated fittings. One of them even taught me how to cheat a card table with nothing more than a smile and a twitch of a ring finger.
And yet here I am, eyeballing the man in the corner booth like he's just another unlucky mark.
The glow of his phone outlines his jaw as he murmurs into it. A halo of light hits his temple, and for a second, I freeze. Something about the shape of his mouth, the gleam of his cufflink, the weight of his stillness—it all strikes a little too familiar.
Then his eyes—sharp, green, dangerous—catch mine just as he turns away, and my gut drops.
That's no mark.
That's Lucious Kings.
My fingers grip the bar like it might save me from the realization crashing over me. I can feel Dan watching me from across the room, gathering glasses with a slow shake of his head.
I slip the bills for my drink under the edge of the coaster and reach for my coat. I don't look back. I don't need to. I already know how close I came to catastrophe.
One breath. Two. I bend to grab my suitcase from beneath the table.
Then his voice cuts through the air.
"Leaving already?"
Fuck.
"Yeah," I say, my voice higher than I'd like. "Early train."
"There are no trains on the Devil's Coast."
I keep my smile in place like a shield. "Different town. Early bus. Gotta run."
His steps are slow, deliberate. Each one presses the air thinner around me. I straighten, my fingers clutching the handle of my suitcase, and consider bolting.
Then he's behind me—close enough that his breath brushes the back of my neck. Warm whiskey and cool mint. I can't help the goosebumps that ripple down my arms.
His voice is quiet and final.
"Let's play your game."
It's not a request.
I spin to face him, heart thumping against my ribs. My chin tips up in defiance, even as the rest of me screams for the exit.
"Persistent, aren't you?" I mutter.
His smirk deepens. "Oh, I'm interested."
That single look sends a heatwave rolling across my skin, but I suppress it. This man is not interested in flirtation. He's amused, maybe. Curious, definitely. But interested? No. This is a cat playing with its food.
I fake a casual shrug. "Fine. Let's play."
He follows me back to the bar and slides onto the stool next to mine. His presence swallows the space between us, but I don't flinch. I can't.
"Tell me more," he says, voice like velvet over steel.
I clear my throat. "Five-question quiz. You get any answer right, I win."
He raises a brow. "And what do you get?"
"Your necklace."
He glances at the sleek Breitling on his wrist. "And if I win?"
"You won't."
A dry laugh escapes him. "You're sure of that?"
"I'm sure of a lot of things."
He hums, resting his elbows on his knees, and watches me like a scientist observing a new species. I hate how steady he looks. How calm.
Dan delivers two drinks to the bar—a lemon drop for me, and something darker for him.
I eye the cocktail with suspicion. "Changed my drink?"
"Changed yours," Dan says quietly. "Less of a choking hazard."
I narrow my eyes. The drink may look harmless, but I wouldn't bet my life on what's in it. With Raphael watching me, I push it aside and focus on the task at hand.
"The rules are simple," I say. "Each answer must be wrong. Answer correctly, and I win."
Raphael nods once. "Understood."
"Have you played before?"
He lifts his drink halfway to his mouth, then pauses. "No."
That was the first question. I count it, even if he doesn't.
"Where are we?" I ask next.
"The moon."
"What color is my hair?"
His gaze flicks to the messy bun on my head. "Blue."
"And yours?"
"Blond."
"You're good at this."
"I'm good at everything."
I swallow hard. His voice is a slow stroke of something dangerous, and the look in his eyes makes me wonder what else he's good at. I shake the thought off and ask the fourth question.
"How many questions have I asked?"
His finger taps the bar. Once. Twice. Then he says, "Twelve."
I blink. That's four, including the trick one.
I smile. It's shaky, but it's there.
He smirks back, and the light catches on his diamond cufflinks. "Feeling confident?"
"Feeling like you cheat," I shoot back.
His eyes go flat. "Say that again."
"You're a cheat," I repeat. "And a liar. You said you haven't played before, but you have."
His jaw tightens. "I said I hadn't."
I smile wider. "Exactly. That was your fifth question."
A long beat of silence passes between us. His team—men in suits I hadn't even realized were watching—shift subtly, standing a little straighter, eyes locked on me. My heart hammers in my chest.
Then Raphael raises his hand. The movement is smooth, effortless.
Every single man freezes.
"You tricked me," he says quietly.
"You answered wrong," I reply just as softly. "That's the game."
He doesn't smile. Doesn't scowl. He just finishes his drink, then says to Dan, "Pass me the hammer."
My blood turns to slush. "Wait—what?"
Dan meets my eyes. There's sympathy there. Maybe even regret. But no help.
He ducks behind the bar and produces a small hammer—the kind used for ice.
Or kneecaps.
I don't wait to find out which.
I stumble backward, coat half-on, suitcase dragging behind me. The hammer gleams under the bar light as Raphael holds it, casual as anything.
He advances.
I fall.
Crash to the bottom step, heart in my throat.
A shadow falls across me—citrine ring, silver watch. And then…
Crack.
No pain. No broken bones. Just… plastic shards.
I blink at the broken security tag beside my thigh.
The dress. That's why the store alarm went off earlier.
Raphael watches me. The smile he wears now is real—sharp, knowing, insufferably smug.
"You got lucky," he says.
"Yeah?" I croak. "Could've been ink in that tag."
"Mmm. Would've ruined your little outfit."
I can't stop the glare I shoot him. He grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet like I weigh nothing. Slips the Necklace into my coat pocket.
"Take care of it."
There's something behind his eyes—grief, maybe. Regret. But then it's gone, swallowed by mirth.
I try to regain control, lashing out with a cocky grin. "Want to go again? I like the look of that ring."
His smile hardens. "I'd rather shit in my hands and clap."
Fair enough.
He jerks his chin toward the exit. "Go."
I don't need to be told twice. I scramble up the stairs, the weight of his stare dragging behind me like chains.
The guard at the top doesn't move. Just watches me with a look that says everything.
"You don't know how lucky you are," he mutters.
I pause. The clover charm at my neck burns cold against my skin.
A bitter laugh bubbles up.
"Trust me," I whisper. "It's you who has no idea."