Sancte Diaboli

Brantley

Secrets. The Elite Kings were notorious for keeping them, hiding them away where little girls couldn’t find them, and then shoving it down their throats when it was convenient. It’s how we checked if you had a gag reflex. It was what we did. We spilled the blood of our enemies over the same floor we all learned to walk on. This was our life. Some assumed we were a secret society, but that’s not it either. Secret societies have boundaries, we have none. TEKC was formed generations and generations ago between the founding fathers. Bishop’s great, great, great whatever pop was the Don, the fucking creator, along with mine, Nate’s, and Eli’s. Evil didn’t fade out through the generations; it only grew stronger with every spawn. We found new ways to torment our enemies. I mean… just ask Madison.

Tried it on Tillie, didn’t work.

Tillie, who just a

Everyone is excited. Fucking ecstatic. Nate’s arms are around her, his hand on her stomach protectively. The Elite Kings’ next generation is about to kick off, which gives the rest of us roughly one year to knock someone up if we want our lineage carried on.

Not fucking likely. Knew that I was cutting off the Vitiosis line long before we killed my dad.

“Bran Bran…” Tillie teases from the other side of the room. She thinks I hate the name. Admittedly, I don’t care. She can call me whatever she wants. Bishop’s dad, mom, and Nate’s parents have long since left, leaving just Nate, me, Bishop, Tillie, and—my eyes fall on Saint. Her. My fucking five minutes.

“I’m not congratulating you, Tillie,” I answer flatly, moving away from the fact that Saint walked herself down into this mess that I call my family. Having her in the same vicinity as these savages has the hairs on the back of my neck standing straight. When she came downstairs, no one batted an eye. But the range of looks I’m getting from Bishop and Nate is enough to tell me that the conversation isn’t over. It won’t be. The reason why nothing can ever come between Kings is because we never invite shit in.

I yank the cork off my bottle with my teeth and pour the thirty-year-old Japanese whiskey straight into my glass.

I’m watching everyone around me, but my attention is solely on Saint.

Tillie moves closer to her, her nervous tics in full effect. The tucking her hair behind her ear, the shuffling of feet, and looking down at the floor before looking back up. Tillie was an open book. She was always so animated and fierce and had absolutely no problem putting people in their place. It’s what I liked most about her. She handled shit, no matter how wild it was in her hands—she still controlled it. I mean, Nate. Case in point. “Who knew this bastard was holding you hostage.” Tillie would attach herself to Saint, not only because they’re siblings, but because they are two halves that have always needed to be whole.

Saint moves her long snow-like hair over one stiff shoulder, and my fingers flex around the glass. She peers up at Tillie with her doe-like eyes. The whitest gray you could ever imagine, they almost look unreal.

The first thing I noticed about Saint was her eye color.

The second was how easily she took hold of the burning rage that simmered deep in my gut and stored it away to use as a weapon. I was her weapon; she just chose my targets. How, you ask? Well, for one, you could breathe in her vicinity, and if I think you’re just a little too close, it’ll be the last one you ever fucking took. Touch her? The last memory your family will ever have of you is your hands in a fucking box. She took hold of my rage and stamped her name across it in block letters.

“There’s a lot you don’t know.” I swirl the amber liquid in my tumbler, my eyes on Tillie.

She huffs, crossing her arms in front of her. It’d be cute, if I gave a fuck. “That, I don’t doubt.”

I slowly shake my head at her. Drop it.

“Fine,” she says, hooking her arm into Saint’s. “We’re going to be friends.” Tillie continues to walk Saint out of the room and into the kitchen area, leaving Nate, Bishop, Eli, and me. Don’t fucking know where Cash and Hunter left to. I missed everything while counting to one-fucking-hundred.

Eli kicks my leg as I drop down onto the sofa beside Bishop. “How the fuck have you managed to keep your hands off her?”

“Because I don’t think with my dick.” I turn my head until my focus is back on him.

Eli chuckles. “Fucking waste. What’s the point of having that ladder if you won’t let bitches climb it?”

I glare at Eli. Little fucker. Eli has always been the loudest in the group, and our group has Nate, so that’s saying something. “Because the bitches that do very rarely live to reach the top.”

Silence falls around me until my eyes squeeze closed and fatigue seeps into my muscles.

“Are you going to tell her that Tillie is her sister and that her mom was a psychotic bitch that we had to kill? Or that Bishop is her half-brother and that her father is a for real fucking thug dressed up in Armani?” He’s right. She should know her history, but that would open up a whole new can of ‘WTF’ when she asks who the fuck we are and how she came to be living with Lucan and me.

“Yeah, I will. Not right now.”

“Are you worried as much as I am about the friendship that could form?” Nate mumbles, watching us all skeptically from the other side of the room.

I squeeze my hand into a fist, my nails cutting into my palm. “No.” I chuckle, shaking my head. “Tillie takes care of the people she loves. I trust her with Saint.”

“Trust her?” Bishop stares at me blankly. “That deep, huh?”

My jaw clenches. “You have no idea.”

Nate built The Den with this house, but then we changed the name to Buckingham. It drowns in black furnishings with deep mahogany redwood and modern glass. There’s a bar, a rectangular boardroom table with ten seats, black plush rugs, a poker table, a billiards table, and a safe that is integrated into the wall, filled with stacks of gold bullion and fake passports. It was all part of Bishop’s plan to make some changes within the Kings’ world when he took over. Our fathers ruled with force, as well as their fathers, but it was time to modernize The Elite Kings’ world. In order to stay one step ahead, we have to make sure we’re ten steps ahead.

Falling onto one of the leather sofas, I reach for the humidor, sliding out a clean Cuban cigar. I run the trunk beneath my nose, inhaling all of the exotic notes that are rolled up while watching Bishop. To say he has been strained since Madison took off is a complete understatement. Bishop has been angry. Now he’s just hurting.

His hands dive into his hair as Nate, Eli, Hunter, and Chase make their way into the lounge area and find somewhere to sit. Bishop clears his throat. “We need to talk about Saint.” I flick the cigar around my fingers, ignoring his request. The room is silent, and I know they’re all waiting for me to answer.

I fling the cigar across the table and reach forward, snatching the joint that’s tucked behind Nate’s ear, biting it into my mouth and popping open the Zippo lying on the table. I blaze up, sucking in a row of heavy tokes. I hold in the smoke and lean back in the chair before slowly releasing the cloud between my lips in a line of smoke rings. The tension in my muscles and my mind liberate instantly.