Devil’s Kingdom Read online

  I squint at him. “They took it off? How?”

  “Just the skin, sir. They cut a square of around it and peeled it from her hand.”

  I groan, running my fingers through my hair with the cigar still clenched between them. “This wasn’t a mistake then.”

  “No, I don’t believe that it was.”

  “Who the fuck is stupid enough to target our people?” I ask, shaking my head.

  “It could’ve been one of the port thieves,” Slate offers, brushing a flake of ash from his lapel. The wind has picked up, snatching the ash from the end of my cigar and blowing it toward him.

  I shake my head, licking my lips as I think. “It wouldn’t be the thieves.”

  “Then who?”

  “Someone who wants to know more about us. Stealing the symbol off her hand can’t just have been for fun,” I say, running through every possibility that I can think of in my head.

  “I don’t understand,” Slate replies.

  I toss the rest of my cigar into the water and turn to walk away. “You don’t have to.”

  Slate follows me as I leave the water, eager to get away from the crime scene before someone else comes to check on it. If the body had been found with the symbol still on it, I would assume that whoever killed her just slipped up and got the wrong person.

  The fact that the scarification was cut from her body means that either someone wanted it or they didn’t want the victim to be traced back to us. Either way, they fucked up by improperly disposing of Jenny, and the police got a hold of her this afternoon. From what I heard, the body was still fresh.

  I slow my walk as more questions occupy my thoughts. If the killer wanted to hide that they killed a Devil’s Kingdom member, then they wouldn’t have been so careless as to leave her with an ID still in her pocket. What was the real reason they removed the patch of skin with her symbolic scarification?

  I scratch my chin, glancing down at my own symbol. It’s the original version, the one I did to myself in a public bathroom when I was nineteen with a scalpel I stole from an arts and crafts store. It’s messy and never quite healed correctly, but it’s the reason why I sit at the throne of a mafia kingdom with immediate access to a new drug that’s blacker than soot and strong enough to send your brain into orbit within ten seconds of use.

  Once the Devil’s Kingdom started, there was no stopping it, especially once I stumbled upon the secret formula for success. It wasn’t until recently that I started adding a new ingredient to the recipe, and perhaps not so coincidentally, that’s when the trouble began to arise.

  Slate follows me back to the glossy black sedan parked a few meters from the dock. It’s getting late, and I need to return to the office to run through the evidence and photos that were… borrowed… from the police station.

  I open the door, sliding into the back seat as Slate jumps into the front to drive us back to the office. He’ll only be dropping me off this time. I’ve enacted a curfew amongst my members so that they won’t get wrapped up in dealings after dark. We do things differently in the Devil’s Kingdom. It’s why I’ve amassed a fortune while others have even struggled to sell grams to college students.

  Slate perks up in the front seat, eager to delve into discussion again. I raise my head to meet his eyes in the rearview mirror, giving him silent permission to speak to me. Perhaps his incessant questioning will prove stimulating to my thought process.

  “Jenny knew a lot about the Black Sugar,” Slate says.

  “Yes, I’m worried about that,” I reply.

  Jenny was close to one of the guys who used to cook it for us until he overdosed on it and died. Nobody in the Devil’s Kingdom is allowed to use Black Sugar, but some of them do anyway.

  Slate perks up again. “Maybe someone was looking for information. They could’ve tortured her.”

  “I’ll know when I take a look at the evidence,” I say. “But I can’t spend all night trying to figure out Jenny’s case. We also have to investigate the shipment that vanished.”

  “I almost forgot,” Slate replies. He makes a turn, driving slowly down the road toward the office, no doubt to win a few extra minutes of conversation with me. He’s excited about the drama, but things have been going too well lately, and I don’t blame him. Every criminal chases the thrill, and we haven’t gotten much of that this season.

  I pull out another cigar. I bummed two of them off one of my men, but thinking back, I should’ve just bought an entire package before the shops closed.

  Of course, it’s not like I’m unable to do any shopping at this hour. Plenty of black markets are open on the closed side of the port, and it wouldn’t take long for me to slip in and insist on a cigar that wasn’t laced with something special.

  “Let’s stop by that dealer’s place,” I say as I twirl my cigar under the flame of a match. “The bald one who doesn’t like to shower.”

  Slate snorts from laughter, causing me to laugh with him. “Yes, the one with the beard, right?”

  I nod, still chuckling as I puff on my cigar. The tobacco in this thing is atrocious, but not everyone can afford the habits I entertain. I figure if you’re slowly killing yourself, you should do it with the finest products you can afford.

  Slate takes a turn down by the port, pulling the car through past the broken caution tape that’s decorated this area for years. It’s more for the safety of civilians than anything. The police know that there’s a vibrant black market on the dark side of the port, but they do nothing to stop it. They’re more concerned with keeping the crud out of the village inland, so it flourishes by the shore.

  The wooden boards creak under the weight of the armored vehicle, but this port was built to support thirty-ton shipping containers and heavy machinery. We’re in no danger of breaking through and sinking into the shallow ocean below.

  Slate pulls up to a small, seemingly abandoned building owned by one of our Black Sugar dealers. Most dealers prefer to keep the lights off until someone important pulls up, but this guy doesn’t even turn them on as I get out of the car and walk up to his door.

  Slate watches me from the driver’s seat, doubling as my bodyguard as we creep around the port at night. It’s not especially dangerous for me out here because of my position as leader of the Devil’s Kingdom, but I wouldn’t rule out the possibility of a rogue lunatic making a jump at me in hopes of stealing the throne.

  I lay my knuckles down hard on the wooden door to the dealer’s shop, waiting impatiently for him to come to the door. To my dismay, I hear no footsteps.

  I turn to Slate, gesturing for him to roll down his window.

  “They’re closed?” he calls from the warmth of the car.

  I shake my head. “They shouldn’t be.”

  He turns off the car, jumping out into the cold night air behind me. He knows just as well as I do that something is amiss. Either the dealer is taking a smoke out back and doesn’t hear me, or he’s run into trouble.

  Slate flips his jacket collar up on his neck, frowning at the door as I stand beside it. “He’s always here at this hour,” Slate notes.

  I nod. “Yes, that’s why I’m concerned. We’re going in anyway.” I pause to pull out my gun. “But we’re not taking any chances.”

  Slate mirrors my draw, flashing the cold steel of his .45 in the moonlight. I can see the shimmer of excitement in his grey eyes as I place my hand on the door handle, but I don’t share the same novice attitude. For me, the less exciting things are, the better.

  I pull at the door, fully expecting to have to resort to breaking it down, but to my surprise, it swings open easily, not so much as making a squeak on its hinges.

  Tension coils in my body, my vision suddenly aware of the full 180 degrees that my eyes are capable of seeing. The inside of the shop is pitch black, but it won’t be once I click the light attached to the bottom rail of my gun.

  “Stay close,” I whisper to Slate.

  I feel the heat of his breath on the back of my neck, and I kno
w it’s time to enter. I use my foot to push the door open all the way, and my finger taps the button on the side of the light to turn it on, flooding the shop interior with a thousand lumens and revealing what’s inside.

  Chapter Five

  Zella

  I slink to the front door with my shotgun pointed out in front of me. If there’s any sign of someone trying to come in, I’m blasting through the wooden door and peppering them with led. I have no tolerance for criminals, even if I am one myself. It doesn’t pay to play nice.

  Whoever is knocking isn’t going to get a warm welcome from me.

  There’s no noise coming from outside as I creep forward. I hold my breath as I come to a stop directly in front of the door, making sure that nobody knows I’m here. I lean forward, pushing the swiveling peephole cover to the side with my finger and pressing my eye into the fisheye lens.

  Nobody is outside the door, but there is something on the ground in a thick yellow envelope.

  I didn’t order anything.

  I lean away from the door, stepping back toward the bedroom with the same gentle stride with which I came. Someone could be waiting just around the corner, so it’s best to have someone come over and inspect the package for me. Out here, I wouldn’t touch something like that even it was sent from my own mother.

  My phone buzzes on the table in my bedroom, and I rush to retrieve it. It’s likely to be about the package, but why the hell would someone deliver it and knock before sending me a message?

  Could my phone connection be delayed?

  Holding the shotgun in one hand, I snatch the phone off my bedside table, swiping it open to read the new notification.

  PACKAGE FOR YOU.

  I frown at the odd message in all-caps. It was sent from Andrew, one of the men who is investigating the drug dealer’s shop, but he doesn’t usually text like that. I text him back, demanding an explanation.

  I toss the phone onto the bed once I send the message and hurry back to the front door to retrieve the unusual yellow envelope from outside. I have an uneasy feeling in my stomach, so I keep my shotgun with me as I unlock the door.

  This had better not be a trap.

  The air outside is crisp and light, indicative of the cold winter to come, but I don’t have time to enjoy it. I stick a foot out and slide the envelope on the ground over the metal bump pinning my carpet down in the doorway.

  I close the door and lock it, sliding the thick metal double bolts in place. Unless the package itself is dangerous, I’ve successfully avoided whoever might be lurking outside.

  I let the envelope wait on the floor as I return to my bathroom, coming back with a box of blue latex gloves and a doctor’s mask I have in my emergency kit. I put them on and pull my hair back into a short ponytail before bending over to retrieve the envelope.

  It’s not heavy, but the slight bulge tells me there’s something more than paper inside.

  I move to the kitchen, placing it on the black granite counter and studying it for a moment before making any moves to open it. There’s no writing on it or any indication of where it was before it arrived at my doorstep.

  Anthony still hasn’t texted me back, but I’m tempted to open it. If it really was delivered by him, then it must be important.

  The steel of a kitchen knife glints in the overhead lights as I withdraw it from its cutting block to open the envelope. I slide it through the top, taking care not to hit whatever’s inside of the package. I hold my breath as I tilt the envelope, letting the contents slide out onto the counter.

  At first glance, I can’t tell much about what’s been delivered to me. It’s in a clear plastic zipper bag, wrapped in what appears to be gauze. The entire thing is about the size of my palm.

  I sniff the air above the bag, trying to figure out if there’s anything toxic inside. Many poisons have smells, and I’ve dealt with them enough to recognize the ones that are often used through the mail.

  Nothing seems off, other than the circumstances surrounding the delivery, which should be enough to make me wait for someone else to unfurl the gauze-wrapped item for me.

  But I can be reckless.

  I place my gloved hand on the plastic, feeling the contents. My fingers sink into the plastic, indicating that there couldn’t be a bomb inside. Of course, something this small probably wouldn’t kill me, but I’d imagine that keeping my fingers would be better than having them blown off by a homemade explosive.

  I take another deep breath, popping open the zip seal on the bag and sliding the gauze out into my palm. It’s not terribly heavy, nor is it stiff. It almost feels like the gauze isn’t wrapped around anything at all.

  That’s until I flip it over.

  Crimson.

  I gasp, dropping it onto the table and stepping back. The color and the medical gauze are clear warnings that I’ve received something that probably once belonged to another human being. I can’t say for sure, but mailing identifying body parts isn’t uncommon in the mafia.

  But why would Anthony give this to me?

  I step back toward the gauze, picking at the edge of the wrapping with my fingers. I gently begin to unravel it across the counter with one hand, flipping it over until the gauze thins to the point where I can see more blood. It’s definitely flesh, but I don’t recognize what yet.

  I roll it further until the bloody underside of a square piece of flesh is revealed. With one finger, I gently ease the flesh over to show the top of it.

  Oh my god!

  Chapter Six

  Diavolo

  The first thing that I notice in the dealer’s abandoned shop isn’t what’s illuminated by the light of my gun’s flashlight. It’s the smell.

  “Bleach,” Slate whispers from behind me, moving closer to stand by my side.

  I take a puff of my cigar, sweeping the room with my gun before reaching for the light switch. There’s obviously nobody here, but the smell is so strong that it’s nearly unbearable. Anyone using this much bleach to clean is clearly attempting to cover something up.

  Yellow light glows from the lamp hanging from the ceiling as I flip the switch beside the entrance. My eyes do another scan of the place, but nothing seems out of place. The only thing that throws me off is the overwhelming scent of bleach.

  Slate steps in front of me, looking over the room more closely, but I don’t have to in order to know what happened here.

  “He’s not this clean,” I say, shaking my head.

  Slate looks back toward me. “I was about to say the same thing.”

  I step forward, keeping my gun unholstered but down at my side. “The bleach is a dead giveaway, although it wouldn’t have been difficult to figure out what happened just by how tidy it is in here.”

  Slate frowns, puzzled.

  A smile threatens my lips, but I suppress it. I know that not everyone can keep up with my thinking, and I shouldn’t gloat. Slate is smart enough to where he would’ve figured this out on his own if I gave him enough time.

  I holster my gun and remove the cigar from my lips. “Someone killed him, cleaned up the mess, and made damn sure there weren’t any bodily fluids left in here.”

  “I guess it was a messy kill then,” Slate says.

  “For sure.”

  He rubs his chin. “But why?”

  “Why?” I ask rhetorically. “Because Black Sugar is highly sought after. Because he got wrapped up with the wrong people. Because he was careless. I could think of a million reasons why, but the truth is that we probably won’t know until we have evidence.”

  “I guess we should search the place,” Slate says, moving toward the back.

  “Not necessary,” I snap. “Just grab some nice-looking cigars, and we’ll be on our way. I don’t have time to poke around. We’ll send some people tomorrow to check it out in more detail.”

  Slate nods, disappointment showing on his face. I’d like to let him do some investigatory work, but I have more pressing matters at hand, and he’s supposed to be home alre
ady. I’ll need him bright and early tomorrow morning.

  I pause for a moment, rethinking my approach. “Well, we’d better take a closer look around before we leave, in case there’s something in the back room.”

  Slate’s face lights up again, and he quickly moves toward the single door leading into the back. That would be where the dealer keeps his stock, and I’d like to see if there are any obvious signs of theft.

  “Just don’t touch anything,” I warn as he swings open the door to the backroom.

  I follow him in, pulling on the dangling light switch hanging next to a single bulb on the ceiling.

  The backroom is a mess, piled high with boxes of contraband and weapons. A minifridge hums away in the corner, probably filled with cheap beer and leftover takeout. Nothing about this room is out of the ordinary – a far cry from what we experienced in the front of the shop.

  “How much did we give this guy?” Slate asks, eyeing an empty spot of the wooden shelf.

  “How much of what?”

  “Black Sugar.”

  I shrug. “I think we gave him a kilo.”

  Slate places a finger on an empty spot on the shelf and runs his finger across the wood.

  “Hey, I told you not to touch anything,” I remind him.

  He retracts his finger. “No dust.”

  I squint. “And?”

  “And that means there was something here recently because the rest of the shelf is dustier than the inside of a vacuum cleaner.”

  I chuckle at his comparison but quickly fall back into my usual seriousness. “Are you suggesting that someone took something?”

  Slate looks back at me, tilting his head to the side. “How likely is it that he sold the entire kilo right after we gave it to him?”

  I scan the shelf for the drugs in reference and come up blank. Slate has a point. It’s very likely that the dealer was murdered in the front and that someone came back here and snatched the entire kilo of Black Sugar. It’s valued at a hundred thousand dollars in bulk, but if it were split into grams and sold, it could easily make half a million.