Page 9 of Bitter Prince

“What will it take to change your mind?” Romero’s words cut the silence in the air like a knife. My gaze found him just as it flickered above my head and I caught a reflection in the glass behind him.

Romero’s eyes widened as I shoved myself out of my chair and whipped around. The man brought his knife down as I screamed, “Fuck!” and dodged to the side, bringing my arm into my chest. I’d felt the cool blade break through my jacket with sickening clarity, cutting my flesh open.

Another guy appeared, his gun pointed at my head. Where was Dante?Bang.Romero’s pained grunt traveled through the air. I scrambled to pull out my own gun, ramming into my attacker who was still slashing his knife wildly. Blood was now pouring down my arm, but I grabbed his throat with my left hand and aimed with my right.Bang. Bang.

He fell to the ground.

Then I aimed at Romero who still sat frozen in his chair, his left arm bleeding. I trained my focus on him while I wrapped my hand around the fucker on the floor’s neck, and squeezed with all my strength.

“Who sent you?” I snarled, flicking a look at the guy sprawled underneath me.

His eyes bulged, and I squeezed even harder, his eyeballs straining and turning bloodshot. I only gave him half my attention, keeping my gaze locked on Romero. I didn’t trust him.

Bones crushed under the force of my grip. A final jerk, and his body slumped.

“What the fuck?” Dante’s voice penetrated the murderous fog in my brain and I finally released the breath I’d been holding. Dante aimed his gun at Romero and said, “You good, Amon?”

I nodded and slowly rose to my feet, my hands covered in blood as I kept my attention on Reina’s father. There were a hundred thoughts circling my mind as my pulse thrummed, sweat slicking my forehead.

My earlier prickle of warning returned tenfold. I should have trusted my instincts. His daughters sneaked out of the house without being caught, despite countless surveillance cameras all over the property. He was alone. He failed to warn me that someone was approaching me from behind. None of it looked good, and all of it felt like a setup.

But killing him without hard proof would cause a war.

“I’m good,” I told him, breathing harshly and taking in the mess around us. Ironically, my eyes landed on a broken vase, taking me back to a memory of the two little girls. “Did you see any other men?”

There was a slightly crazed, almost feverish look in Dante’s eyes. It was all the answer I needed. “Yeah, two men in the hallway. I shot them.”

I walked past him and muttered, “Keep your gun trained on him.”

I didn’t trust Romero not to shoot me in the back.

In the hallway, I found two dead bodies, blood pooling around them like the Red Sea. Just like the ones I’d killed in the office, they were Japanese. Could it be the Yakuza? I kicked one of the bodies, rolling it over, and eyed the familiar tattoo on his wrist. My gaze flicked to the other slumped body. The same tattoo.

The kanji symbol for love and affection. It was my grandmother’s favorite symbol, so my grandfather made it into a tattoo. First as a promise to his wife, then as a way to brand all his followers.

So either my grandfather wanted me dead or… I couldn’t let myself think of the alternative. Neither scenario boded well for me. Either my cousin was after my Yakuza crown as the next in line to inherit it, or my grandfather changed his mind and had deemed me unworthy. The whole underworld mentality made me want to be the best in everything and the richest of them all so that nobody could fuck with me.

I turned away from the bodies. Romero could do his own fucking cleanup. When I returned to the office, I narrowed my eyes on Romero who sat motionless, still grasping his bloody arm.

“Your friends?” I questioned.

“Never seen them before.”

“Then why are they here?” Dante said, disbelief clear in his tone.

“How in the fuck should I know?” he spat. “Did you tell someone about this meeting?”

“You called this meeting,” I pointed out.

“Father won’t be happy with you when he learns of this, Romero,” Dante said, glancing down at my bloody hands. We’d killed many over the years. It was almost too easy to shoot a man. But killing with your bare hands was a completely different feeling. It was personal; it left a stain not only on your body but your soul. “Maybe we should end you too,” he continued with an unsettling grin.

“No,” I growled. We couldn’t be sure that Romero was in on it—no matter what my sixth sense warned—and something about leaving his daughters without a parent didn’t sit well with me.

“What do you mean no?” my brother hissed. “The fucker had the Yakuza in hishouse. Somehow, I don’t think they were here to kill him.”

“They shot me,” Romero protested weakly.

“Please,” Dante snickered. “He grazed you.”