Page 1 of Deceptive Desires (The Syndicate #2)

Roman

I stalk my prey through the silence of the night.

The dumb fuck doesn’t even realize it. He thinks he’s invincible. They all do.

I can tell he’s new at this. He isn’t covering his tracks, isn’t checking his six, isn’t doing anything.

The silence I’ve perfected over more than a decade allows me to gain on him without him realizing.

“You must be lost,” I whisper darkly in his ear.

“What the fuck!” he shrieks in surprise. I’m thrown aback by how light his Russian accent is. But it’s still there, like I knew it would be. “No. I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem to be fine. You seem to be in the wrong side of town.” I pause. “You seem to be in my side of town.”

“What, man? Look, I’m heading back.”

“No, you’re not. You’re coming with me.”

It’s the only warning I give before I hit his head twice. His eyes flutter as he crumbles to the ground.

I pick him up with ease, despite his build. He must be six feet tall and frequent the gym, but I still have a good five inches and sixty pounds of muscle on him.

I deposit him in the trunk of my black, bullet proof SUV. No way am I letting his filth contaminate my backseat.

I turn on the radio and bask in the sound of eighties rock.

A smile takes over my face.

What’s a better way to spend a Tuesday night than with some light torture and ACDC?

Once we get to one of our warehouses, I remove his shirt and hang him by his arms on the chain hanging from the ceiling. His toes barely brush the ground. That’ll get painful rather quickly.

I splash cold water on him to wake him up.

“Why are you in our territory?” I ask calmly when his eyes flutter open.

“Who the fuck are you?” He growls at me.

A devilish grin breaks out, transforming myself into something vicious.

This is my favorite part.

“Let me introduce myself. I’m Roman Montclair. And you are?”

He freezes, then tenses as fear washes over him. His eyes widen, and he pales two shades.

“I take it you’ve heard of me.”

Of course he has. Everyone who lurks in the shadows has heard of my irredeemable, ruthless reputation.

He swallows and nods.

“Let’s try this again. Why are you in our territory?”

He curses me in Russian.

The first snap of my fist meets his stomach, and I hear a rib crack. The sound is music to my ears. Beautiful.

“Tell me what you know,” I demand.

No response.

Another hit to the same spot. The pained howl he lets out soothes me.

Tonight’s going to be fun.

I don’t go to the table full of equipment to my right, instead choosing my fists. I love to get my hands dirty. There’s something about not having a barrier between me and the pain I inflict that fills me with satisfaction. It’s pure, unadulterated me. And I crave it.

“Really? That’s how we’re going to play this?” I chuckle. Maybe he needs more encouragement.

I approach the table and select my pure gold brass knuckles. Maybe this’ll loosen his tongue.

When he sees me approaching, he blanches further.

I go for his sternum this time, and the crunch is exhilarating. It calms the pounding in my head. The hum that’s never quiet enough.

“Fuck! Fine! I was trying to get men to come to our clubs,” he wheezes out.

“Why?”

“Business is down. Not as many people are coming to us. They’re choosing your places more and more.”

I smirk. That’s what I like to hear. Our nightlife has been pumping.

“Is that all?”

I can always tell when someone’s lying. I can pick up their tells within seconds of meeting. Reading body language is my whole career.

This man isn’t lying. His story also matches the other men I’ve interrogated.

“That’s all. We just want more business.”

I believe him. Well, I believe that’s what he knows. But I know there’s more. They’re just keeping it quiet.

“Thank you for your time.”

“So, I’m free to go?” There’s hope in his voice.

And as much as I want to squash it, I know Dom doesn’t want more Bratva death on his hands.

“Yes. But first, you need to be reminded of the consequences of encroaching on our territory. The mafia never has these issues, but you dumb fuck Russians can’t seem to learn.”

I grab a small knife from the table, the one I finish every interrogation with. This knife has seen plenty of bloodshed but has never ended a life; that’s not its purpose.

I see it in his eyes. He knows what’s coming next. The reminder to not fuck with the Syndicate or you’re leaving with my mark.

I use the knife to cut open a lemon and inhale the refreshing scent. I drag the knife through the acidic juices and return to his side. Lemon in one hand, knife in the other.

I find a space free of tattoos on his side on top of the ribs I just broke.

“This is going to hurt,” I warn him, glee dripping into my voice.

To give him credit, he just nods and hangs his head. Smart man. He knows if he fights this, I might change my mind about letting him live.

I start to carve into him. One line down, then a curve, and a diagonal. Three straight lines. Then four more.

RFM

My initials. Roman Francis Montclair.

Carved into his ribs.

It’s my signature.

Most think it’s to feed my vicious nature, but it’s really a tagging method. I interrogate far too many men to keep track of them, so I tag them with my initials.

If I catch one and they have my initials on them, I look at how healed it is and what size it is. The bigger the carving, the more severe their crime. And if it’s still healing, that means their offense was recent.

It determines how I handle them next.

It’s an effective method.

Now this next part, that’s to feed my vicious side.

I run the knife off on the lemon, trying to get rid of the red liquid. Dried blood is a bitch to clean.

Then, I press the lemon half into his side and squeeze, letting the acidic juice burn him.

I revel in his cries, as a smile forms on my face.

This was a good one. He didn’t even piss himself.

“You’ll be staying the night here, just like this. And tomorrow, one of my men will let you out.”

I use the other half of the lemon to clean my hands and cut through the smell of blood. The lemon does a good job of hiding the stench.

As I head out, I relive the moment.

This is where I thrive. My brothers don’t do the grunt work, so I do. And I love it. I love the thrill of the confession. I love getting it out of them. The games we play. The way I get them to sing. The crunch of bone, the sounds of begging, the smell of blood. It fuels me.

I do it all for the Syndicate.

It’s the criminal organization my family runs.

My dad passed it down to Dominic, my eldest brother, when he retired.

Dom’s the head. The cold, ruthless bastard runs it with an iron fist. Our second brother, Matthias, runs the legal operations, Syndicate Enterprise.

It’s our cover. When people look up Montclair, SE comes up.

It’s one of the biggest security and defense companies in the nation.

Our youngest brother, Sebastian, is a computer genius.

Bash works on both sides of the operation.

Helping create things for Syndicate Enterprise and using his skills in more nefarious ways for the Syndicate.

And that leaves me. I’m the enforcer for the Syndicate. I have a crew under me, but I like to get my hands dirty too. I lead by example. The streets are my home.

Which leads me here. To this Russian fuck who was in our territory, soliciting our customers, outside our clubs. Which isn’t fucking allowed.

I know they’re up to something. But after the situation with Matthias’s fiancée, Margot, we’re trying to keep our alliance intact. Dom wants me to keep an eye out under the radar and not provoke the Bratva. But I know those fuckers are up to something. I’m going to get to the bottom of it.

And if it’s anything like tonight, I might just do it with a smile on my face.