Page 1 of Doomed (Blackwood Brothers #2)

KNOX

T he bass thrums through my chest like a second heartbeat as I lean back in the plush leather chair, watching Candy—or was it Crystal?—work her magic on my lap. The VIP section of Purgatory flashes with crimson light, casting everything in the color of sin. Perfect for a Blackwood establishment.

“You know what’s funny?” I call over to Vane, who’s got his own entertainment courtesy of a brunette with legs for days. “We own this place, and we tip like we’re broke college kids.”

Vane shoots me that look—part amusement, part shut the fuck up, Knox —before sliding a twenty into his dancer’s G-string. “Speak for yourself. Some of us have class.”

I bark out a laugh that makes Candy’s—definitely Candy, she’s got that sweet-but-deadly vibe—hips stutter against mine. “Class? Brother, you literally motorboated her five minutes ago.”

“That was research,” he deadpans, taking a swig of his whiskey. “Quality control.”

God, I love fucking with him. Vane tries so hard to be the serious one when Xavier’s not around, but put him in a room with naked women and good bourbon—my brother becomes another guy with impulse control issues.

Landon, on the other hand, would probably be analyzing the dancers’ psychological profiles, or Xavier would turn this into some twisted power play.

The music switches to a heavier beat, and I feel Candy’s rhythm change with it. Professional. I respect that.

“Ten bucks says I can make mine laugh before yours even cracks a smile,” I challenge, because everything’s more fun with stakes.

Vane’s eyes light up with that competitive fire that makes him dangerous in the field and insufferable everywhere else. “You’re on, little brother.”

I flash Candy my most charming grin—the one that’s gotten me out of more trouble than it’s caused, which is saying something. “Hey, beautiful, what’s the difference between a Blackwood brother and a shooting star?”

She raises an eyebrow, playing along .

“The star only grants one wish. We make all your dreams come true.”

Her laugh bubbles up genuine and bright, cutting through the club’s sultry atmosphere like sunshine through storm clouds.

“Fuck.” Vane reaches for his wallet.

“Pay up, asshole.” I hold out my hand expectantly while Candy settles back into her rhythm, giggling at my terrible joke.

Vane flips me off but slides a ten across the small table between us. “That was luck.”

“That was charm, my friend. You’d understand if you weren’t such a brooding pain in the ass all the time.” I pocket the bill. “Maybe try smiling once in a while. It won’t kill you.”

“Have you seen his smile?” Candy chimes in, shooting Vane an appraising look. “Pretty sure it would kill me.”

I snort. “See? Even the professionals think you’re terrifying.”

“Terrifying gets results,” Vane counters.

“So does being likable. Revolutionary concept, I know?—”

The VIP section door swings open with enough force to rattle the frame, and Xavier strides in like he owns the place.

Which, technically, he does. The dancers don’t miss a beat, but there’s a subtle shift in the air—electricity crackling with the kind of danger that follows our eldest brother wherever he goes.

“We need to talk,” he announces without preamble.

I pat Candy’s hip gently. “Rain check, sweetheart?”

She slides off with grace, scooping up her tips before melting back into the club’s shadowy depths. Vane’s brunette follows suit without needing to be asked. Smart woman.

Xavier settles into the vacant chair across from us, all sharp angles and controlled violence in his perfectly tailored suit. “We need new artwork commissioned for the back rooms. The existing pieces are getting... dated.”

“And?” Vane prompts.

“And I don’t give a shit about art.” Xavier’s jaw ticks with irritation. “Colors, composition, whatever the fuck makes people want to spend money while they’re getting their rocks off. It’s not my area.”

I lean forward, grinning. “Lucky for you, brother, you happen to know someone with exquisite taste and an eye for the finer things in life.”

Both my brothers stare at me.

“What? I’m cultured as hell.”

Vane nearly chokes on his whiskey, and Xavier’s expression shifts from irritated to outright incredulous.

“Cultured?” Vane wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Knox, you think Michelangelo is a fucking ninja turtle.”

I throw my hands up in mock offense. “Hey, those are classic works of art right there. Renaissance masters, every one of them.”

“You hung a neon beer sign in your bedroom and called it ‘ambient lighting,” Xavier deadpans, leaning back in his chair, giving me a look that could freeze hell over.

“That was mood lighting, and it was very sophisticated,” I protest. “Besides, I also have that painting of dogs playing poker. That’s culture.”

Vane loses it completely, laughter shaking his shoulders. “The one you bought at a gas station?”

“It was a vintage gas station,” I correct. “Totally different aesthetic.”

Xavier pinches the bridge of his nose like I’m giving him a migraine. Probably am. “Knox, last week you asked me if the Louvre was a type of cheese.”

“In my defense, it sounds French and fancy. Could go either way.”

“You ordered chicken tenders at that fancy Italian place downtown,” Vane adds, grinning. “When the waiter tried to explain the specials in Italian, you asked if he could ‘speak American.’“

I wave dismissively. “Look, I know what I like, and I like things that don’t require a translator to order. That’s practical, not uncultured.”

“You called the wine grape juice for adults ,” Xavier continues relentlessly.

“Accurate description.”

“You asked the sommelier if they had anything that goes good with pizza rolls.”

Vane’s practically wheezing now. “Remember when he thought ‘abstract art’ meant the artist was too lazy to finish the painting?”

“Those blobs could mean anything! That’s the point!” I lean forward. “At least I appreciate art. You two wouldn’t know good taste if it bit you on the ass.”

“Alright, enough.” Xavier holds up a hand, cutting through our banter like a blade. “This could go on all fucking night, and I have actual business to handle.”

I straighten up, wiping the grin off my face. When Xavier uses that tone, playtime’s over.

“Look, Knox,” he continues. “Do you want to find me a new artist to commission pieces for the back rooms or not?”

“Seriously?” I blink at him. “You’re actually trusting me with this?”

“You said you have exquisite taste,” Vane chimes in, smirking. “Time to prove it, little brother.”

Xavier’s expression doesn’t change. “I need someone who understands the atmosphere we’re cultivating here. Dark, seductive, expensive. Can you handle that without turning it into a fucking joke?”

The challenge in his voice sparks my competitive side. “Hell yeah, I can handle it. I’ll find you someone who’ll make these walls sing with sex and sophistication.”

“Good.” Xavier nods. “Budget’s flexible, but I want quality. Real quality, not gas station quality.”

“Ouch.” I clutch my chest. “My artistic sensibilities are wounded.”

“Your artistic sensibilities can heal on your own time.” Xavier pulls out his phone, and his jaw tightens. “Speaking of business—Vane, what’s the update on Tyson’s next shipment?”

Vane sobers instantly, the playful mood evaporating like smoke. “Should be rolling through Thursday night. Same route as usual—highway corridor through the industrial district.”

“Security?”

“Lars has it handled on their end. Phoenix is monitoring communications for any unusual chatter.” Vane swirls the whiskey in his glass thoughtfully. “Tyson’s been solid. No heat, no complications.”

Xavier nods, but I catch the slight tension in his shoulders. There’s always tension when it comes to moving product. Too many variables, too many things that could go sideways in a heartbeat.

“What about our end?” I ask because even though I’m the youngest, I’m not stupid. “Distribution channels clear?”

“Clean as a whistle,” Vane confirms. “Our contacts downtown are ready to receive. Payment upfront, as usual.”

Xavier’s phone buzzes again, and his frown deepens. Whatever message he’s reading doesn’t improve his mood.

“Problem?” I lean forward.

Xavier’s jaw clenches as he scrolls through whatever’s on his screen. “Fucking Morrison.”

Vane and I exchange a look. Morrison is one of our larger distributors downtown, moving significant volume through his network of high-end clubs and private parties. Also happens to be a greedy piece of shit who thinks he can play games with us.

“What’s he pulling now?” Vane asks, setting down his glass.

“He says he needs to renegotiate terms. Claims his overhead’s gone up, market conditions have changed, blah blah fucking blah.” Xavier’s voice stays level, but I can see the muscle in his temple twitching. “Wants to drop his usual order by thirty percent and pay twenty percent less per unit.”

I whistle low. “That’s some serious balls.”

“It’s some serious stupidity,” Vane corrects. “Does he think we’re running a fucking charity?”

Xavier scrolls through more messages, his expression getting darker by the second. “Gets better. He’s also demanding that we provide additional security for his operations. Says the risk’s gotten too high since that mess with the Rodriguez family last month.”

“The Rodriguez thing had nothing to do with us,” I point out. “That was their own internal bullshit.”

“Morrison doesn’t give a fuck about facts.” Xavier finally looks up from his phone. “He’s spooked, trying to leverage that fear into better terms for himself.”

Vane leans back in his chair, fingers drumming against the armrest. “How much volume does he move for us monthly?”

“About forty percent of our downtown distribution,” Xavier answers, “Losing him would be... inconvenient.”

“Inconvenient” is Xavier-speak for “catastrophically expensive.” Morrison might be a pain in the ass, but he has connections that we’d need months to rebuild elsewhere.

“So what’s the play?” I ask. “We negotiate or make an example out of him?”

Xavier’s smile turns predatory. “We remind Mr. Morrison exactly who he’s dealing with. And why renegotiating with the Blackwoods isn’t a conversation he wants to start.”

The bass line shifts to a harder, more aggressive beat, matching the sudden shift in energy at our table. Looks like our relaxing evening just turned into business.

“Let’s get on our bikes and hit the town,” I announce, pushing back from the table with renewed energy. Nothing like a shakedown to get the blood pumping.

Xavier’s already standing, straightening his suit jacket in a way that means someone’s about to have a very bad night. “Time to remind Morrison about the benefits of maintaining good relationships.”

We move through Purgatory’s main floor, the crowd parting naturally around Xavier’s presence. Red light strobes across faces lost in their own worlds of sin. The music pounds against the walls, but my pulse is syncing to a different rhythm—the anticipation of what’s coming next.

The private elevator takes us down to the garage beneath the club, where our bikes wait like sleeping predators. The space smells of motor oil and leather, concrete and chrome. My Aprilia RSV4 Factory gleams under the fluorescent lights, that neon blue paint job glowing.

“Fucking beautiful,” I murmur, running my hand along the tank as I swing my leg over.

Vane’s mounting his Kawasaki Ninja. Xavier settles onto his BMW S1000RR like it’s his throne, all red aggression and barely contained power.

The garage fills with the roar of three engines coming to life, that symphony of mechanical violence that never gets old. I rev mine twice, feeling the vibration travel through my bones.

“Morrison’s penthouse is twenty minutes through downtown,” Xavier calls over the noise, pulling on his helmet. “We park two blocks out, walk the rest.”

“What’s the approach?” Vane asks.

“Casual conversation,” Xavier replies, and the way he says casual makes my grin widen beneath my helmet. “We’re three concerned business partners dropping by to discuss revised terms.”

I fire up the bike, feeling that familiar rush as the machine responds to my touch. “And if he’s not interested in conversation?”

Xavier’s laugh is audible over the engine noise. “Then we get creative.”

The garage door rolls up automatically, revealing the neon-soaked streets of downtown. Three headlights cut through the darkness as we roll out into the night, ready to remind Morrison exactly why you don’t fuck with the Blackwoods.