Page 4 of Doomed

“What’s the approach?” Vane asks.

“Casual conversation,” Xavier replies, and the way he sayscasualmakes 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.

2

KNOX

The pounding in my skull feels like someone’s using my brain as a drum kit. I roll over on my bed, immediately regretting the movement when every muscle screams in protest. The metallic taste in my mouth suggests I either bit my tongue last night or...

My shirt sticks to my chest, stiff with dried blood that definitely isn’t mine. The dark stains have turned rust-colored in the morning light filtering through my blinds. I peel the fabric away from my skin with a grimace, tossing it toward the hamper. It lands with a wet thud.

Morrison. Right. Stubborn bastard thought he could play hardball with the Blackwoods.

Flashes of last night filter back through the haze. Morrison’s penthouse. His cocky smile when he doubled down on his demands. The look of shock on their faces when we explained why renegotiation wasn’t on the table. His right-hand man—what was his name? Stevens?—practically pissing himself as he watched his boss learn the hard way about respect.

Stevens turned out to be smarter than his employer. Begged to take over the operation, swore he’d honor the original terms down to the last penny. Even offered to increase orders byten percent as an apology for Morrison’s “temporary lapse in judgment.”

Morrison’s in an unmarked grave somewhere outside the city limits now. Stevens is probably counting his lucky stars and trying not to think about what’s left of his former boss.

Your average Thursday night in the Blackwood family business.

I drag myself to the shower, letting scalding water wash away the evidence of our “negotiation.” The blood swirls pink down the drain, and I watch it disappear with the same detachment I’d feel watching paint dry.

By the time I’m clean and dressed in fresh clothes, my phone’s buzzing with a text from Xavier. Three words:

Art commission. Purgatory.

Right. The main floor requires darker, atmospheric pieces to complete the collection. Xavier wants local talent, someone hungry enough to keep their mouth shut about our particular aesthetic preferences.

I grab my keys and head for the garage. Time to play art patron. Finding someone desperate enough to work for us and talented enough to deliver shouldn’t be too hard.

After all, every artist needs a muse. And nothing inspires quite like desperation.

The gallery sits on Fifth Street like a jewel among the concrete, all glass front and exposed brick. Elliot’s always had good taste—it helps when you’re laundering money through overpriced art sales.

I push through the heavy glass doors, and the scent of turpentine hits me. An orchestral classical piece drifts from invisible speakers—a composition that belongs in marble-floored museums rather than everyday spaces.

“Knox.”

Elliot emerges from behind a massive canvas of a boat during a storm at sea.

“Heard you might have something interesting for me,” I say, scanning the walls lined with overpriced mediocrity.

“Indeed, I do. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” He gestures toward the back corner where a woman stands before an easel, completely absorbed in her work.

Long dark hair cascades over her shoulder as she leans closer to the canvas, adding delicate brushstrokes to what appears to be an abstract piece in deep blues and grays.

She’s beautiful. Not the manufactured perfection you see at Purgatory, but authentic beauty. The kind of beauty that makes you stop and stare because you can’t quite figure out what makes it so captivating.

“Bianca,” Elliot calls out. “I’d like you to meet someone.”

She sets down her brush and turns toward us, revealing hazel eyes that seem to hold secrets I suddenly want to uncover. A paint-stained apron covers what looks like a flowing dress underneath, and there’s a smudge of blue on her left cheek that makes her even more appealing.