Page 1 of Haunted (Blackwood Brothers #1)

XAVIER

Six riders follow behind me in formation. They’re not friends—they’re assets.

The wind whistles through the seams of my leather jacket as I ease back on the throttle, downshifting. The exit ramp approaches, but I don’t signal. They know how to follow.

The warehouse district rises from the industrial fog like a concrete fortress. Cameras track our arrival, red lights blinking in recognition. The massive door begins its ascent before I’ve fully stopped. They know better than to make me wait.

I remove my helmet, running a hand through my hair before striding inside. The space falls silent the moment my boots hit the concrete. Twenty men halt their activities, keeping their eyes lowered in deference.

“Report,” I command.

Perez steps forward, folder in hand. “Shipment’s ready, Mr. Blackwood. Three million in product is packaged as instructed.”

I take the folder without acknowledging him, flipping through it. Numbers align. Routes have been confirmed, with a detailed plan B in the event it becomes necessary.

“The Collins situation?” I ask, not looking up.

“Handled.” Perez shifts his weight. “He won’t be speaking to anyone again.”

I close the folder, finally meeting his eyes. “Show me.”

He pulls out his phone and displays a photo, which I examine without expression. The work is clean.

“Good.” I hand the folder back. “Dispose of the devices, and use the new route for the next three shipments.”

The warehouse returns to production, men moving with renewed purpose. Perez nods, relief evident in the slight relaxation of his shoulders.

I walk toward the office in the back, aware of the eyes tracking my movements. Fear, respect, ambition—I can taste each motivation like distinct flavors in the air. Each man calculating his worth, his position, his future under my command.

None dare approach as I unlock the office door. The red mask sits on my desk where I left it, a reminder of what’s coming in two weeks. The annual Hollow’s Hunt. I pull off my leather jacket and hang it up, settling down to review the numbers.

After about an hour, my phone vibrates in my pocket as I complete my review of the upcoming week’s operations. Vane’s name flashes on the screen. I consider letting it ring—a small reminder that I decide when conversations happen—but answer before the fourth ring.

“What?”

“Hello to you, too, brother,” Vane’s voice drips with sarcasm. “Planning to grace us with your presence tonight? Knox is already three drinks in and making bets with the staff on whether you’ve finally gotten old enough to need a bedtime.”

I check my watch. Nearly midnight. “I’m working.”

“You’re always fucking working. Landon’s on his way. The club’s packed, and I need someone with an actual brain to help me manage Knox before he convinces the bartender to let him stage dive from the VIP balcony again.”

Despite myself, my lips twitch. The last time Knox tried that particular stunt, he’d taken out three cocktail waitresses and a congressman’s son. The cleanup cost me six figures, and it came with a favor I hadn’t wanted to grant.

“Tell our youngest brother I’ll personally ensure his motorcycle suffers a mysterious mechanical failure if he damages my club again. ”

“Tell him yourself when you get here.” Vane pauses. “Perez can handle the warehouse. The Russian buyers showed up early with an interesting proposal.”

My interest piques. Vane’s competitive nature makes him insufferable at times, but his instincts for opportunity are rarely wrong.

“Thirty minutes,” I concede.

“Twenty,” Vane counters instantly. Always pushing.

I end the call without responding. He knows I’ll arrive when I choose to.

A visit to Purgatory may be overdue. Knox’s antics, Landon’s calculated silence, Vane’s relentless ambition—they’re chaos and order in equal measure. My brothers: my greatest assets and liabilities.

I grab my helmet, mentally shifting from one kingdom to another. The night is still young, and Purgatory waits for its king.

I shrug into my leather jacket, the familiar weight settling on my shoulders like armor.

The garage is silent save for the soft echo of my footsteps as I approach my BMW.

She waits like a predator at rest—one of the many reasons I had to have her: crimson red with matte black accents, a machine built for dominance and deviance.

The engine growls to life beneath me, vibrating with barely contained power. I don’t need to check my watch. Five minutes since Vane’s call. I’ll arrive in fifteen minutes.

The city streets blur into streams of light as I push the motorcycle to its limits, weaving through late-night traffic. Lesser men fear death; I refuse to acknowledge its dominion over me.

Downtown’s skyline rises before me, glass towers reflecting the neon glow of sin and commerce. I bank right, the bike leaning at an angle that would send amateurs sliding across the asphalt. Ten minutes ahead of schedule.

The gate to the private parking beneath Purgatory recognizes my number plates as I approach, and the gate lifts without pause. My designated spot sits empty, as it should. The last employee who parked there found himself working security in our Alaskan warehouse. In January.

I kill the engine, pocketing the keys as I stride toward the private elevator. The bass from above reverberates through the concrete, a steady heartbeat of debauchery and profit.

The doors slide open directly into the VIP section. The air is thick with the scent of expensive perfume, imported liquor, and the charged atmosphere of deals being made. My kingdom of indulgence.

Knox spots me first, his laugh cutting through the ambient noise. He’s sprawled on a black leather couch, a blonde wearing what might generously be called underwear perched on his lap. His hair is disheveled, and his eyes are bright with mischief.

“The king graces us with his presence!” he calls out, raising his glass in mock salute. “Told you he wasn’t past his prime yet, sweetheart.” This is directed to the woman, who giggles on cue .

Vane lounges in the adjacent booth, one arm draped around a redhead, the other holding a tumbler of amber liquid. His gaze is sharper than Knox’s, assessing my mood before he speaks.

“Twenty-two minutes. You’re getting predictable, brother.”

“Only to those paying attention,” I counter, scanning the room. “Where’s Landon?”

As if summoned, our quietest brother materializes from the shadows near the bar, nursing what appears to be sparkling water. No female companions. Like me, Landon prefers to keep business and pleasure distinctly separate.

“The Russians are in the back room,” he says without preamble. “Getting impatient.”

Knox snorts, setting his companion aside with a playful swat. “Always business with you two. When’s the last time either of you enjoyed what we built here?” He gestures expansively to the club below.

“When I review the quarterly profits,” I reply dryly.

Vane smirks. “Some of us can multitask.”

Knox pushes himself off the couch, adjusting his disheveled shirt. “You know what your problem is, X? You’ve forgotten how to have fun.”

“I’m touched by your concern for my recreational proclivities,” I reply, signaling the bartender.

He immediately abandons his other customers, bringing over a crystal tumbler with three fingers of Macallan 25—my standard.

I take a slow sip, letting the smoky notes linger before addressing my youngest brother again.

“Some of us prefer to maintain enough brain cells to run an empire.”

Vane laughs, the sound sharp as glass. “He’s got you there. Though I’d argue it takes more brains to balance both.” He gestures to the redhead still draped against him.

“Balance,” Landon murmurs. “Interesting word choice from someone who fell off the balcony last month attempting to impress that new acrobat from the carnival.”

I raise an eyebrow at Vane, who shrugs unapologetically.

“Speaking of our colorful business partners,” I say, “Tyson called earlier. Their route through Montana hit complications. DEA checkpoint caught them by surprise.”

Knox straightens immediately, his playfulness receding. “Casualties?”

“None that concern us. Product secure.” I swirl the amber liquid in my glass. “But he’s adjusting the timetable, which means we need to rework distribution for the next two weeks.”

“I’ll handle it,” Landon offers, already reaching for his phone.

“After the Russians,” I remind him, finishing my whiskey in one smooth motion. “Tyson’s Carnival provides our product, but these Russians could expand our market threefold.”

Vane pushes himself to his feet, and suddenly, he’s all about business. “Then let’s not keep them waiting. I’ve had Ilya’s people vetted thoroughly. Clean enough for our purposes.”

“Clean enough isn’t clean,” I counter, but there’s a hint of amusement in my tone. “Remember Prague?”

All three brothers grimace simultaneously.

“That was one time,” Vane protests.

“One time that cost us seven figures and a yacht,” I remind him, straightening my cuffs. “Knox, try not to start a fight during negotiations.”

Knox grins, all teeth and trouble. “No promises, brother. But I’ll aim for minimal antagonizing.”

I lead my brothers down the private corridor toward our meeting room. This private lounge exudes power from every corner. Rich mahogany bookshelves line the walls, filled with leather-bound classics that none of us has time to read.

The crackling fireplace casts dancing shadows across plush leather sofas while a custom humidor displays our collection of rare cigars.

At the center stands an imposing mahogany desk, its polished surface reflecting the soft lighting—the perfect stage for decisions that will shape our empire and remind anyone who enters exactly who rules this town.

The muffled bass from the club pulses through the walls like a heartbeat. Before I open the final door, Landon catches my arm.