Page 1 of Mafia Kings & Wedding Rings

O ak Bluffs was usually quiet in the hours right before dawn.

The kind of quiet that meant everything dangerous had already happened, and the survivors were counting their blessings or their motherfucking bullets.

Standing on the top floor of one of the Marek buildings with the city spread below like a chessboard he had long since mastered, Justus Marek observed every piece in its place.

Every pawn paid a tribute. Every rival bowed or was buried.

When Justus was coming up, the Hansley family had it on lock.

His grandfather was running numbers while his father was cooking up bombs to take out their opps. This world was nothing new to him.

The Marek empire had been built from the ground up, brick by brick, deal by deal, body by body.

Now, with the brink of spring on the horizon, he was fully at peace with the order he carved from the chaos.

Peace, he’d learned, was the most dangerous thing a man in his position could feel.

Watching the streets he owned, Justus knew it should have been a quiet night.

Yet something dark lingered in the atmosphere.

Gripping a bottle of his family’s whiskey in his hand, he examined the label.

The tagline swear on the bottle was scribbled in script below the logo.

The Marek family crest, which included the M embossed on a shield split into three sections: a coiled serpent in one, a whiskey barrel, and a pair of crossed daggers.

A banner crowned the shield, reading Marek Reserve.

For the consumers, it was a nod to celebrating love, friendship, and milestones.

When you toasted with a Marek, it meant something else.

Swear on the bottle, sealed with a sip was the motto.

That first taste means you’ve accepted their terms, and there is no walking away.

Not everyone could grasp that. Familiar footsteps in the distance drew his attention as he tipped the bottle to his lips.

The first shot shattered the window in front him, spraying glass like frozen rain.

The second buried itself deep in his chest. Staggering, Justus saw his killer in the window pane in front of him.

There was no mask or hesitation, just a pair of cold eyes and the knowledge that his legacy now teetered on the edge of open war.

Bleeding on the carpet of his empire, Justus didn’t beg or plead because he wasn’t built that way.

His last thought was of his sons and what was to come.

His last breath wasn’t a prayer, but an oath unspoken.

The war for his territory had just begun.