Page 151 of The Kingpin's Call Girl

The atmosphere in the room shifts, almost imperceptibly at first.

Orton would sooner cut off his hand than question what’s written in the ancient texts.

To lie about something like this?

Unthinkable.

My pulse races. What. The. Fuck.

“Our ancestors foretold this day,” Orton continues. “A king whose blood reaches back to The First, who would restore the Clan to glory.”

I feel the change in the air. The hostility gives way to something else. Uncertainty. Then awe.

Storm steps forward. Without speaking, he sinks to one knee before me.

One by one, others follow. First the older men—those most steeped in the old ways. Then, the younger ones, pulled by tradition.

West, still hesitating, finally slides off his stool and drops to a knee.

“The promised king,” Orton says, voice thick with emotion.

A man approaches, takes my hand in both of his and bows his head over it. Then another. And another.

“Luka!” someone calls out. The name ripples through the crowd, building into a chant. “Luka! Luka! Luka!”

I catch Orton’s eye over the heads of the kneeling men. There’s something in his gaze—a glint of fierce protectiveness. Of loyalty deeper than blood.

He knows something about the test that I don’t.

What?

But right now, surrounded by men who minutes ago were ready to riddle my body with bullets, all I can do is play my part.

“The promised king,” Orton repeats, dropping to one knee himself. “Gëzuar!”

“Gëzuar!” the room echoes.

Bottles appear. Raki flows. The Chant of the Brotherhood rises.

And somehow, impossibly, I’m still alive.

Later, when the men come back to earth and stop treating me like Zeus descended from the mountain, or at least once the men tone it down a little, I turn to Orton.

“I’m directly descended from somebody four centuries old?” I lower my voice to a harsh whisper. “I’m telling you, my mom wasn’t running around fucking mummies.”

Orton leans closer, his eyes intense. “You don’t understand how much these men want to believe—in you. In the specialness of the clan. They’re making sense of it already. Some are saying perhaps your mother crossed paths with another true bloodline—one hidden from our records. Others...” He gestures toward the celebrating men. “They see this as confirmation of the old prophecies. A king with blood more ancient than we knew.”

“That’s crazy,” I mutter.

“Is it?” Orton’s voice drops further. “These men follow power, but they crave meaning. A bloodline connecting you directly to The First? It gives them something holy to serve.” He taps his glassagainst mine. “The impossible blood of a true king is a far better story than a leader who earned his place through blood and willpower alone. Men die for stories, Luka. They always have.”

I give him a hard look.

“The unseen powers work in mysterious ways.” He throws back his raki.

It’s then I see it—the dull shine of the stone in his ring. The smoothness. “Your ring looks different.”

“What?”