Page 3 of The Stallion (Men Under Revue #2)

Dallas

Twenty-One Years Old

INITIATION: TEST ONE.

For the last three years, my father has been training me for this very moment—my initiation into the Men Under Revue.

The first requirement for membership was employment with any of the three primary male revues, ensuring exclusivity.

Not every dancer who worked in one of the shows was a member, but our black obsidian rings made it easier to quickly identify other members who understood its significance—a ring coveted for what it represented to those who’ve earned it—and soon, I would be receiving mine.

All members being initiated into the MUR were required to have a sponsor, a member who could validate their protégé's ability to be just as fucked up as everyone else in this brotherhood.

Being a sponsor meant taking full responsibility for your protégé in every way, especially if they failed their initiation tasks or broke any rules under their watch. The penalty for both was the same: death at the hands of the one person who put all of their faith in you.

Due to my legacy status, and doubting that he would've wanted to kill his first and only son if I fucked up my tests, meant it wasn't a wise choice for my father to be my sponsor.

Even though I’m sure if I couldn’t make it to the ceremony, he would kill me regardless, just for disgracing the Ryan name.

His reputation was on the line just as much as mine.

Having a legacy within the MUR was extremely rare.

Very few sons chose to follow their fathers’ path, and due to the sensitivity of the organization’s secrets, those who did were required to join a revue and take their tests at the age of twenty-one or face the repercussions—the same fate as failing.

My father wanted me to be fully prepared physically and mentally for my new future, so I spent my training time learning the ins and outs of the MUR and how to take down my targets with little to no hesitation.

With my twenty-first birthday behind me, my time had officially come.

It was do or die at this point— literally .

Volunteering himself to be my sponsor, Alec picked me up in his black Cadillac Escalade.

He was always more mature in his apparel choices, with the sleeves of his black blazer rolled up to his elbows, while I preferred to be much more casual in appearance, throwing on my favorite denim jacket.

I assume age played a huge role in our wardrobe choices, with Alec pushing forty-five, just like my father.

It was nearly ten at night when we left my parents’ house. No one was allowed at Dustin Slate’s mansion before sunset unless he summoned them himself.

The reason? Who fucking knows.

I constantly made the joke that he was a vampire with all of his late-night bullshit, and the MUR was just some front to cover up his true identity.

Neither my father nor Alec found my comparison amusing… Whatever.

As we pulled up to his mansion, I gaped in awe at the luxurious residence surrounded by an even more impressive landscape.

The mansion was bright white, with extravagant pillars framing the front entrance and floor-to-ceiling windows on the main and second floors. Ornamental crown molding was everywhere, and lush green vines crept up the sides of the home, accenting every ledge.

It was difficult to tell because of how dark it was, but I could only assume that the grass was fake—astroturf or something similar—and more than likely, a good eighty percent of the plants were too, judging by the fact that we were in the middle of the Nevada desert.

There was no fucking way this garden was real and this green at the same time. The entire state was in the middle of a drought, unless his mansion was the cause of it—a likely possibility.

Turning up the circle driveway, I continued to admire the exterior details as we rounded the massive center fountain, which glowed a bright white before suddenly turning blue as Alec parked us in front of the grand entrance.

“That’s our welcome lighting.”

“Our what?” We hadn’t even exited the car. How did they know who we were?

“All the MUR member vehicles are tagged with a device that Dustin can monitor—and before you get carried away with your exaggerated assumptions, it's not a tracking GPS. It's simply so he can determine if the vehicles arriving at his home are permitted to do so.”

Fair enough.

“Get your ass out of the car, and remember, once we cross that threshold, you keep that mouth of yours shut.” Alec’s stern voice reeled me back from my thoughts as I squared my shoulders and exited his SUV without saying anything.

“You know what to do tonight. Do it well and without hesitation, just as your father taught you.”

This was it.

My fucking moment to shine.

I followed Alec closely as we made our way inside. Just as we’d stopped in the grand foyer, a middle-aged gentleman wearing a black suit and tie with white gloves silently greeted us, holding out a silver tray with two identical masks.

He gestured curtly, and we took the masks that were presented on the tray. Alec sighed heavily while mumbling something under his breath that I couldn’t fully understand as he pulled his on.

The masks were glossy black, with neon blue tubing crossing the eyes and mouth. They were made of a thin, cheap plastic, similar to what you’d expect at a pop-up Halloween store.

With a mansion like this, you’d think he would splurge a little more on accessories.

My father had mentioned that the masks were solely used to keep the protégés’ identities confidential from one another, just in case one of them never made it through their tests.

Aside from that, they served no real purpose to the MUR.

With a shake of my head, I inhaled deeply as I pulled the mask down over my face, following Alec down the staircase to the mansion’s lower level. Once we’d reached the bottom, we turned down a long hall that led to an extravagant but dimly lit ballroom.

This was where most of the society’s formal events were held, including the five-year member gala that my parents were always required to attend together.

“Make me proud when you’re down there. Show everyone what it means to be a legacy, what name you represent, and whatever you fucking do. Do. Not. Hesitate. The targets are the problems that need correcting, and it’s your solemn duty to serve the brotherhood from this moment forward.”

With every step I took toward the front of the room, my father's words ran through my head as I noticed that the other two revues were already present with their protégés.

Our masks were color-coded: red for Heaven Down Under, green for Temptations, and blue for us—Red Magic.

There was a rumor that the Slate family had more than just these three revues working for the MUR, but no one had seen them here for initiation, and we were the only three that initiated together.

Alec and I silently took our positions beside the other two revues, and from the corner of my eye, I noticed that Temptations had two protégés instead of one.

Interesting… I remember learning that each revue was restricted to one nomination per initiation session—

“Twins,” Alec whispered near my ear as if he sensed my confusion.

“Normally, there’s only one protégé per revue to level the playing field.

But this year, Temptations were granted leniency due to their unique situation .

” He bent over my shoulder as he finished his sentence and placed his hand on the opposite side before kicking my legs out from under me.

Like a pile of bricks, I dropped to the ground, my knees slamming hard onto the floor from the force of my weight. I clenched my teeth at the pain, biting back a hiss and a few choice words I had for Alec.

I knew that part was coming. But fuck, it still hurt like a bitch.

“I see that the next round of Protégés made it right on time this evening.” A man dressed in an all-black Armani suit stated as he entered the room and approached us, his arms outstretched widely in greeting.

Dustin Slate. The reigning leader of the MUR.

“It is my pleasure to welcome you all to the MUR Manor. I assume we all know and understand why we’re here tonight? ”

Don’t speak; nod your understanding—shut the fuck up, as Alec would say so eloquently—

“Excellent. Then let’s get this session underway, shall we?

” Dustin clapped his hands together before snapping his fingers in command.

Two brawny men appeared from the shadows, one of whom slammed down a basic metal chair in front of us before exiting the room together.

I rolled my eyes at the dramatics— thank fucking god for the masks.

“As you should already be aware, we love tradition in our organization, and what better way to uphold tradition than by initiating a legacy?”

So much for subtlety.

I could feel my palms turning slick with sweat the longer I knelt, anticipating my first kill—wondering who it would be and how much longer I’d have to wait to do the damn thing.

“Spilling blood is a requirement for initiation and secures your membership within our organization. If you can’t stomach the work we do to ensure that our city remains a thriving and lucrative one, then you’re not worthy of our time or payroll.

” Dustin stated bluntly, pulling a handgun out from behind his back.

I’m ready. So fucking ready.

A door slammed open against the wall at the far end of the room, the sound echoing throughout the half-empty space.

My attention was immediately drawn to where a body was being hauled in, kicking and screaming.

The individual’s voice was muffled by whatever was covering or stuffed inside their mouth.

“Here we go… My favorite part of the evening.” Dustin chuckled menacingly as his gaze followed his errand boys across the room to the chair they had placed in front of us earlier. The husky body of a suited man was aggressively shoved down and restrained without the need for further instruction.

Dustin’s bodyguards and mansion staff were not members of the organization but were held to the same standard of secrecy. Everyone was paid well, so there was generally no reason to betray the MUR—at least there hasn’t been yet.

In the limited light, I could see that a ball gag had been strapped across the target’s mouth, smothering whatever he had to say.

And yet, it still didn’t stop him from trying.

The man had one hell of a fight left in him, I’ll give him that—pissed off and practically frothing at the mouth with feral rage toward his captors.

Seeing this man on full display made me more than willing to kill now and ask questions later. I was born for this work, I was ready to pull the fucking trigger, and they didn’t need to tell me twice…

“Everything we do is for the good of the city. Don’t get me wrong; they will fight, cry, and try to guilt you into believing in their innocence.

However, the MUR does its research thoroughly before making a move on anyone.

Every target has been proven guilty of the crime they have committed.

Don’t doubt Dustin’s judgment. It’ll be the last thing you ever do. ”

My father repeatedly reassured me that what we were doing was right, no matter how wrong it may have seemed .

Dustin Slate was the only man you never questioned—unless you wanted to switch places with the assigned targets yourself.

The first year of learning about the Men Under Revue was the hardest, as I had to study in depth in order to understand the organization's purpose and why it was established. In doing so, I also had to learn a new moral code of ethics—one that wasn’t explicitly black or white.

Alec cleared his throat from behind me, and I quickly recoiled from my thoughts, realizing that I was now standing with my hands balled into tight fists at my side, not even registering that I had dissociated from the moment they restrained the target. Shit.

“Eager for the kill, are we, Red Magic?” Dustin intoned, extending the arm that held the gun.

“That shouldn’t have surprised me, knowing the bloodline you were born into.

By all means, if you need no explanation for this man’s crime against the MUR, please go right ahead. ” The smirk on his face was pure evil.

Its been said that once his father gave him the keys to the mansion, Dustin no longer harbored a soul—all that power going straight to his fucked up head.

Some might even be so bold as to say his reign would be the most chaotic in the MUR’s history.

Confidently stepping forward, I took the magnum from Dustin’s hand and rounded behind the man who was still trying his damnedest to free himself from the chair.

Let’s fucking go!

Muffled, malicious grunts were all that came from my target’s covered mouth as the ropes and zip ties dug deeper into his skin. His wrists had turned deep red and purple from his constant struggle and strain.

I aimed the barrel of the gun at the back of his head, lining it up for the kill, inhaling a calming breath.

A single shot.

Point-blank.

Nothing simpler.

I pulled the trigger as I blew out my breath, and with a loud, ear-splitting bang, the man went limp in his chair, lifelessly sagging like a puppet without a master.

Once my ears had recovered from the incessant ringing, I could hear slow clapping coming from over my shoulder—and just like that, I had completed the first of my three tests.

I only hoped the next two would be just as easy…

Because I didn’t feel shit.