Page 5 of Tragic Empire

But I would have also never met him. I would have never found the St. Mary’s Orphanage and all of the sweet souls I met within it over the last few years. I most certainly wouldn’t have met any of my friends or found my place amongst the New York City elite. But with all the glitz and glamor comes the risk of horrors beyond the typical human imagination. Mafia living comes with hazards, and I wasn’t ignorant of them.

Being the stepdaughter to Bron Knight, Monarch of The Kings, put me in a position to be protected, but also one to be targeted. And still, Cole didn’t ask to be born a Knight more than I asked to become one at sixteen.

I don’t understand why this is happening now, though. Bron hasn’t warned us to be on alert, The Kings are in a time of peace, and no eminent threats have been made. A car accident could be just that—an accident. But being nabbed by people that even Cole doesn’t recognize? That’s a plot.

A well-constructed, planned down to every last detail plot. Kidnapping me, well, I’m not stubborn enough to deny how easy that could be for someone with any level of mafia training. Kidnapping me alongside Killian and Cole? That’s not something amateurs could pull off.

Cole is good at what he does. He’s a genius in multiple forms of combat and smarter than most people know. And Killian… Killian is a ruthless leader. Men cower at the idea of him—and for good reason. He’s demonstrated time and time again why it’s a bad idea to fuck with him. The man is built like a machine and fights like an animal. He could take down his own father to take over as Monarch without a fraction of effort, and everyone knows it.

“For what it’s worth, I always knew I’d die young,” Cole murmurs softly. “I’m just glad I got to have you before it happened. I love you, Ana.”

His confession causes a sob to catch in my throat.

He sounds so sure of what’s about to happen, and I can’t believe he isn’t terrified. His voice is steady and remorseful, but there isn’t a hint of fear to be heard. I don’t want him to die. I don’t want any of us to die.

“I’m going to do my best to keep you alive, love,” he vows, the soft words barely audible. “If you get a chance to flee, you run like hell. Promise me.”

No, I can’t.

My lips wobble, and I barely resist the urge to shake my head.

Like he can read my mind, he whispers, “Yes, you can, Ana. Promise.”

The sound of a door hinge rattles and my stomach drops. Our time alone is up.

“Awww, lookie here, is your pretty little sister awake?”

I don’t recognize the sound of the man’s voice, and when my eyes flutter open, I don’t recognize his face either. My brain automatically begins to categorize details about him, filing them away behind the forefront of my fear.

Tall.

Bald.

Middle-aged.

White.

Rough beard.

“She’s not my sister,” Cole growls, baring his teeth at our captor.

The room that we’re in is cold and depleted. Dirty tile floor and brick walls painted white that are stained with burned orange water damage. Long, rectangular hanging lights flicker above us, illuminating the small space. There’s a large window on one wall, but it doesn’t look external, more like it’s meant to see into another room, and the ceilings are short. A basement, maybe?

While scanning the place, my heart lurches as I find Killian. He’s tied down to a metal chair. His suit is ruffled, and he’s bleeding from his mouth. Feeling my gaze, his eyes find mine and he gives me a remorseful look. He doesn’t think we’re getting out of this alive either.

Our captor gives a barking laugh at Cole’s outburst, followed by a nasty grin. “Nah, I suppose I wouldn’t want someone calling my whore my sister either.”

“Don’t fucking call her that?—”

The man ignores Cole, not even letting him finish. “Gotta say, that step-sibling shit is twisted—even to someone like me. Mommy and Daddy boning in the same house that you screw? That’s fucked up, man.”

“What do you want?” Killian demands, ignoring the man’s attempt to goad us.

“We,” a new voice chimes. “Don’t want anything.”

Two other men join the first, filling up the room. They look like bouncers at a club, or enforcers of some kind, not master kidnappers.

“Well, aside from your lives, that is,” the first man adds, smirking dangerously. A broken whimper leaves me, and tears start to stream down my cheeks. It only seems to amuse him, making him chuckle. “Get the sister-fucker in his chair, I’m ready to start this shit.”