Page 11 of Vicious Kingdom (Dynasty of Queens #3)

T hat was too close. A misstep. One stupid move in a dangerous game that would have ripped away everything if I’d given in. I nearly fell into her trap, lost myself, let the charged moment pull me under.

Annaliese was a deadly little enchantress, weaving a web that would catch a man’s soul in one swift stroke.

I counted myself lucky. I had what I came here to get.

The prize was mine. More snapshots of her, the beautiful socialite, always pretending she was untouchable.

But I’d caught her on camera. Drunk. Dancing on another woman and looking reckless as she was about to kiss someone—my own face was conveniently absent from the frame.

The best part? I told her I wanted to do this from the moment I saw her.

She no doubt thought I meant to kiss her.

When in reality, I meant break her—pay her back in kind for all the sins she committed without feeling, without remorse.

She needed to know the cost of betrayal. This was just the beginning.

The fact that the kiss nearly did me in?

Weakness. I was a man after all, susceptible to her spells.

I had to overcome that. If I was going to survive against her indomitable spirit, I had to remain strong.

A moment’s vulnerability could ruin everything.

She was a dangerous woman to be around. Her kind killed the men they loved.

It was death to feel affection for her. Even hate was dangerous.

That could burn. At least until the final move was mine and she was crushed, I would keep my guard in place.

The club throbbed around me, all shadows and spinning lights as I pushed through the crowd.

The stink of money and desperation hung in the air, sweet as poison.

They all thought they were invincible. I knew better.

Her friends, laughing, clueless, oblivious, enveloped her as I slipped past. I was a ghost, invisible, gone before she even realized.

I strode into the night, using a back exit unfrequented by party hoppers.

Only to come upon a terrible scene. Isabella Moretti, the black widow, was trapped.

Her guards stood at attention, but a half-dozen burly men surrounded her.

A business deal on the brink of detonation.

She was likely trying to negotiate a better fee structure with this distributor, and by the looks of it, things had gone from bad to worse.

“Just say yes, baby,” Marcus Servizzio coaxed.

“May the devil take you!” the queen of night hissed.

I could walk away. I was a civilian by day.

But the call of blood promised to sate the terrible storm in my veins.

I stepped forward. “Problem?”

Servizzio, a scumbag who ran a small operation on the outskirts of the city, glared at me. “None of your business, mister.”

Isabella’s eyes widened slightly, no doubt recognizing me as the powerful CEO. Little did she know we were alike, both children of the underworld. She’d been married to a powerful don, a rival that my brother murdered with a simple move of malice and deceit.

Not that many believed the rumors that someone like Vincent Moretti would be stupid enough to drink wine poisoned by his enemy. They chalked his death up to a heart attack.

“I have business to discuss with Mrs. Moretti,” I said coolly.

“So do I,” Servizzio spat.

His hand moved to his hip, where I knew a gun would be holstered. Isabella’s men tensed, ready to protect their queen, but were outnumbered.

“The lady said no,” I growled, stepping closer.

“Walk away while you still can, pretty boy,” Servizzio warned.

Just a bit farther. I took another step, curling my fingers and beckoning the scum to come out from behind his guards.

The man was an idiot.

Servizzio advanced. His lip curled. “Who the fuck do you think—”

I didn’t let him finish. My fist connected with his jaw, the satisfying crunch of bone against knuckle igniting something primal within me. The violence felt like coming home, like the truth of who I really was beneath the expensive suit and corporate facade.

“Kill this motherfucker!” Servizzio screamed, blood spraying from his split lip.

Two men charged me at once. I ducked under the first swing, driving my fist into a soft gut, feeling ribs give way beneath my knuckles. The second man caught me with a glancing blow.

“Leonard!” Isabella called out, but I was already lost to the frenzy.

The tension crackled like electricity in the night air. One of Servizzio’s men made the mistake of grabbing Isabella’s arm, and that was all it took.

Chaos erupted. Isabella’s guards surged forward as Servizzio’s men descended.

The brute who’d clipped me advanced. Right before he swung at my head, I noticed the brass knuckles. I ducked, driving my shoulder into his sternum, feeling ribs give way.

But when I grabbed for his shirt, ready to hold him tight and rain blows on his skull, my skewered hand screamed in protest.

In the rush of adrenaline, I forgot the crippling injury.

I threw another punch, but it wasn’t nearly as strong a blow as it should have been. His head snapped back, eyes wide with shock before narrowing with rage.

The brute’s brass-laced fist came hurtling toward my face, but in a blur of movement, I intercepted it.

Pain lanced up my arm, a sharp reminder of my limitations. The thug sensed weakness and doubled his attack, his meaty fist aimed to kill. I pivoted, using his momentum against him, and he stumbled past me into the brick wall.

A flash of steel caught my eye—a switchblade. Servizzio’s lieutenant, a thin man with dead eyes, lunged for Isabella.

“Donna! Behind you!” I shouted.

Isabella moved with lethal grace, her stiletto heel driving into the man’s instep before her elbow connected with his throat. The knife clattered to the pavement.

Encouraged by their queen’s bravery, the Moretti men rallied. Blood and violence sang around us, a lullaby of death. The guards might have been outnumbered, but they moved with a desperation that proclaimed their victory.

The night air filled with grunts and curses as the Moretti soldiers moved with brutal efficiency. These weren’t just bodyguards—they were trained killers, men who’d been baptized in destruction. I’d seen their handiwork before, though they didn’t know that.

I caught a glimpse of the black widow’s face—calm, controlled, almost bored—as she pulled a dagger from her thigh and buried it in one of Servizzio’s men.

That killing blow ended the fray.

The scum scattered.

A combined howl of victory rose into the night sky as the Moretti men hurried to their queen.

“It’s not safe for you here,” I panted, shaking the dirt from my suit.

“Your hand.” Isabella glided toward me.

I snatched it back. “It’s fine.”

Her brow flicked, and amusement twitched on her lips. “You wanted to speak with me?”

My brain scrambled for logic. How did I suggest that she join forces with my brother without her discovering my connection to the underworld?

“I just wanted to offer my condolences.” I felt blood drop from the bandage around my hand.

Her eyes hardened. “Thank you.”

“Should you ever want to sell your husband’s dealerships, come to me first,” I insisted. “I’ll give you a fair price.”

Isabella scoffed. “I find that I like the part of car salesperson, Mr. Baldwin.”

Translation: She liked being the don of her organization.

Of course, I wasn’t supposed to know that.

“But perhaps we could discuss a possible investment in my expansion plans over dinner?” Isabella suggested.

“Perhaps.”

Before I could set a date or time, the side door to the club burst open down at the other end of the alley. Two women stumbled out, and the blonde promptly heaved her dinner into the street.

Isabella huffed in disgust. “Party girl partied too hard.”

A queen like her had no time to let loose. To a powerful businesswoman like her, the behavior of socialites was as disgusting as it was useless.

I couldn’t say I blamed her.

“Hey! You there! A little help?” the other woman called out, pinning me with a look.

“Friends of yours?” Isabella’s voice held a slight sneer.

“Friendship implies caring,” I muttered. “But…I’m a gentleman.”

“Yes,” the black widow mused. “Yes, you are. Goodnight, Mr. Baldwin. Thank you for your gentlemanly assistance. I won’t forget your kindness.”

The connection with the rising power player of the underworld secured, I walked away from the queen, who gathered her guards and retreated to the parking lot.

The friend tapped her foot in impatience, her anticipation palpable as she stood there.

Her soft brown skin was adorned with a shimmering layer of blue glitter, which seemed to dance with every slight movement.

This sparkling adornment cascaded across her body, accentuating the elegant contours of her high cheekbones, creating a striking contrast and enhancing her radiant appearance.

“I told her the double round of tequila was a bad idea,” the friend said, her voice filled with equal parts amusement and exasperation. “But after you left, Anna turned wild.”

There was a sparkle in her eye that suggested this wasn’t the first time she’d witnessed Annaliese in this state.

Which was fascinating. The Anna I knew didn’t give into bursts of Bacchanalian displays.

“I just ate too much, Brady,” Annaliese insisted weakly, her protest muffled by another round of retching.

I stopped before the pair, crossing my arms over my chest. What I was supposed to do about this mess, I wasn’t sure.

The vengeful devil on my shoulder beckoned me to snap yet another picture, but my arms tensed.

That was a low, cruel blow. Revealing the party animal to the tabloids and making Annaliese feel uncomfortable was one thing.

This?

This was another level.

Strike now! What was I waiting for? I wanted to crush this woman, didn’t I?

Yet the protective surge in my veins stayed my hand.