“Let’s go, you two. Dustin doesn’t like it when his protégés are late.” He ordered, making his way up the steps toward the large double doors.
A protégé. That’s what we’re called when we go through initiation, and you either die by that title or kill to earn your membership status.
I trailed my brother and Dane into the grand foyer, taking in the intricate detailing of the black-and-white marbled floor and the grand staircase leading to the upper levels that can’t be seen from the entrance. Everything about this place was clearly built and executed with the utmost care and precision—it was immaculate.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted an older gentleman as he approached us from one of the connecting rooms, loudly clearing his throat to gain our attention. He was carrying a polished silver tray containing three identical black masks.
Upon closer inspection, I noticed that each was made of a thin plastic with neon green tubing crossing the eyes and mouth sections.
“We wear these masks during the first initiation task to keep the protégés’ identities anonymous from one another. This ensures that if any of you should fail, no one would know who you were—not like they would even give a fuck.” Dane huffed his last statement with a short laugh as if death were nothing more than a joke to him.
If this was going to be my new way of life, I needed to understand the mentality that was required of it—to not give a fuck about what happened behind closed doors.
A life of luxury was never freely given. Fame and fortune always came with a price, but the cost of evolving our moral compasses a few shades darker than they already were seemed worth it in our situation.
“Once we’re in the ballroom, neither of you can speak. Just do as you’re told and complete your test. Failure isn’t an option anymore, unless you’d prefer being buried six feet under.”
With a serious look of understanding, Lucas and I pulled on our masks just as Dane strolled his way toward a staircase I hadn't noticed until now. He tucked his hands into his pockets as he led us down to the lower level of the mansion, carrying himself with the kind of confidence only a seasoned member of this organization would hold—a swagger that I would need to establish for myself in the future.
This was it—no turning back now. Let’s fucking go.
Theballroomwasamassive, empty, and dimly lit space, a bizarre contrast from the elegant entryway we'd just come from. Two men were situated at the far end of the room, wearing masks that looked similar to ours, only theirs had red accents instead of green.
Following Dane's order to stay silent, Lucas and I settled ourselves next to the protégé and stood in awkward silence. I don't know if it was because of my nervous anticipation or the extended stillness itself, but waiting for the last protégé to arrive felt like it took fucking forever.
I was fighting the urge to fidget when two men wearing matching black masks with blue accents descended the stairs and crossed the room in our direction.
The man standing behind the last protégé mumbled something unintelligible right before we were all knocked to the ground, having our knees kicked out from under us.
A strained collective groan filled the room as I bit down hard on my lip to counteract the shockwave of pain that radiated up my thigh. My brother elbowed me, and I turned my head, responding with a nod that confirmed I was fine and still willing to proceed.
When the lingering pain had subsided, I lifted my gaze to see a man entering from the opposite end of the room dressed in an all-black tailored suit—Armani, probably.
“I see that the next round of Protégés made it right on time this evening.” The man praised as he approached us, his arms stretched out wide in greeting, and with an entrance like that, he couldn't have been anyone else but Dustin Slate—the reigning leader of the Men Under Revue. “It is my pleasure to welcome you all to the MUR Manor. I assume we all know and understand why we’re here tonight?”
Anxiety and confusion struck me like a hand to the back of the head. Were we supposed to actually answer his question or continue to keep our mouths fucking shut and assume it was rhetorical?
When neither of the other two revues responded, I thought it best to follow suit and remain silent myself. If we were supposed to respond, we’re all fucked together.
“Excellent. Then let’s get this session underway, shall we?” Dustin snapped his fingers, and suddenly two men the size of gorillas entered the ballroom—bodyguards, most likely. One was carrying a metal chair, which he dramatically slammed down in front of us,like a fucking tough guy,while the other slid something behind Dustin’s back. And just as quickly as they’d entered, they exited the room through a side door. “As you should already be aware, tradition is important in our organization, and what better way to uphold tradition than by initiating a legacy?”
A legacy? There are men fuckingborninto this type of organization? Jesus Christ.
Good thing the initiations weren’t a competition between men—survival of the fucked up fittest, because I’d hate to be the one who’d have the honor of going up against a man who was born for murder.
“Spilling blood is a requirement for initiation and secures your membership within our brotherhood. If you can’t stomach the work we do to ensure that our city remains a thriving and lucrative place, then you’re not worthy of our time or payroll.” Dustin revealed a black magnum from behind his back just as he’d finished his bold and blunt statement.
As my eyes took in the gun, a loud bang rang out from where the two large guards had just exited, snapping my attention to the door, and this time, they weren’t returning alone. Hauling in a man kicking with muffled screams as he fought for his fucking life.
“Here we go… My favorite part of the evening.” Dustin’s tone was sickeningly sinister as he let out a dark chuckle, his gaze attentively following his men across the room.
As they passed through a beam of light, I caught a glimpse of the ball gag that had been secured in the man’s mouth, his saliva glistening around its edges as he continued to scream and growl like a rabid fucking animal.
The bodyguards roughly shoved him into the seat before us, securing his hands and legs to the chair so he had no means of escape—as if fleeing out the back door would save his ass from a racing bullet…
“Eager for the kill, are we, Red Magic?” Out of the corner of my eye, there stood the blue designated protégé, fists balled at his side and shaking with what I imagined was feral rage and the burning desire to take the kill for himself. He was a legacy after all, and that title alone meant he wasn’t here to play games or fuck around. “That shouldn’t have surprised me, knowing the bloodline you come from.” Dustin continued, seemingly unfazed by the unprompted motion. “By all means, if you require no explanation for this man’s crime against the MUR, please go right ahead.”
The Red Magic protégé confidently stepped forward, taking the gun from Dustin’s outstretched hand, wasting absolutely no fucking time in positioning himself at the struggling man’s back,and without a word, the man lined up his shot and took it with a single breath.
