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PROLOGUE
Zeno
We were all sinners on this earth.
As flawed creatures, darkness lurked in every human being. Some harboured tiny specks, while others nested enough to shroud their morals, their actions, their straight thinking. Life was a never-ending cycle of sinning and finding redemption until the final breadth—our inevitable death.
Born amidst an eclipse, I too was a sinner with a higher inclination for tenebrosity.
The difference between myself and the others—I knew my hard limits. I established right from wrong at a young age and was not swayed by avarice like the many men I’d encountered in the underbelly of Montardor.
They couldn’t stop sinning. They were continuously perpetuated by an insatiable hunger. Nothing could curb their appetite. Not more cars. Not more money. And certainly not more women.
I was all too familiar with these men.
They were, after all, the ones who deserved to be punished.
The engine of my matte black Lamborghini lowered to a dull roar as I slowed in front of the gates of the Lancasters’ residence, a vast brick-walled bungalow that spanned along a secluded road canopied by trees.
Armel Lancaster, the eldest son of the Lancasters, stepped out of his sports car, a bottle of Jack in his left and a young socialite in his right. They laughed drunkenly. Armel shoved her against the car and they started kissing.
Even from here, the girl didn’t look a day over eighteen.
Five long weeks led to this moment. I studied Armel endlessly until I knew everything about him. His habits, his vices, and his flaws.
Including the fact that he had a penchant for young, minor pussy.
Armel touched what didn’t belong to him and that was the reason why he was mere seconds away from death at my unmerciful hands.
One month ago, at my sister’s sweet sixteen party, the perverted fuck had the audacity to put his sleazy palms over her. She’d sat down on a spare chair after spending the evening dancing with her friends and I caught the exact moment his hand slipped under the skirt of her dress. The blood-curdling fear in my sister’s eyes and the way she froze over was branded in my mind.
The writing on the wall was crystal clear: Armel Lancaster needed to be thrown into the snake pit.
By none other than yours truly.
The De la Croix gun felt weighty as it settled against my gloved palm like an extension of me. My window went down just enough to thrust out the barrel. Three bullets pierced through the slim spacing of the ornate gates, right into Armel Lancaster’s back.
I was exceptionally good at this.
Quick.
Efficient.
Forever ruthless.
The traitor never saw me coming.
A feminine screech of horror echoed after my shots.
The lights surrounding the mansion flickered on with haste.
But I had already sped off before Armel Lancaster’s lifeless body hit the ground.
The air tonight swirled with a hint ofje ne sais quoias I took the highway and entered downtown Montardor three minutes past midnight. The landscape was a starless sky, blinding city lights, impatient car honks, and groups of individuals gliding across the pavement, hopping from one bar to another. I kept driving until I drew closer to Fredview Strip.
They called this place the City of Passion, but it was a disguise for its true nature. Montardor was an ever-churning pit of sin, its lifelines engraved in blood, gambling, drug trafficking, nightclubs, and overall depravity by the hands of various groups of organized crime, crooked politicians, and evenune société secrète.
Yves De la Croix called me precisely nine minutes after my hit. News travelled fast within the city and by dawn, the tabloids would be splashed with the once-charming face—a complete ruse once you got to know the bastard—of Armel Lancaster with the statement: shot dead by an unidentified profile.
