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Prologue
Arnie
Six months ago…
The floorboards creak louder than I would like.
It might be a problem for anyone else in my position, but a decade of work just like this has honed my skills. I glide across this decrepit place like a shadow, trusting my instincts to navigate the half-rotten floor without falling through or alerting anyone to my presence.
But beneath my mask, I can feel myself grimace.
The damp stench is enough to make you gag, and the decaying carcasses of vermin littering the corners make it that much worse. It’s hard to believe anyone could live like this.
And yet, as I reach the end of the corridor and press my ear to the door, I hear the unmistakable sound of heavy breathing.
Target located.
When this contract first landed on my desk, I didn’t think much of it. My knowledge of the Irish mob and its warring families was about as extensive as my knowledge of the Italian mafia. Which is to say, very little.
It’s ironic considering my uncle was the late Italian Don, Tony Nova. The man who fucked up so badly, he ended up getting my entire family killed over some petty revenge. As the only surviving heir, it means that, technically, I now wear his “crown.” I am a Mafia king of nothing but an immense fortune and the ghosts of those who deserved it more.
I never wanted this.
Until that fateful day a year ago, my interests were held by a darker, more elusive side of the New York underworld. Hitman, liquidator, killer for hire—the words don’t matter, because somebody always needs to make an enemy disappear. I learned quickly that the only person you can truly trust is yourself—which makes my line of work perfect for someone with no family and a dangerous skillset.
The door gives way a little too easily to my touch, and I half wonder if I’d approached with more force, it might have fallen from its hinges entirely.
But my attention soon shifts to the other person in the room.
Hunched in an armchair that looks about as old as the mansion itself is a shell of a man. His beard is overgrown, blending into his long, red hair. Eyes staring off into a space that’s neither close nor far away. His profile says he’s barely thirty—and yet this man has aged beyond his years.
The reek of alcohol hits me a second later.
“Are you here to kill me?” a voice croaks suddenly.
I stiffen. I was sure I entered silently—perhaps my surprise at the scene before me made me forget myself. But the man doesn’t turn or give any indication of moving. Seemingly, he’s resigned to his fate.
“Would you believe me if I said no?” I reply, taking a cautious step forward as if approaching some kind of dangerous animal.
I read his file.
I know that once, Connor Maguire was considered one of the highest-ranked wrestlers in the country. But his psychological profile gave me serious cause for caution. He had the same drive and ambition as his father, with perhaps even a great capacity for leadership—but unlike his father, he was willing to get his hands dirty if he needed to. In short, he was not the kind of person you wanted to meet down a dark alley.
But right now, there is nothing here to indicate anywhere near the kind of challenge I was expecting.
“Get on with it then,” Connor says heavily. His head turns slowly, uncaringly, to finally look at me properly. I watch as surprise flickers in his joyless eyes. “You’re Arnold Knight.”
“In the flesh,” I say with a mocking bow.
Connor huffs out a humorless laugh. “Someone must really want me dead.”
“I tend not to ask too many questions,” I say as I step closer.
Connor’s eyes watch the movement closely, with more accuracy than a man in his state should be able to. As I get closer, the stink of whiskey is confirmed by the numerous bottles lying at his feet.
Starting somewhere deep within my own hollow heart, a pang of pity ricochets through my chest. “I’ll make it quick,” I say gently.
“You know what they call you?” Connor replies calmly, as if we’re not discussing his imminent death. “The Reaper.”
