That last sound she made plays on a loop in my head.
The soft, helpless moan—sharp, and sweet, and broken. The sound of someone coming apart in your hands when you thought they would scream. Fight.
She didn’t scream. She moaned.
I can still feel her heat against my fingers. The way her legs trembled when I told her to spread them. The way her pussy clenched when I first slid my fingers inside her, like she’d been waiting for it—craving something without realizing it.
I’d like to say my full attention was on the way her tight little pussy clenched tightly around my fingers, her slick arousal coating them with glistening proof of her submission. On the way she came all over my hand like a greedy little thing.
But my attention was split between that and her face.
The way it crumpled, so poetically. The way her breath fogged on the polished surface of the desk. The way her eyes squeezed shut, like she was trying to push away the pleasure and focus on what I know she thought she should be feeling.
Shame. Guilt.
Maybe she did feel those things, deep down. But that’s not what I saw on her face, with her mouth hanging open and her eyes clenched tight shut.
I saw raw need. Ravenous hunger.
‘Raven.’
I blink. The chamber snaps back into focus—the stone walls, the flickering candlelight. Tension swirls around the table like mist.
Carmine is watching from where he’s sitting to my right, his expression concealed by his Hound mask. The Bull leans back in his chair across from me, one muscled arm slung over the back of it, his other hand twisting a glass of whiskey on the table in front of him. The Wolf, on my left, taps his fingers rapidly on the table, the tempo just shy of manic, as if he’s physically incapable of caging in his crazy.
I honestly don’t think he is.
Meanwhile, in utter contrast, The Stag is perfectly still, sitting casually in his chair, hands calm and unmoving on the armrests. Just…watching, in that—fine, I’ll say it—somewhat creepy way he has.
The Black Court is in session.
“Well?” The Bull says.
I sit forward, flicking ash from my cigarette into the tray. ‘Leonard Kim set up the bombing outside my home.”
All of them stiffen a little bit, and I hear Carmine snarl behind his mask.
“One of my informants put me in touch with a guy who said he worked for an outfit called the Obsidian Syndicate. I’ve personally never heard of them, but it seems they do wetwork, and this guy said they’d done a lot of jobs for ‘the Politician’. When I asked, he couldn’t tell me who the guy was. But then Congressman Kim happened to pop up on the bar TV, and this guy IDed him.”
A heavy, thick silence follows.
“I’m confused,” The Wolf mutters. “Why the fuck would Congressman Kim try to blow up your fucking sister.”
“The car was a present for Vito,” I growl. “But it doesn’t make it any less weird that a US Congressman would try to kill a retired don.” I take another drag of my smoke. “What we need to do first is figure out who the fuck this Obsidian Syndicate is. Then we go after them and peel off their fucking skin.”
No one speaks for a long moment. My eyes narrow behind my mask.
‘Well?’ I snap, jaw clenching.
The Wolf exhales heavily. ‘Look, man. I’m sure I speak for all of us when I say we’re sorry about what almost happened to your sister. But this isn’t Court business.’
My eyes darken.
‘Fuck you,’ I spit. ‘Of course it is.’
‘It’s not,’ The Bull says flatly. ‘Look, we’ve all got families. This life is dangerous. If we got involved every time someone took a swing at a family member, the Court would be at war every day, and that’s not what we do here.”
‘That’s bullshit.’
Carmine’s hand lands heavily on my shoulder. ‘He’s right,” he mutters. ‘This thing with the Obsidian Syndicate is a Barone issue. Until they make it about The Court, then The Court stay out of it.’
I glare at the middle of the table. My cigarette burns low between my fingers.
“This Obsidian Syndicate… They’re the ones sniffing around the Court,’ I press. ‘They have to be. I mean, we’re looking for who’s prying into us, and it’s not Kir, nor anyone we already know in New York. Well, here’s a powerful, well-connected group with the sort of reach where they’re working for U.S. fucking Congressman, right here in our city.” I tap my fingertip hard on the table. “There’s our connection. Now it’s fucking Court business.”
The Bull shakes his head. ‘We get what you’re saying, Raven. But until we have proof it’s them, I’m sorry. This is your family’s fight, not ours.’
Carmine places a hand on my arm. The message is clear: stand down.
I lean against my bike outside the Barone mansion, mostly oblivious to the late-night 5th Avenue traffic zipping past me.
It’s funny: growing up here, our parents always made sure we felt like any other kids growing up in New York. That’s not some “aww, poor kids who grew up with a shitload of money and Central Park right across the street” bullshit. I’ve always known that I was born into a seriously privileged life.
A huge part of it was the relative peace in the mafia world when we were growing up. Dad was right when he was losing it in Bianca’s hospital room, saying “this isn’t how it’s done anymore”.
It isn’t—and it wasn’t when we were kids, either. Vito and Giada let us play on the front steps, like millions of other kids playing on stoops in the Lower East Side or Brooklyn. They took us to soup kitchens to help out on weekends. Dad always made a point of personally delivering a couple of U-Haul trucks full of toys and turkey dinners with all the trimmings to about a half dozen less-then-affluent neighborhoods around the city every Christmas.
In short, we grew up aware of our privilege. And our parents made goddamn sure we understood that with privilege comes responsibility to help those around you.
I look at the front steps of the house, smiling when I remember skipping down those same steps with Vito dressed like fucking Santa Claus, about to make a whole neighborhood’s Christmas Eve.
Then my gaze drops to the street under my feet, and my smile fades like smoke.
The concrete is still scorched—dark black lines spidering outward from a flashpoint, like the road itself tore open and bled.
That’s where the car incinerated. Where Bianca almost died.
My little fucking sister.
I want to hit something.
No, someone. I want to chase down these Obsidian Syndicate motherfuckers and gut them one by one until I find the waste of oxygen who wired that car—and then do all it all over again.
Instead, I just stand here. Waiting.
The low, throaty growl of a V12 engine cuts through the dark, and a second later Carmine’s black Lamborghini slides around the corner. The headlights wash over me and my bike, reflecting off the scorched street like fresh blood in moonlight. He pulls up to the curb and kills the engine.
I speak first when he steps out.
“What the fuck was that?”
Carmine shuts the door and exhales sharply. “That,” he says tiredly, “was The Court making the right call.”
I step toward him. “The right call? Doing fucking nothing is the right call?!”
“It’s not their war, Nico,” he murmurs quietly.
“It will be.”
“Maybe. But right now?” He shakes his head. “It’s not. It’s a Barone issue.”
I laugh, sharp and bitter. “So much for friends.”
Carmine peers closely at me. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Play the loyalty card. You know better. You’re the smartest guy I know, Nico. Don’t pretend that you don’t see the difference here.”
I glare at him. He presses on.
“If The Wolf was having a problem with someone edging into his family’s territory, you think we’d call a full Court session for it? No. We’d tell him to handle it. Privately.”
“And if that problem escalated into an attack on one of our people?”
“Then it would become our problem, and we’d go to war. But only then.” His voice is calm. Steady.
Sometimes I envy my brother’s ability to tune out emotions. No, not ability. It’s just…the way he’s wired. I clearly remember the moment when I was younger, maybe ten, and heard from Vito that Carmine wasn’t just “off” sometimes. He was certifiably psychotic. Dad told me—more gently than “Hey, your brother is a fuckin’ psycho”, obviously—because he thought I deserved to know.
Maybe he thought I’d be scared, but I wasn’t. I just remember thinking, “Well, that explains a lot.”
“I’m tearing this fucking city apart looking for whoever was a part of this bullshit,” Carmine snaps, jabbing a finger at the scorch marks on 5th Avenue. “So is Kratos. His whole family is mobilized—every Drakos soldier in the tri-state area. You think we’re going to let this go?”
“I think the Black Court needs to stop thinking inside the fucking box.”
Carmine exhales through his nose. “You know what I want to do? I want to walk into Leonard Kim’s office, flay off his skin, give him just enough painkillers and hook him up to just enough machines to keep him alive but in utter agony for at least a week, and then start slicing off his fingers, toes, and eyelids with rusty gardening shears.”
Not one word there is figurative or hyperbole, by the way.
“Let’s do it, then.”
“And bring down the full weight of the federal government on all our heads?” His eyes flash. “This isn’t some street war, Nico. Leonard Kim as a congressman was bad enough. Now that fuck is a White House Cabinet member. You so much as sneeze in his direction and we’ll have half of Washington crawling up our asses with wiretaps and RICO charges. We go after Leonard Kim directly, and we’re raining down the apocalypse on our family.”
He’s right. And I hate that he’s right.
“Carmy, I know it’s this Obsidian Syndicate who’s been poking around The Court. If it’s not Kir Nikolayev, the number of entities in New York who would, one, have the balls to try and dig into us, and two, have the connections and resources to do so, is basically zero. This outfit isn’t some little gang. If they’re doing dirty for a sitting U.S. Congressman, they’re next level.” My gaze holds his. “You know I have a nose for shit like this.”
Carmine rubs a hand over his jaw, glancing up the street. “I’m not saying you’re wrong…”
“Then help me make the fucking connection.”
“I don’t need to,” he says, his voice flat. “You and your dive-bar meet with Mario proved that the Obsidian Syndicate was behind the bombing, at the behest of Secretary Kim. That’s hard facts, not conspiracy theories. Those fuckers are behind almost killing our sister. That’s the part that matters.”
“Of course that’s what fucking matters,” I spit back. “Carm—”
“Nico,” he growls tightly. “I’m thinking about our sister almost getting blown apart. I’m thinking about Kratos on his knees by her hospital bed, holding her hand like it’s the only thing anchoring him to his sanity. I’m thinking about our niece or nephew, who hasn’t even taken a breath yet, but has already gotten a taste of what this life can cost.”
His voice is ragged, cracking around the edges.
“And if your priority isn’t finding, torturing, and killing every single person involved in that bomb,” he growls, “then I don’t know what the fuck we’re even talking about.”
“You know damn well that’s my priority.”
Carmine exhales, nodding. “Good. Good.”
He glances up at the house. “Wanna come in for a drink or something?”
“Nah,” I say, reaching for my helmet. “I need a ride to clear my head.”
He claps a hand on my shoulder before turning to go. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
I wait there for another minute, watching the lights through the windows, thinking about everything this family is and the blood and sweat it’s taken to build it.
In this world, one wrong move can have everything you know go up in smoke.
So, no. I’m not letting this go.
I will find the thread that ties the Obsidian Syndicate to the Black Court. If they’re doing jobs for a U.S. Cabinet member, they’re connected. Powerful. More of a threat than Carmine wants to admit.
He’s got an empire to lead. And I get that that is his priority as King.
But I’m no king.
The bike growls beneath me as I tear through the city, weaving through traffic like the asphalt itself owes me blood.
Eventually, I coast to a stop outside a narrow brick building sandwiched between a defunct yoga studio and a bodega. It’s one of those old walk-ups that looks like it hasn’t been renovated since the seventies.
I chain the bike, squeeze through a side gate down the alley behind the building, and jump up onto a dumpster. I use the fire escape to sneak up to the roof, then make my way to the ledge opposite the closest building, barely twelve feet away.
I find an old milk crate and drag it over, settling down and slipping a cigarette between my lips. I light it with a glowing flicker, inhaling as I lift my gaze to the small apartment on the top floor of the building across from me.
Then I see her.
Naomi drops her dance bag to the floor and slumps onto the couch like she’s been hollowed out. Her hair’s messy. Her shoulders sag.
She’s sucking and chewing on her bottom lip.
That…does something to me.
Despite her father being who he is, with his wealth and connections, Naomi’s apartment is surprisingly small.
Actually, scratch that: it’s a shithole.
Water-stained ceiling, peeling paint, just one bedroom. It looks like somewhere a college dropout with dreams of becoming either a playwright or an OD statistic would live, not the daughter of a congressman.
The disconnect is fascinating.
I watch as Naomi stands. She peels off her sweater, arms limp with exhaustion. Then her leotard.
Then her tights.
One piece at a time, she strips away the costume she wears for the rest of the world, unaware there’s someone in the shadows watching. I take a long drag of my cigarette, dark need throbbing low in my stomach as I watch her pad barefoot through her apartment, in nothing but a pale green sports bra.
I’ve already seen her naked today. I’ve had my fingers inside of her greedy little cunt, felt her shatter for me when she came.
Now I want more.
I want everything.
Every inch. Every sound. Every tear and tremble, every whispered plea.
And the mystery surrounding why I want that is about as intriguing as the one where I haven’t told anyone, not even Carmine, about the thumb drive I got from Mario—the one with the video of Naomi and those two motherfuckers.
…The one I haven’t actually watched since playing just the first bit on my laptop outside that dive bar.
That would be mystery number three: why the thought of watching it makes me crave violence and destruction.
My phone buzzes in my jacket pocket, pulling me from my thoughts.
It’s The Stag.
“Sorry about earlier,” he growls.
I say nothing for a few seconds.
“I understand it’s not part of what we do,” I finally mutter back. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
He exhales slowly. “It’s what we agreed on when we started this whole fucking thing. You know that. The point was always to be a corrective force, not a collective one. We’re not an army, Nico. Not the fucking UN.”
I roll my neck, pressing my fingers into my shoulders. “I know.”
He clears his throat. “That said, I believe this Obsidian Syndicate is something the Court needs to have on its radar.”
He’s quiet for a moment before he speaks again.
“I know someone in the UK who might know something about them. The Syndicate, I mean. I can reach out and connect you…?’
I exhale. “If you could, I’d appreciate it.”
“I’ll set something up and let you know.”
He hangs up without a goodbye or anything like that.
The Stag is like that. And by “that” I mean “weird, creepy, and poster boy for antisocial tendencies”.
Thank fuck we’re friends.
I slip the phone into my jacket. When I look back, Naomi’s walking slowly from her bedroom into the bathroom, turning on the light and disappearing for a second.
Then she steps back out, naked now, and walks to her bed.
Steam starts to drift from the bathroom—a hot shower or bath she’s started to run, I’m guessing.
I watch her tie her hair up in a messy topknot before she turns to the bathroom. Then she pauses and swivels instead to the full-length mirror, her bare ass to me, the full splendor of her nude dancer’s body reflected in the mirror.
Her lip catches in her teeth in that way, and my dick thickens and swells. I watch her hand wander down her body until her fingers run over her pussy.
I unzip my jeans, pulling out my swollen dick and wrapping a hand around it in the darkness. I stroke slowly, gliding up and down then fat, veined shaft, watching Naomi’s eyes flutter half-shut. Her hips roll, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip as she slowly strokes her clit with two fingers.
Now, what are you thinking about, little ballerina.
Or WHO…
It’d better be fucking me, and what happened this morning.
It doesn’t last long.
Neither do I.
Maybe it’s because I’ve been walking around with blue balls all day. Whatever it is, when Naomi slams a palm against the mirror to steady herself, her legs shaking and bowing as her fingers plunge into her pussy, I follow her over that edge.
My cock pulses and surges in my hand, hot ropes of white cum spurting from the head and splattering onto the rooftop.
Naomi shakes herself from what she just did. I watch with gleeful satisfaction as her face turns a dark shade of magenta, then she quickly darts into the bathroom.
I stay where I am, watching.
Waiting.
It’s close to forty-five minutes later when she emerges, toweling off her body.
My eyes pierce the divide between us, zeroing in on her pussy.
Shaved bare.
Good girl.
