Chapter 1: : Chapter 1

Another fucking note. What the actual fuck? A tic runs through my jaw as I press the buzzer, and the voice of one of my security team comes over the speaker.

“How can I assist you, Mr. Monti?”

“Who was in my apartment?” I demand, looking toward the bathroom, where the note is pinned to the door by a fucking knife.

I bounce between my apartment in New York City and my mansion just outside of it, staying in whichever suits my needs at the time. Both places have had security breaches recently.

“No one, sir. As instructed, no one is to enter unless they’re with you.”

Fucking hell. I hang up.

Who’s the crafty little motherfucker barking up the wrong tree? Someone who seems to want a very slow and painful death. I really didn’t want to install security cameras within my own home, but it turns out I might have to do exactly that.

I pull the knife from the door, letting the crumpled piece of paper fall to my hand. I unfurl the scrunched-up ball and read the note written in bright red pen.

Why is your underwear so neat and tidy, asshole?

I clench my jaw. I swear to God, if this is Hawke playing a prank, I’ll gut him for it. Then again, the kiss mark at the bottom of the note might indicate a woman. I know better than to underestimate a woman. However, I also know better than to underestimate my less-than-mentally-stable friends.

I fist the note as I walk into my bedroom to find everything in perfect order, as it should be. My left eye twitches at the one drawer wide open… my underwear drawer. I walk over to it and slice a quick glance down, and my teeth grind in irritation. “What the actual fuck?” I say out loud.

Whoever is fucking with me is good, I’ll give them that. They know how to break into my apartment without leaving a trace, find my fucking underwear, and leave a dead fucking rat in it.

Maybe it’s not Hawke. Maybe it’s his twin, Ford? He’s a little more silent, but I wouldn’t put it past him. They were, after all, adopted at fifteen by Anya Ivanov, head of the underground auctions. Even her husband, River, is known for his creative messages and executions, and I can say, at the very least, the twins are unpredictable. The only person who can keep them in line is their mother because they’re shit scared of her. Hell, I’m even a little scared of her.

But even as a prank, I can’t see why they’d be so tempted to piss me off, especially with the pressure I’m under from the head of the family—my father. And I adamantly refuse to let him or my mother catch wind of this. I deal with my own shit.

It’s infuriating that this has now happened twice, and I still haven’t uncovered the person’s identity. But I will.

Walking into the kitchen, I find a plastic bag and then head back to my bedroom, where I use the bag to pick the fucking rat from my underwear drawer. Now that I think about it, the whole drawer needs to go. And I need new fucking underwear.

It doesn’t take me long to throw out my entire drawer and make a few quick calls for everything to be replaced. I’m adjusting the cuffs of my suit as I step out of my apartment complex. I deal with all manners of filth and torture, but something about a dead rat is just undignified.

“Took your sweet-ass time!” Hawke complains, leaning against my car. His twin, Ford, is flicking through his phone as he waits next to him. Though the two are identical, Hawke has a bulkier build from his extreme love of lifting weights, whereas Ford has a slimmer build, which is better suited for stealth. Both have tattoos, and people actively give a wide berth as they step around them—the two ooze mischief, hell, and death. The jet-black hair and dark brown, almost black eyes do nothing to counter otherwise.

“You said you just had to change your shirt, so what took you so long?” Ford asks, looking up from the phone and pinning me with those dark-brown eyes. I may or may not have just tortured someone, leading me to need to change shirts. I certainly wasn’t expecting to find a dead fucking rat before my next meeting.

I ignore them both. They answer to me, not the other way around. Where my father has only one loyal second, I have two.

“Neither one of you happens to be into wearing lipstick these days, do you?” I ask dryly.

The two share a confused glance. “Only around my cock,” Hawke replies as he kicks off my car and comes toward me. As he does, a woman wearing black heels barges between us.

“Whoa there!” Hawke snaps, taking a step back. The woman swings around furiously. She’s striking, although black shades cover her eyes, preventing me from getting a look at them. Auburn hair falls past her shoulders, and her bright orange dress is appropriate for the weather but not her ill temperament.

“Asshole,” she bites out, and I’m almost shocked by her boldness, considering most people instinctually know not to look our way, let alone speak to us.

“She must be talking to you,” Hawke says in shock.

I’m exasperated by his constant antics. “Why must she be talking to me?” I ask, irritated, but for some reason, I’m unable to look away from the woman staring at me with such scorn.

She puts her hands on her hips expectantly. What is she waiting for? An apology?

I can’t see her eyes through the dark lenses of her glasses, but I sense she’s rolling her eyes as she says with a pout, “You don’t even remember me, do you?” I think I would remember if I fucked her.

“Then it’s sure as shit not me because I’m trying to be celibate and not fuck anyone,” Hawke says as if that’s answer enough as to why she’s talking about me. I thought she was pissed about barging between us. Wasn’t she?

“You literally fucked Tanya last week,” Ford reminds him.

“She doesn’t count if she’s already on the rotation,” Hawke says with a casual shrug. “Look, toots, you owe my man here an apology. Don’t take it personally that he doesn’t remember you.”

I realize then we have onlookers, most likely because of what appears to be three men berating one woman. A woman, might I add, who started this shit in the first place.

This time, with a brilliant smile and ignoring Hawke, she points at me and makes it very clear who she’s addressing, “Asshole.”

Me? I’m the asshole? Not far from the truth, but I still don’t remember her.

“See, didn’t fuck her,” Hawke says proudly like he didn’t have any doubts.

“You’re either new here or have a screw loose if you think you can speak to me that way,” I say with so much ice in my tone even my men beside me straighten. I don’t give a fuck who she is; I don’t make exceptions for men, women, or their dogs on how they will speak or act around me.

But the woman doesn’t flinch; she simply flicks her hair over her shoulder as she starts to walk in the opposite direction. She looks back over her shoulder and adds, “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you real soon, sweetheart.”

I clench my fists and count to three, as my mother taught me, to reclaim my composure. To be honest, her number was a lot higher, but three seconds seems like enough time to pretend I have the discipline to not immediately break someone’s neck.

Before I step forward, she opens the door to a car, a little yellow beetle-looking thing. She doesn’t even look back; the most dangerous act she’s performed all day, especially with men like us.

Who the fuck is this woman?

She makes a point to wind down the window and flip us off as she drives away.

My jaw tics. As I count to three again, I make a point to memorize her license plate. Outright pulling a woman by her hair in broad daylight in the middle of New York City isn’t one of my brightest ideas, which is why I bury the impulse.

Hawke whistles as he casually puts his hands in the pockets of his torn-up jeans. “She’s fiery, that one. I thought you were seeing Michelle?”

“I am fucking Michelle,” I correct him. She’s a means to an end, despite the pressure and stipulation that we should marry to keep our family relationship.

Just then, my phone vibrates, and I pull it out to see a text message from an unknown number.

It’s followed by a kiss emoji, and I’m almost certain that my little I’ll leave a dead rat in your drawer visitor is the same woman in the short orange dress who just flipped me off. It’s rather extraordinary she was able to get my number in the first place. That’s one thing I do not hand out to women, not even Michelle, who I’ve known for years and fuck on the regular. The only people who have my number are my family.

I feel the edges of something in my pocket, furious that I hadn’t even sensed her featherlight touch as she stepped between Hawke and me.

A cool calm washes over me, hiding the rolling rage within as I pull out a small photo.

“Oh fuck, you keep souvenirs now?” Hawke asks, looking over my shoulder. I cut a glare in his direction, and he immediately puts his hands up and takes a step back, although the asshole grins me.

It’s a picture of me and Michelle, from two weeks ago, outside of her apartment on the balcony as I fucked her against the railing. My hand is over her mouth, smothering her screams. I’m fully clothed as she’s bent over, taking my full length, tears streaming down her face.

It was a sufficient night, enough to take the edge off at least. I left shortly after, even with her insistence that I stay.

Scrunching up the image, I dial the number that texted me. It rings and rings with no answer.

So I respond with the calmness of a man who’s ready to burn a city down just to find the woman who’s stupidly chosen to fuck with me.

I go to slide the picture back into my pocket when I feel another; it’s smaller than the first. A wave of cruel delight flushes through me, and I can’t help but smile.

“It’s always creepy as shit when you smile, man,” Hawke says.

The photo is of my underwear drawer…with the fucking rat in it.

A follow-up text message from the same number appears with a single kiss emoji.

I throw Hawke the keys to the car. “You drive. I have some work to do.” I don’t even look up from my phone as I slip into the back seat, ready to find everything I can from that license plate. I will ruin this woman. She’s the perfect distraction, something I can destroy while I manage my fortune and responsibilities as the next head of the mafia in New York.

Someone must have put her up to this, and I’m about to discover who is daring enough to undermine my authority.

It doesn’t come as a surprise that the plate comes back as a fake.

The corner of my mouth tilts up, and I reply with a text of my own.

I sign off with a kiss emoji.