King of Depravity: Prologue

“For fuck’s sake, Kill, it isn’t nice to play with your food,” my brother Gris growls into the phone.

I don’t answer. That’s the thing about being in a dark alley, spying on a secret meeting. Talking isn’t really an option.

So, I don’t.

Though, to be fair, I might not have answered anyway. I’m a do-what-I-want kind of guy.

“Are you going to eliminate this problem or not?” he rumbles. “I’ll do it myself if you’re not up to the task.”

He’s baiting me. That’s brotherly love for you. We both know, of the two of us, I’m the killer. Not him. It’s in my fucking name for fuck’s sake.

That’s when I hear his fiancé, Arabella, give a sleepy call. “Is everything all right, Gris?”

“It’s fine, baby.” My brother sounds like a fucking twat, the way his voice takes on this coddling tone when he talks to her. “Are you cold? I’ll be right there to warm you up.”

“Jesus,” I whisper, rolling my eyes in the dark.

“Are you judging me, you crazy fuck?” I hear a door open and close on the other end of the line, he’s clearly moving to another room. “You’re supposed to get rid of Preston Wingate. Stop fucking around and get it done.”

I hang up.

I don’t answer to Gris, but he ought to know, I always do my job.

In front of me, I watch the weekly scene play out.

That fuckwad, Preston Wingate, takes a large bundle of money from a very tattooed, very large Russian.

I lean against the wall, watching it all go down.

I’m not playing with my food.

Not at all. Preston Wingate is a problem that’s about to solve itself. He’s mixing with the Russian Bratva here in Vegas, attempting to sell Kincaid secrets.

I’m a crazy motherfucker and even I wouldn’t dare make an alliance with the Russians.

On the bright side, these Bratva assholes are for sure going to kill Preston themselves. I’ve listened in to several of these meetings and Preston doesn’t actually know anything of value, and the Russians are getting pissy as he continues to take their money.

“You told us that last time,” the one I believe is named Alex spits at Preston. “And it isn’t anything we couldn’t discern from public record.”

Preston is shifting, his pasty fucking face getting even paler. “That’s right, motherfucker,” I whisper. “Dance like the bitch you are.”

It’s not that I mind killing. But Preston isn’t even a challenge. Stupid, weak, I could have killed him a hundred times in the last two months. But it would be boring.

And besides, these Russians are shaping up to be the real hunt and the longer Preston lives, the more I learn about my family’s newest enemy.

I already knew they liked this piano bar. One of them is some sort of fucking savant, and he comes here to play. I was scouting out the place and watching the Russians after they stole a deal on a casino right out from under us.

But my attention on the Russians had been diverted when my brother Gris decided to take Preston’s fiancé, Arabella Kincaid.

I’ve got to be honest, Preston was almost smart. Almost. Marrying the Kincaid princess might not have given him access to their secrets, but it would have given him control of Arabella’s shares and a seat on the Kincaid board.

We are making money hand over fist in Las Vegas, but the Kincaids…they are the current kings, the absolute winners in the Vegas real estate game. Not for long…

I digress. Preston got cocky, thought he had the girl in the bag, and got himself a sidepiece before the wedding had even happened.

Enter my brother. Gris is the kind of handsome that makes girls go mental. Preston Wingate never stood a chance. In a matter of days, Gris had broken up the engagement and claimed Arabella for himself.

That part that shocks me is how sincere he seems about her. How earnest. She must have a magic pussy.

None of my brothers are men with a lot of emotional depth. Me least of all, but that’s a completely different and really fucked up story.

What matters is that when Arabella broke up with Preston, he beat the shit out of her. And people think I’m a sociopath.

That’s when Gris decided that Preston had to die.

Imagine my luck when my two projects—the Russians and Preston Wingate—became a two-for-one.

And the fact that they’ll kill Preston, while I learn how to take them out? Could the situation get any better?

But that’s when I hear the door from the restaurant that leads into the alley rattle. Fuck.

One of the staff must be taking out the trash.

The Russians are ruthless and anyone who gets in their way disappears.

Which is fine by me, I couldn’t give a shit about who dies, as long as it’s not her.

There’s this one waitress who I can’t help but watch every time I’m here. It’s the way she moves, the sound of her voice, the curve of her smile. Chloe, is what the other waitresses call her.

I still haven’t decided if I want to fuck Chloe or dirty her up in far less wholesome ways, but I have no intention of letting these fucking Russians put their hands on her before I decide.

The Russians melt into the shadows and Preston ducks behind the dumpster.

A cook comes out, whistling as he goes, tossing two large bags up and over the side of the dumpster.

The sound of them hitting the bottom echoes through the alley, as the cook goes back inside, locking the door behind him.

As for me…

I’ve seen enough. If the Russians don’t take care of Preston in the next week, I’ll do it myself.

He’s ceased being useful to both me and them. Poor pitiful Preston.

I’ll keep watching the Russians right here at the bar. It’s been very handy, what I’ve learned here.

And then I can keep an eye on Chloe too. What did Gris say I was doing? Playing with my food?

A salacious grin tugs at my lips. Yeah. That sounds about right. When it comes to my little waitress, I think I’m definitely ready to play and it’s… Game. On.