Truth or Lies

3. Enzo

I step into Surrender and my eyes automatically darken. The club’s name is simple and is a little on the nose. There are no windows and very few lights. It’s like stepping into darkness, forcing you to relinquish your sight, body, and soul when you enter. 

My spine straightens, my lips thin, and every muscle in my body tightens as I morph into the cruel vulture I was taught to be. Gone is the boy I only occasionally let out when I think no one is looking. Everyone’s eyes fall on me as soon as I step foot into the club. I’m underage, far too young to be in a place like this. But I’ve been coming here since I was seven. This club is what twisted my soul and made sure when I die I won’t be going anywhere but hell. 

My eyes don’t acknowledge the stares as I walk. I know better than to give any of the drunks sitting near the entrance the time of day. They only come here to gawk at the dancing women, get drunk, and forget. 

I envy them. They live a simple life, one where drinking actually makes them forget, because the worst they have to ignore is their cheating wives or inability to pay rent from their pathetic jobs. 

It’s the men that sit further into the club I have to worry about. They are the ones who have real money. They have power. 

I walk deeper into the club, keeping my head up. I won’t make eye contact with any of them, but I feel their eyes on me. 

I’m the youngest man in this club and despite being younger, smaller, weaker; I’m their prince. This is all mine to collect. 

Mine to rule. 

Mine to control. 

And because I’m the prince, every man here wants me dead. 

I haven’t earned the right to rule them, but I will. I don’t have a choice if I want to live. 

But for now, I get to continue breathing. I’ve made the mistake before, of staring at one of the men. It was a mistake I won’t repeat. Fights don’t break out in the club often; it’s not allowed unless it’s part of the entertainment. But each man in here feels they have to protect their pride, and when that pride is challenged, they fight. No rule is going to stop them. 

I can fight. I’ve won plenty, lost more. Sometimes I come here seeking them out, wanting to feel the pain and adrenaline, the high that only comes when my fist connects with a jaw as blood spurts in my face. But today isn’t that day. 

And I’ve gained enough respect after my last fight that most here wouldn’t dare to threaten me. At least not personally. They would send some of their minions to fight against me. Most likely sending several men to a fight that wouldn’t be fair. 

My lips curl up into a smirk as I think back to my last fight where I broke a glass and used the shards to draw blood against my weaponless opponent. Not that I fight fair either. 

Deeper and deeper I descend into the abyss, into the cave of the club that will one day be mine. My heart grows darker along with the light surrounding me. There are no windows this deep into the club. The light from the lamps only illuminates how black the room is. 

I don’t need the light to guide me; I know how many steps it takes to get to my father’s room. I know where to avoid stepping to keep my feet silent, instead of making the hardwood floor creak. I know where to walk to stay in the shadows instead of shimmering in the light. 

It’s not necessary to creep through the club silently, trying to be invisible. It’s not possible anyway. Not with the security cameras and men everywhere. Not when every man here knows exactly who I am. But it’s a habit I can’t break. I’m only visible, only heard when I want to be. 

The thick door is shut to my father’s room, but I don’t knock. I turn the knob and step inside, letting the door fall closed behind me. 

My lip twitches as I see my father sitting in his favorite chair toward the back of the room. Three women, more naked than clothed, dance around and on him. Two other men sit in chairs next to them. All have two fingers of the finest scotch in the glass in their hands. 

This room serves as many things for my father. 

His lair. 

His office.

His sanctuary. 

He’s f****d countless women in here and punished every man who has dared to cross him. 

I don’t think he’d ever leave this room if he didn’t need to prowl the rest of the club and city to maintain his power. 

“Gentleman and ladies, I need to speak with my father.” 

The women look to my father for their cue what to do. My father’s gaze penetrates through me as he waves them off. They start walking toward the door in the back that leads out to another hallway. One of the women turns back winking at me as she runs her hand down her neck and across her pointed n****e—indicating she’d gladly f**k me later and wouldn’t care if I paid her like my father. 

I understand why. The woman is in her early twenties. Most men in this club are in their thirties or forties. Some in their fifties. She would love to go a round with a man closer to her age. I may be seventeen, but my life experience has hardened me and makes me seem older. 

Maybe I’ll find her later. I could use a f**k to get out some of my pent up energy. Especially after meeting Jocelyn. Gorgeous, intriguing, and a thief. Her deep sea-colored eyes will haunt me the rest of my life. Because as much as I’d like to find her and make her pay for stealing from me, I won’t. My reputation is still intact. No one knows she stole. And if I found her, I would punish her. 

Cruel. 

Mercilessly. 

Until I possessed her. 

Jocelyn deserves to be punished, but I’ve never disciplined a woman before. Not because I’m too good, kind, or chivalrous. 

One day I will. Whether by choice or necessity. And then my fall into darkness will be complete. 

But I’m still young. I still have a drop of light left in my veins, and I’m not ready to relinquish it yet. Because if I touched her, I would ruin her. 

Break her. 

Own her. 

The two gentlemen remain in their seats. I’ve known both men my whole life. They are two of my father’s best men. Highest in rank, and trusted with his very life. But I know what this meeting is about, and they won’t be privy to it. 

“Alone,” I growl. 

I may be half their age. I may be heir to this kingdom. But I’ve earned my right to get to speak to the king alone. Being his son has nothing to do with it. 

The threat of what I’d do if the men stayed is evident in my voice. I don’t care if they are my father’s men. I would kill them. 

Both men start to turn to my father to ask what to do, but my unyielding glare along with the low rumble of my throat make them rethink their plans. They stand immediately, and head for the door the women exited through. 

My father smirks as they leave. 

“Good to know you are finally learning something from your old man,” he says. 

I ignore him as I take a seat in the chair his number two emptied. I help myself to the glass of scotch Baldwin left as he scurried out like a worried rat. 

“You summoned me.” I sip the scotch, letting the warm liquid seep through me, making my already hot skin race with the fire of the liquid. I’m always hot, ready to attack—a blaze of sweltering fire that can’t be stopped. 

“I did, and you came, like a good little son.” 

It’s an insult. All of his words toward me are. He says them to get a reaction out of me, but I’ve long learned to pretend his insults and threats don’t exist. 

“Did you have a point in bringing me here? Because I have a full schedule for today, including ensuring you make millions and the men are in line.” 

“Impatient f**k as always.” He shakes his head. “I would have thought any son of mine would have learned to respect his elder, his leader.” 

My eyes darken as my lids fall, only allowing the tiniest slit of my eye to remain open. I know how to close off from this man. I know how to keep my composure. I’m seventeen. Practically an adult. No longer a boy. But around this man, who calls himself my father, I struggle to be anything but a ten-year-old boy who disobeyed. I won’t be that scared little boy anymore. Not around him. 

Instead, I sip on my drink like I want to be here, and I wait. I have more patience than my father ever will. I could sit here all day and all night without flinching. I know how to go deep within myself and ignore everything else. Food, drink, feelings, everything. I know how to shut out the world. If he wants me to be patient, I will be. And he’ll lose. 

He sighs. “I have a target for you.” 

I raise an eyebrow but don’t speak. I know he has more to say. 

I’ve killed men before, nine to be exact, so this isn’t an unusual request. What is strange is that he brought me here, to the place he holds holy to give his order, instead of sending one of his men. So what’s different about this one? 

“How?” I know it’s the right question. Does he want me to make this man suffer or kill him quickly? What kind of man am I dealing with? Am I taking out a monster or enemy? Dispatching the leader of a gang or disposing of one of our own who dared not to follow orders? 

My father’s body stills as he considers his next words. 

“You decide.” 

My eyes widen, and I almost choke on my scotch. I never get to make a decision. I may rule a group of men who will follow every order I give, but it’s not the same as having free will to decide when and who we strike. I’m only following my father’s orders when I give my own. 

His mouth curls down at my reaction. Disappointment, I’ve seen it before. 

I stiffen again into stone, ensuring I won’t show a moment of weakness again. 

“Who’s the target?” 

My father remains silent as he sips his drink. His pupils widen as he imagines the target in his head. Whatever this man did to deserve my father’s wrath is bad. And now I decipher his meaning. I know what the real test is, why my father won’t tell me how to dispose of him. Because once I know what this man did, it’s up to me to prove my worth to my father, by correctly dispatching of him. By giving him the correct punishment for his crimes, and seeing that justice, at least in the eyes of my father, is done. 

“What did he do?” 

He turns toward me, his lips finally curling into the evil grin I’m used to seeing. 

“Nothing.” 

Fuck. 

I’ve killed in self-defense before. Injured many men, fighting battles to defend my family’s power. 

I’ve killed men who hurt my family or this club. Killed those who were planning to take us down. But I’ve never killed someone who was innocent. 

It doesn’t mean my father is telling me the truth either. This man could be innocent or my father’s greatest foe. It makes no difference. I’ll kill him all the same. 

Because that’s what I am—a killing machine. My father trained me my entire life to be an assassin so I could prove my worth to him. My first kill was when I was thirteen, and it has been my life ever since. 

My father sees the change in my body despite the wall I put up. He knows I’ll follow his every command without hesitation. 

“Good.” He nods at me. 

My stomach drops feeling like my transformation into the devil is complete. Except the devil is still sitting three feet away from me. How can I be the devil when he’s still alive? 

“One more thing. You do this kill, the right way, then you will get power.” 

If it’s possible my body stills even more. Except for my bloody heart. It thumps loudly in my chest. This is what I’ve been waiting for, for seventeen years—this chance. 

“Kill, and you will no longer take orders from anyone. Kill, and your debt will be paid. Kill, and you’ll owe me nothing. Kill, and you’ll be free.” 

Free. 

It’s all I’ve ever wanted. Freedom. 

My father is offering me what I’ve sought all these years. 

But I doubt doing this will indeed set me free. If anything it will bring me deeper into the darkness with him. And he knows that. 

It doesn’t matter. This is what my whole life has been leading me toward—this final kill. 

Who am I kidding? This won’t be my final kill, but maybe it will be the last one I do for my father. 

I growl. My father doesn’t tell the truth often, at least not to his men. He doesn’t have to explain himself to anyone, but he’s never lied to me. So I have no reason to believe he is lying now. If I do this, then I’ll be free. At least of him, but never this club. Never this life. 

I nod, agreeing to his terms, cementing my place in hell. 

He pulls out a pen from his pocket and takes the napkin on the table where his drink sat. He scribbles on it, then hands it to me. 

I unfold the napkin and stare at the name before downing the rest of my scotch. 

Kai Miller, you’re a dead man.