by Layla Reyne
The rules Hawes Madigan lives by.
Soon, he’ll be king—of an organization of assassins—and the crown has never felt heavier. Until the mysterious Dante Perry swaggers into his life.
No collateral damage.
Dante looks like a rock god and carries himself like one too.
But there’s more than meets the eye beneath those loose limbs and casual confidence.
He also carries a concealed weapon, a private investigator’s license, and a message for the prince—someone inside Hawes’s organization is out to kill the future king.
No unvetted targets.
In the chaos that follows the timely warning, Hawes comes to depend on Dante.
On his skills as an investigator, on the steadiness he offers, and on their moments alone when Hawes lets Dante take control.
As alliances are tested and traitors exposed, Hawes needs Dante at his back... and in his bed. But if the PI ever learns Hawes’s darkest secret, it’s not heartbreak he’ll have to worry about—but a bullet to the brain instead.
There’s no shortage of twists and turns in this MM romantic suspense trilogy from Layla Reyne. Prince of Killers is book one of three. Fair warning: buckle up, cliffhangers ahead!
An Excerpt from Prince of Killers
Hawes clocked him the second he walked through the restaurant door. At first glance, and he was getting plenty of those, the striking man with long dark hair and leather bracelets could easily be mistaken for a rock star. Not uncommon for Restaurant Gary Danko, the local watering hole of San Francisco’s elite. In the fog-shrouded hills of Fisherman’s Wharf, the Michelin-starred restaurant with its elegant yet laid-back vibe attracted athletes, entertainers, tech kings, and financial wizards, as well as the city’s political players and old-money families. Mr. Double Denim Rock God, with his long legs, windswept hair, and studded leather belt fit right in.
He carried himself like a rock star too, all loose-limbed and casually confident. All that was missing was the instrument, but a guitar slung over his back would be awfully inconvenient if Mr. Not A Rock God had to draw his real instrument of choice—the pistol tucked at the small of his back. Underneath a black tank and denim jacket, its impression was hardly noticeable, unless you were looking.
Hawes was always looking.
As was the chief of police sitting at the corner of the bar closest to the door. Braxton Kane moved quickly and discreetly, rotating on his stool and placing a hand on the stranger’s right forearm, playing the odds that the man was right-handed. His bet was correct. The man instinctively jerked back with his dominant hand, but then he settled just as fast, his casual air returning in a blink. He exchanged a few words with Kane and withdrew a small leather case from his jacket pocket. He pulled out what looked like a business card—from Hawes’s distance across the dining room—and handed it to Kane. The chief glanced at the card, and the wiry muscles of his army-honed body relaxed. He nodded toward Hawes’s table, apparently giving the stranger the go-ahead.
Cop.
Hawes dismissed the thought as quickly as it had come. That gorgeous hair was the antithesis of regulation, his carriage was all wrong, and Kane hadn’t recognized him. Neither had Hawes, and he made it a habit to regularly review the rosters of the local law enforcement agencies, SFPD and FBI included. The last thing he wanted to do was kill a LEO and upset the balance he’d spent the past five years rebuilding.
Merc was Hawes’s next best guess, the same conclusion reached by the man and woman on either side of him, judging by the flash of metal barrels under the table.
“Safeties on,” Hawes ordered, voice low. There was a crowded dining room full of innocents between the door and their corner booth. And Kane wouldn’t have sent Canadian Tuxedo in his direction if he’d thought a shoot-out would ensue.
The man’s long limbs remained loose as he approached; his core, however, did not, the gun against his spine a steadying rod. Or were his abs just that tight? Hawes could see their defined ridges through the fitted tank as the stranger drew near. He stopped on the other side of the table and braced his hands on top of the lone chair there. The lighter ends of his hair draped over his shoulders, and Hawes wanted to run his fingers through the strands. Wanted to curl them around his fist and see if all the shades of brown in his hair matched the many shades of rain-soaked earth in his eyes.
Hawes wanted a lot of things he didn’t often get.
A name and explanation, though, he demanded. “Who are you?” No sense mincing words or introducing himself. The man obviously knew who Hawes was and had come here looking for him.
“Dante Perry.” No Canadian accent to go with the double denim. Fucking shame. Though the rest of it made sense. Dark hair and eyes, long face, olive skin, and a pronounced Roman nose. Italian descent to go with the Italian name, and judging by his lack of accent, local. Or if he’d had an accent at one time, he’d since lost it or otherwise trained it out.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Perry?”
Dante pulled out the chair but paused before sitting, his keen eyes darting between the table and Hawes’s companions, as if he could see what their hands held beneath the white linen and lacquered wood. He shifted his gaze back to Hawes. “I don’t plan to draw mine.”
“Plans,” Hawes said, skeptically. “All I’ve got is your name, Mr. Perry. I don’t know that I trust you and your plans.” He trusted Kane more, but better safe than sorry.
And he also demanded the show of respect. Commanded it.
Dante obliged. Hands on the table, where everyone could see them, he lowered himself into the chair. “I’m trusting you.”
Hawes’s gut clenched.
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Author’s Note
Holt and Brax are U.S. Army veterans and a portion of this book involves their time in the military, at a fictional base in Afghanistan. I’ve tried to be accurate where possible, and the numerous blogs, message boards, and websites were most helpful for researching the environment Holt and Brax found themselves in during this period of their lives and after. That said, certain liberties, such as with Brax’s orientation role and career path, have been taken for story purposes. All liberties taken and mistakes made are my own.
Acknowledgments
I’d be embarrassed to tell you how many times I myself have read this book. Each time I went in to write or make an edit, I fell back into it with these two. I love them, a lot, and I hope you did too. Thank you for your patience. I know I’ve teased their story to death. I hope it lived up to the nuggets of angst I’ve dropped along the way. As we draw Fog City to a close, I really can’t thank you all enough for your excitement, support, and love of these characters. I’ve loved writing this series—it feels the most me of any series I’ve written—and I can’t wait to leap into the spinoffs (yes, plural).
Special thanks to my readers in the Lushes Facebook Group who have hung with me and cheered this couple to their happily ever after, to Kim who helps keep author-me running, to my sprint groups and author friends from keeping me on track, and to my agent Laura Bradford for the subrights support.
Thank you to the team that made this final book of the Fog City series amazing: Wander Aguiar and models Grant and Robert W. for the stunning cover photography, Cate Ashwood for the stunning cover design, Kim, Rachel, Allison and Erin for the beta reads, Kristi Yanta for the book and series guidance, Susie Selva for her editorial expertise, and Lori Parks for the careful proofreading.
Finally, thanks to the PR professionals who help make my releases run: Nina, Kelley, Kim, Kayti and the entire Valentine PR Team and Leslie and the GRR Team!
Also by Layla Reyne
Fog City:
Prince of Killers
King Slayer
A New Empire
Queen’s Ransom
Agents Irish and Whiskey:
Single Malt
Cask Strength
Barrel Proof
Tequila S
unrise
Blended Whiskey
Trouble Brewing:
Imperial Stout
Craft Brew
Noble Hops
Final Gravity
Variable Onset:
Variable Onset
Sweater Weather
Changing Lanes:
Relay
Medley
Table for Two:
The Last Drop
Dine With Me
About the Author
Layla Reyne is the author of Variable Onset and the Fog City, Agents Irish and Whiskey, and Trouble Brewing series. A Carolina Tar Heel who now calls the San Francisco Bay Area home, Layla enjoys weaving her bi-coastal experiences into her stories, along with adrenaline-fueled suspense and heart pounding romance.
You can find Layla at laylareyne.com, in her reader group on Facebook—Layla’s Lushes, and at the following sites: