Damien's Promise: A Dark Romantic Suspense (VENGEANCE Book 1)

by Vic Tyler

  The still air of our surroundings is broken by the insanity cackling out of the heart–stopping beauty at my feet. Those shrieking, unhinged giggles would give anything with a pulse unforgiving chills down their warm spines.

  As much as I want to believe that I’m the sane one in the Twelve, I know I’m just as crazy as the rest of them with how fucking turned on I am.

  My cock is already rock–solid when I think about fucking her until her throat is raw, lips swollen, and flesh bruised.

  She’s never begged me to stop, and it’s a challenge I’ll take on tonight to hear those pleas before I fuck all her holes again just for good measure.

  What does that say about me?

  I’m not really sure.

  And honestly, I don’t fucking care.

  I smirk with the unspoken promise between us, and she gazes up at me with wild eyes and as close to a loving expression that a deranged sociopath can make.

  I’m fucking excited.

  For many reasons, tonight will be a night to remember. And for the first time in a long while, I’m looking forward to the future.

  Anticipation is the drug flooding my veins, heightened by this consuming lust Kitty and I feed on.

  Sure, fucking Kitty will be particularly intense, but it’s only appropriate for a rebirthing to involve brutal, mind–consuming sex.

  And that’s what tonight is.

  Rebirth. Revival. Resurrection.

  I was born Damien Costa.

  I was blood–christened as one of many nameless deviants.

  And now, I am Damien Zephyrus of the western faction’s Twelve.

  But don’t get comfortable with it.

  It’s a placeholder for the name I will soon bear, a simple byproduct for when I Assassinate the man who stole my life.

  All you need to know is that I am Damien, the man who will kill Cardinal Westlake.

  This marks the day I am one step closer to achieving my revenge.

  This marks the beginning of my story.

  chapter one

  The towering ebony doors loom darkly over me, even with all the sunlight streaming in through the windows.

  My knocks resonate solemnly against the thick wood, and when it clicks open, I walk into the brightly lit study to find West standing by the window with his back to me.

  If anyone else walked in here, they’d think this is Grandpa Emmett’s study with his favorite collection of books from his days as a professor — ever intellectually hungry and voraciously reading.

  They wouldn’t be entirely wrong.

  Only Grandpa Emmett is James Moriarty, Hannibal Lecter, and Frank Underwood all in one.

  In reality, Emmett Westlake is one of the four Cardinals that rule the continent. One of the four that truly dictate the machinations that keep this side of the hemisphere running and pass judgment on the rest of the world.

  West turns and smiles warmly, looking friendly and welcoming. But his eyes are black, dead, and lightless.

  A few years ago, his appearance fit his position, inspiring fear and commanding absolute obedience.

  But after his salt–and–pepper hair whitened and his belly rounded out due to age and a gluttonous appetite for pastries, he almost looks harmlessly old.

  However, to underestimate him would be fatal.

  Even with all that weight, he’s somehow stronger than ever. More mass, more force, I suppose.

  Standing at attention, I look straight ahead. “You called.”

  West’s dark eyes are fixed to me, an all–encompassing blackness that makes it near impossible to see exactly what he’s looking at.

  “You’ve made it this far.” His voice is deep, rich, and low, resonating throughout the room.

  “You told me to survive.”

  His thin lips curl into a smirk, exposing just a glimpse of his lurking depravity.

  We’re both remembering what else he had said back then. The challenge he set when he held my own knife to my throat.

  “Survive, and maybe you’ll have a sliver of a chance to seek your revenge.”

  West suddenly moves and my muscles automatically tense, prepared to defend against any of his unfathomably fast hits.

  But he simply strolls to his desk. “How is Turan?”

  He’s not asking about the well–being of my mentor. After all, he’s probably seen him in the past few hours. Instead, he’s asking whether I still have more to learn from him or whether I’d be able to prove myself by killing him.

  But fighting Turan would be suicide.

  With over twenty–five years of experience, one and a half feet, and more than a hundred pounds on me, Turan is a natural disaster to be reckoned with. Certainly doesn’t help that he’s one of the oldest members of the Twelve and also West’s right–hand man.

  “Lethal,” I respond. As if West needs the reminder.

  He laughs good–naturedly, making his belly bounce and giving him a jolly Santa–like demeanor.

  All that’s missing is a red suit, reindeer, and children, but that can be resolved with a white robe and sharp antlers in the Blood Trials.

  After all, the last task before the kids in the Blood Trials graduate to regular grunt work is surviving West.

  Most of them die long before that point, and the ones that make it to the very end turn out like Kitty and me and the rest of the Twelve.

  “He’s getting on in his years,” West remarks with a smirk.

  Like this old fucker should be talking.

  Keeping my expression neutral, I stare unflinchingly at the Cardinal. “He’s one of those men who don’t know how to die.”

  Just like you.

  In the five years since I joined Venti, two were foolish enough to declare an Assassination on West.

  One idiot had a literal death wish and either assumed West would make his demise swift or thought it’d be a glorious end. He was wrong on both accounts.

  To date, that Assassination was the second most gruesome and nauseating thing I’ve witnessed after my regretful experience of sitting through one of Mach’s torture sessions.

  Curiosity may have killed the cat, but Mach’s satisfaction flayed, skinned, and plucked out all its bones with utmost precision while it was still alive and screaming.

  The second Assassination is the reason why I’m standing here today. My predecessor decided to give the Cardinalship a shot and declared an Assassination.

  It was a gory battle, and if there’s any dignity in bloodshed, she might have been said to go out in a blaze of glory.

  Literally.

  West chuckles. “None are immune to death’s lesson. Its singular success is in its finality.”

  “Then it’s a matter of waiting for the right teacher.” There’s no mistake as to whom I’m directing my threat.

  Smirking, he picks up a folder on his desk before holding it out for me to take. “This is one case where one must be careful that the student doesn’t become the teacher. But you’ve still much to learn.”

  For the next fifteen minutes or so, we talk business.

  Reports of sex trafficking rings with lists of their all–too prestigious scum clients, turf wars between rival gangs, scuffles between opposing mafia families. Bookkeeping accounts from bookies, corporate officers, paranoid husbands, obsessive wives. Requests and appeals of all kinds.

  It’s a job just to sort through all the shit that wealthy and psychotic people want.

  One of the more interesting requests we received were from the cartels down south. Asking for aid against the government blockading their drug distribution trade routes.

  Well, of course, what makes it interesting are the intervention requests from said government to disrupt the cartel’s operations. Not so subtly demanding for us to eliminate their presence and help curb the rising population of addicts plaguing their towns.

  If it’s a matter of bidding for our services, then we’d choose one or the other. But when it comes to mercenaries with too much time and money on their disgus
tingly clean hands, it becomes a ‘friendly competition’ to see who makes it out alive when we send deviants to play both sides.

  Once West and I are done speaking, the last word clips in the air, and as though on cue, we both turn — me to the door and him… wherever he normally looks. At more documents, out the window, at that gaudy gold painting on the wall, or maybe his shoes.

  Who knows. Who cares.

  It was business as usual, and it feels like nothing’s changed since I joined the Twelve.

  And yet, everything’s changed.

  I’m one day stronger than the weak, helpless boy locked in that cell.

  I’m one day closer to avenging everything I’ve lost.

  I’m one day closer to securing peace in my own hell.

  chapter two

  I make my way back to the Windrose, which looks like a disused church in the middle of the city.

  It sticks out like a sore thumb with its gothic architecture amidst the reconstructed modernity of the surrounding neighborhoods.

  Even though it looks like the perfect place to sneak in and hide out — whether it’s to squat or to smoke with your dopehead friends — the Windrose is one of Venti’s reserved properties, fitted with top–of–the–line security and used for the utmost special occasions.

  As I walk through the grand double doors leading the banquet hall, my gaze travels around the massive domed space.

  It’s breathtakingly divine with veined white marble flooring, pearly white walls with gold–accented finishings, and an intricately painted ceiling that’d make Michelangelo envious.

  The place feels like an open–aired temple with hand–carved statuesque stone columns encircling the room and one–way mirrored, bulletproof floor–to–ceiling glass walls. But in actuality, it’s just a perfectly transparent cage.

  My first time at the Windrose, and it’s for my own induction ceremony. It’s simply a formality, but at least there’s dinner, alcohol, and entertainment.

  A hard clap on my back puts me on edge, and I have to fight to tamp down the surge of irritation flooding through me.

  If it’s one of the other Twelve, they’re just picking a fight, and one we both know I’m bound to lose.

  While I’ve now joined their ranks, I’m still too green at eighteen years of age and only five years of experience under my belt, especially compared to those who’ve served Venti since before I was born.

  Of course, it’s Ubo to mindlessly touch me, like he carelessly touches whoever the fuck he wants.

  ‘The Butcher’ of the Twelve looks like a sleazy uncle who likes to have one too many drinks and a few too many women before stumbling back home to his irate wife and spoiled kids.

  Thankfully, he has no family that he’ll be tempted to disembowel and dismember.

  “If it isn’t The Dog. How does it feel to sit at the big boys’ table?” He claps my back in faux camaraderie, slamming his hand into me over and over again like it’s glitched in a repetitive rote.

  As my teeth grind together and I try to simmer my boiling blood, a bored voice drones from behind, “You should let him sit at the table first.”

  Ubo grins maniacally as his eyes lock onto mine. “What has the world come to that we let a Dog join us?”

  In a mixture of respect and mockery, each of the Twelve have an unofficial title — a name that the deviants taunt us with behind our backs and that the other Twelve taunt us with to our faces.

  They call me ‘The Dog’ because of all I’ve done to get here. Serving at hand and foot to West, doing everything he bids without question like a loyal pet. And I daresay it’s also in anticipation for the day I turn around and bite the hand that fed me.

  Breezing past us without a care, Richter strides into the banquet hall. And following at her mentor’s heels is Kitty who winks and blows me a kiss.

  Ubo’s hand shoots out, mockingly intercepting it.

  As he turns to look at her, he slowly brings it to his face, making a show of licking his palm lasciviously.

  “Ububu, if you want a kiss, you only need to ask,” Kitty purrs, tapping her scarlet–stained lips with a long, manicured finger. “I’ve been meaning to test my newest formula.”

  His eyes are glazy from not blinking, the only characteristic that exposes his inhumanity. It adds to his jerky avian movements when he cocks his head to the side.

  “Only if we can see how your battered pussy reacts to that poisonous lipstick.” He tilts his head to the other side. “Or would it be venomous once I rip those flabby lips with my teeth?”

  Kitty pouts, tugging on Richter’s sleeve. “Ububu’s being mean again.”

  Our head of reconnaissance, ‘The Chameleon,’ glances down at his apprentice. “He means it as a compliment. I doubt he even knows what an intact vagina looks like.”

  Notorious for liking his women broken–minded, brokenhearted, and broken–in, Ubo was apparently the subject of a grueling police investigation and damning media circus well before my time.

  While the sordid affair was taken care of and buried, Ubo paid the price for bringing about the unnecessary attention, losing more than the fight and his pride when he survived his Assassination with West.

  It’s an infamous story still told in hushed corners only when Ubo is far out of town. More than one deviant had his family jewels halved or entirely decimated in the same fashion as his was when they were caught keeping the tale alive.

  “I don’t care about that!” Annoyance flashes across Kitty’s delicate features as she crosses her arms, hoisting her ample tits even farther out of her low–cut neckline. “I’ve perfected that poison. The only way he’ll even be able to see my pussy is when I’m standing over his paralyzed husk.” Her long, blonde hair flairs around her as she whips around, glaring at Ubo. “Two seconds, and you won’t even have time to lick your lips before you fall to the ground.”

  That’s the sort of thing that jaded assassins get offended by. The efficacy of their methodology. The art of their vices.

  Would you believe me if I said I’m the most well–adjusted out of the Twelve?

  Ubo’s mouth slits into sharp smile, and he steps closer to Kitty. “Give daddy a kiss, baby, and we’ll see who can do more damage in two seconds.”

  “In your dreams, Ububu,” she croons. “And my ‘daddy’ is right here.” Her icy green eyes dart to mine, glinting suggestively, before turning to Richter. “Does daddy want a kiss from Kitty?”

  Befitting her name, ‘The Whore’ grazes a finger along his thigh, which Richter dismissively swats away.

  When Kitty takes that as an invitation to attempt seducing him further, he palms her face without so much as a twitch in reaction. Looking bored with the whole exchange, Richter callously extends his arm to its full length, effectively shoving Kitty nearly a yard away.

  A muffled grunt yelps from behind his massive palm, and he deadpans, “Make another paternal reference to me again with salacious intent, and I will take a paddle to your ass with such severity that you’ll be shitting out of your mouth for the foreseeable future.”

  Is it really that hard to say, ‘Call me ‘daddy’ again, and I’ll spank you into next week’?

  I still can’t tell whether he’s intentionally obtuse or just autistic as fuck, but considering his recon capabilities are unparalleled, I’m reluctantly inclined to go with the former.

  Ubo cocks his head with a smirk. “Do you prefer when the other faggots call you ‘mommy’?”

  With only a hint of smugness tweaking his lips, Richter turns his stoic gaze to the other man. “Perhaps we should call you ‘mommy’ considering your comparable deficiency in testicles.”

  Kitty giggles. “I like it.” She cocks her head with a grin. “‘Mommy.’”

  The air shifts with oppressive hostility as Ubo’s face darkens, and a vein throbs blue and purple in his forehead as the muscles carve out of his face in their furious flexing.

  For someone who likes to dish out provocations, he can’t take them
.

  “Can you all move out of the way?” a flat voice monotones from behind me.

  Without turning to look, Ubo bats his knob–boned arm towards Jura, who expertly ducks the attempted battering. Dipping to the side, he dodges Kitty’s leap, leaving her stranded in the spot he was standing a split second earlier.

  With his characteristically graceful evasiveness, the long, spidery–limbed Twelve is already deep within the hall, nearly at the grand table set up front for us.

  Kitty sighs. “No fun.”

  “What a surprise to see him out of his little cave,” Ubo sneers.

  Obviously disinterested in continuing the conversation, Richter wordlessly trails after the younger man, and Ubo goes along to bother Jura.

  Before I can follow, Kitty hooks her fingers into my belt loop, tugging me towards her.

  Peering under her hooded eyes, she croons, “I’m in the mood for an appetizer.”

  My eyebrow lifts. The entire place is full of people, and anywhere that’s not is visible from the windowed walls. Not to mention, there’d be no masking the echoes that’d ring throughout the building.

  “Wait,” I command in a low tone, untangling her fingers from my pants. “You’ll have more than your share of me by the time I’m done with you.”

  “Why wait when we can start now?” One corner of her mouth slides up coyly. “Don’t make me force you.”

  My gaze drops to her red–stained lips as her tongue flits out to moisten them, reminding me of her words earlier.

  Leaning in, I murmur, “Try anything with your poisons, and I’ll chain you down for the next week.”

  “Is that a promise?” She giggles. “Don’t worry, whatever I use on you, you’ll be fully conscious to feel every single thing I do.” Her fingers walk up my chest emphatically with each syllable. “I won’t need chains to hold you down.”

  I chuckle, grabbing her hand and squeezing it in my fist. She doesn’t react even as her fingertips turn paler than they already are. “Then you better be prepared to kill me, otherwise I’ll turn you into my fuck doll without any poisons.”