Continuing to fight the scowl which very much wanted to make headway onto his face was taxing. It was growing late and he was meant to be up early in the morning for Alexys’ birthday. A princess never liked to be kept waiting, this heir least of all. Not to mention the fact his brother would hardly forgive him for souring his niece’s face with a frown.
“When is your next shipment of fabrics meant to go out?” asked the leader of the Cricks. His face was partially obscured by a plague mask dipped entirely in crimson, with hair spilling over the top. They all wore clothes a step above peasant livery, though their matching red gloves made it obvious they’d all had to drop a fair share of coin in order to be inducted into the Cricks crew.
Gangsters certainly had a flair for dramatics.
“Textiles,” Ira corrected, sounding mildly irritated, his face purpling. “I run a business of textiles. Not mere fabric. Textiles are crafted by delicate strands of interlacing fibers. It is a specialty.”
The pissheads chuckled amongst themselves, nudging one another. Some of them were sprawled about the rusted-over equipment. Others were lounging by the windows, glancing out into the inky night every once and a good while.
Hardly efficient methods of a watch. Roland had seen them all spend more time picking their noses than chancing a glance at what might be lurking in the shadows beyond.
The warehouse itself was a large, cavernous space, with a room above where an overseer would hold court. A set of rickety, half-rotted stairs climbing to the office. It looked as if it may have been a manufacturing plant once upon a different day, but anything of value had been stripped and stolen long ago. At the southern wall of the building, there was the set of doors which would spit out into the ocean. In its heyday, Roland imagined there would be ships buoyed and loaded with goods on the other side of those doors. When they pushed open every morning they would administer a steady stream of workers. Now, the grand docking doors were locked tight with thick chains, wound like a boa constrictor around prey. They appeared to be about the newest things in this pigsty, and the likelihood of the Cricks being the ones to have put them there was pretty high.
To the north end, there was a side door nearly falling off its hinges. That was where Roland and Ira had been greeted by thugs who, in his opinion, all needed a fresh pounding. Preferably by his own fist.
An itch by Roland’s ear had him turning his head. The supernatural sense of happening darted across the underside of his skin. Not a moment later, the doors were flung open with a great boom of a canon. The metal of the chain rang out like a broken bell before it splintered everywhere in shards. Dust sprayed as blue light filled the dank room, the smell of phosphorus and the iron of magic accompanied the blast.
Many of the Cricks cried out in surprise, only about half of them reaching for their weapons. The other half too shocked or too stupid.
Roland’s hand went to the battle axe at his back, an imposing choice for a situation such as this, but with his immense height and the breadth of his shoulders, it made him look more a barbarian and less of...well, a prince.
Triggers were being vigorously pulled as a shadow emerged in the smoke and blue. An enormous figure approached them, hooded and strutting. It grew shorter and shorter the closer it came, unharmed by any bullets or stray links from the shattered chain.
The man, for he was clearly a man, though a slender one and tall in a very long, strange way, stepped from the smoke. The tendrils following him twisted and kissed the midnight colored cloak that fell from his shoulders. In his hands, he braced a small, handheld cannon. The mouth was still spitting sparks of fire.
“Evening, gents, fancy some company?” the voice was scratchy and deep, but the threatening bit of it, was the crew which stepped in around him.
“Shit,” muttered one of the Cricks.
“Red League, friends, but close enough,” said one of them. He had a poof of tawny hair and doped-up, wild eyes. The leader took off his hood, revealing slicked-back ruby red. He passed off the handheld canon to a lightly muscled woman at his side. Next, he unfastened the mask, revealing plump lips, a pointed chin, and hollowed cheeks. The most intense thing were his thickly lashed eyes. From this distance, they appeared entirely black. He traded his mask for a pistol, fastenings of crimson glowing up the barrel. Roland’s entire body focused narrowed on the weapon.
“I think my name might be on the list; last name de Rossi?”
Roland’s hands tightened on the grip of his axe.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Killian?” asked the muffled voice of the Cricks’s leader.
Killian de Rossi, son to the most powerful Don in Adalin, appeared beyond amused as he took in the red plague mask and the pisshead still sitting in his wooden, rotten chair as if it were a throne.
“Hullo, Sam. Just thought I’d stop by. See how you and the boys were getting along, collect my tribute, grab a cup of tea and be on my merry way. Savvy?”
“Oh, you’re sore out of luck, chap. We are all out of tea at the moment. You might have to stop by again later.”
Killian pursed his lips in an attempt to hold back a grin. He mustered a chiding expression as he twirled his gun and then shook his head. “No, you see, I don’t believe this is an amicable solution. I’m going to be honest with you, Sammy. I didn’t expect to be turned away at the door. Especially after all we’ve been through. I threatened you last week. Then you said you’d have the money this week. It was the foundation of trust between us. I warned you I’d bring my friends along with me this time and I’m true to my word. So, why can’t you be true to yours?”
Roland finally put the face of the woman at de Rossi’s side to a name from his dossiers: Asha de la Cario, Killian de Rossi’s official, unofficial second. A brutal fighter, she got most of the scars on her arms from her days in the pits. Now, she wore them proudly against her dark skin, the tips of her elven ears poking from beneath the heaps of hair she braided tightly around her head. She looked better suited in the south, for her eyes were a pale yellow, evidence of some elvish blood placed in her ancestry. The blade at her belt was curved and wicked sharp, and she was threatening regardless of them, her arms folded. It looked as if she were stifling a yawn.
“I think he might be a liar, boss,” noted the man with the tawny hair. He’d fished a cigarette out from the bouquet behind his ear and lit it like magic with a dexterous swipe of an unseen match. Roland recognized him too, he’d signed enough forms to let him out of the drunk tank to last him a lifetime. He’d never had the pleasure of meeting this particular wreck, but he’d heard enough stories.
Killian whistled. “Those are some strong accusations there, Opie.”
“I call them like I see them,” he said through a cloud of smoke.
“And how do you see them?”
“I see a bunch of idiots with their lying thumbs shoved up their asses.”
“Opie, what language! And in front of our dear lady Asha. I am appalled.”
Asha blinked, drawing back to the present as if she’d been very far away as one of the other members nudged her and laughed. The Red League crew came in all shapes and sizes. Some were thin and quick, brought in to steal money out of the pockets of the wealthy. Others wore glasses and were perched behind desks, keeping the books. Yet, like all gangs, occasionally they had to give into the less savory side of their job. The side which came with a dipping of blood and a smattering of broken teeth if the need called for it.
Which, judging by the cracking fists and the brass knuckles across Asha’s fingers alongside her swords, and the rifle cannon hanging by a strap under Opie’s nonsmoking arm, Roland had the distinct impression Killian knew what was coming all along.
This didn’t surprise him. Just looking at the fox of a man who called himself de Rossi, he could see the gleam in his eyes in the clever way he surveyed the room. He gleaned pleasure from the fact he thought himself the biggest, baddest thing in the hen house.
Of course, he was. Until Roland dec
ided to be entirely invested in this brawl.
Ira was slowly inching towards the prince, his tiny piggy eyes darting from between de Rossi and the Cricks’s leader.
“I see you, fat man,” sang Opie, swinging his rifle around his shoulder by its strap, he caught it nimbly and pointed it at Ira’s chest.
Ira froze. “I—I…”
“What business do you have in the Sludge, merchant?” asked de Rossi, batting Opie’s gun down. “Surely you have a nice, cozy canal house you’d rather be sitting comfy in?”
“I—I, well sir, Mr. de Rossi, sir, I was just...I was just meeting to discuss some things, but my colleague and I, we better, we better be on our way.”
Some of the Red League snickered. Asha eyed Roland from head to toe, noticing him for the first time and liking what she saw. Roland hated how those yellow eyes glowed.
“That’s some packed muscle you’re carrying there,” noted Killian, strolling over to stand in front of Roland. He grinned, showcasing every square white tooth. “Is he for hire?”
Roland glared at the impudent, thin man who was mimicking Asha’s appreciative gaze.
“N—no, Steffan is...is my brother-in-law and he, uh, he insisted he come along tonight.”
“If your wife tires of you, I know a few ladies who’d appreciate the time!” Opie hooted, making an obscene gesture above his crotch.
De Rossi studied Roland closely. Although he barely came up to his chin, those dark eyes pinned right to his. They were so ridiculously black that Roland couldn’t even make out his pupils and when he squinted, nor could he see the whites of his eyes.
“Oh, you’re a liar too, aren’t you, merchant?”
Ira appeared physically ill.
“S—sir?”
“Your Steffan doesn’t have the look of a married man,” Killian said, still considering Roland, who was caught glowering back. There was no way he’d look away first.
“No,” continued de Rossi. “There’s too much fight still left in his eyes. Your boy needs some more humbling if you think for a moment I’ll believe he’s married. If you hadn’t lied to me, you wouldn’t have gotten involved. Unfortunately…” he sighed and shook his head as if he were disappointed. “Now you’re involved. I can’t let it get out that I let a liar off without a proper warning.”
Ira, panicked, looked at Roland. And Roland, who had promised the merchant protection, was obliged to become involved as well.
He fought another eye roll and in the span of time it took for de Rossi to look back at Asha and giver her a nod, Roland moved, wrapped one arm around de Rossi’s neck, and brought the blade of his axe right under the gangster’s chin.
De Rossi’s heart beating in his throat hummed against his skin, hammering with each expulsion of choked breath and nearly crushed windpipe. His hands, gloved with leather, rings over each finger, caught his forearm, though they were barely enough strength in the man’s arms to budge a muscle of Roland’s massive arms. The nails of his fingers were sharp through the hide, and they pressed hard enough that Roland growled and shook him until de Rossi’s grip released.
Asha, not sleepy in the slightest bit now, lunged for him, stopped by the Red League who grabbed her. Opie laughed and brought his gun up high. Most of the Cricks were all standing. Ira, if it were possible, cowered further into Roland’s shadow.
“We are going to leave,” said Roland. “And then you can get on with whatever business you lot have.”
Asha’s look alone told him he’d leave here in a body bag if she had her way. He had to admire the fury, even if he didn’t believe it was genuine.
“You do anything stupid, your boss gets it. Understood?”
No one made a sound.
Not until someone startled chuckling.
It took Roland a moment to locate the noise and he was stunned when he realized it was coming from his captive. He tightened his grip, but de Rossi only moved onto wheezing, maintaining his ghost of a chortle.
Roland opened his mouth to snap at him, to demand he cut it out before he cut him off his air supply, but found he couldn’t. His tongue was dead in his mouth, slowly filling with sand.
The world, as if on cue, began to slide and his arm dropped like a weighted bag, his axe clattering to the ground.
A heeled shoe caught his knee and he crumpled, groaning. Head spinning.
He tried to look up, tried to take in the blurred towering over him, but all he could see was a toothy grin.
“Looks like you and me need to have some words,” said the red shape where de Rossi had been standing.
“Gah…” he responded.
De Rossi snapped his fingers. “Asha, find me an empty office and drag our big fellow there. I’ll be there in a minute. First I have to talk with Sammy boy.”
“Can I knock him unconscious?” asked another voice, a taller, buxom shape coming to stand beside the first.
“I thought you liked them pretty?”
“Sometimes I like them rough too,” replied his second.
“Do what you will,” said the shade of Killian de Rossi, turning his back on Roland. “I’ll deal with the rest later. I’ve been itching for something to use my new toy on.”
Then the blur was gone and it was just the curvy one.
“Have a nice nap,” sneered the buxom shadow.
Then Asha de la Cario’s fist met his face like a bludgeon.
Darkness welcomed him into her sweet embrace.
Chapter 2
Tiana de Rossi had to admire a stubborn man when she met one. Especially if that stubborn man was a tower of muscle, scowls, and dirty blond hair. She liked him even more now that he was gagged to a chair, relieved of his deadly weapon and still mostly unconscious.
“Thanks, Asha. He looks great.”
Asha de la Cario nodded, oblivious as everyone else to who she really answered to. “S’no problem.”
Tiana’s dark eyes swept over the room, carefully taking measure of what was and was not immediately available to her, what she might be forced to use for defense or escape if necessary. The wall facing the ocean seemed thin and weakened by the mist of seawater from over the years. If she had to choose a wall to blast a hole in, that would be the one.
“Keep an eye on the riffraff downstairs, would you?” she said, glancing out the window by the far wall. It was a straight fall down, a small pile of tarps and garbage shoved up alongside the building. It didn’t look particularly pretty. Then again, nothing in the Sludge did…especially when compared to the Glitter. Tiana shook her head as she studied their captive. “I don’t trust the hairs on their fuzzy Cricks teeth that they won’t try and worm away.”
“So why are we wasting our time with this big red worm?” Asha asked while motioning towards Roland. “Why don’t we just collect the tribute we came for and call it a night?” Tiana shot her second a narrow look.
“Are you questioning me?”
Asha merely stared at her. She saw but didn’t see. On some days, it made Tiana proud of herself. On others, it made her feel like she was standing in the middle of the ocean with no land in sight. Sometimes it was a lonely life living in someone else's skin.
Tiana sighed and smoothed a hand over her head. The gel she wiped through it each night was still solid beneath her touch.
“I’m making an example out of him. He left me a cut. I leave him dead.”
“He cut you?” Asha asked worriedly.
Tiana waved her hand. “It’s only a scratch. Now go on. Get.”
Asha got.
Tiana sighed once the door had completely shut and Asha’s footsteps faded down the creaking stairs.
“Oh, gods,” she muttered, rubbing her face. She was exhausted. It had been an early morning and now it would be an even later night. She’d meant to be back at the castle in her own bed hours ago. Usually, her father just sent her to do little things, little tiny things. Collect a few bits of coin, get Asha to rough up a few idiots, and then she could call it a night. Recently, h
owever, the Don seemed to have other plans for his son and heir.
If only he knew it was really his daughter.
He’d have a fit.
Tiana almost smiled, just imagining how he’d bluster. How he’d rant.
Of all the stupid things!
It almost made it worth it.
She loved her father, but she hated how much he wanted her as his princess. Killian could get his hands dirty, Killian was a boy. As for Tiana, she didn’t need to be in the business. She could be something better. She could marry someone proper. Perhaps not a nobleman, but at least a gentleman of means. So, through his connections, he got her an apprenticeship sitting pretty in the royal library. When Killian was still around, he’d joked that their father was wishing some rich suitor would discover Tiana amidst the dusty old tomes and want to whisk her away to a better life.
However, Don Phillipe de Rossi had been seriously misled if he believed the nobles poked their heads into that library past the age of having their governesses make them.
“Time to get this show on the road,” Tiana murmured. She glanced at herself in the pane of glass to make sure her makeup hadn’t worn off. Not that this piece of meat would be able to tell the difference.
Still, she examined her jaw, proud of the scant bit of stubble she’d managed to get onto her face. She’d really become a whizz with the stippling brush. Makeup was a blessing. Even more so was the condition she worked under. The night was where she operated and the night was made up of darkness and dim, lamp-lit areas. It was a life in the shadows, this life she led at night, and it helped hide her just as much as any cosmetic.
She peered at her nose before rubbing a bit more dirt up the slender bridge in an effort to make it appear both wider and as though it’d been broken once or twice.
Killian, growing up, had been on the other side of a wayward fist now and again. More often than not, it had been Tiana’s, but occasionally it belonged to someone else. Once upon a time, she’d given her brother a broken nose. Now, nearly every single night, she gave herself one instead.
Deception: Rogues of the Red League, Book 1 Page 2