A train of nondescript SUVs forms an arrow of black pointing to Augustus Lord's funeral plot. A crowd of a hundred or so gathers for the final committal and while everyone is welcome to the mass, only the Syndicate heads, wives and heirs are permitted at the burial. The debate regarding which function to crash was short-lived. Both locations had their merits, but ultimately, I opted for haunting the cemetery.

ONE: I can't risk being recognized and I figured the larger the audience the greater the chance of that happening.

TWO: I'm only interested in high-level individuals. Specifically, the next in line to rule the Monarch seat. If a proxy has been selected he'll be among the mourners.

THREE: Attending the funeral service of the kingpin you just assassinated is generally ill-advised.

FOUR: The cathedral is where Ronan and I would've been married... and it reminds me of a life I'll never have. A life stolen by a hitman's bullet.

Thanks to Papa Monarch, death is something I'm familiar with and I've grown rather fond of graveyards.

Drifting closer, I scour the group for, "Rein." Her ocher locks are knotted in a chic bun on top of her head and they gleam a brilliant reddish brown in the setting sun. Even with her back to me, I would know her elegant frame anywhere. Rein Lord was once the mother I wished I had. Welcoming and sincere, she always went out of her way to make me feel accepted. Now, she's a mark. A reference point for identifying my real objective.

The New King.

Curious, I zero in on the beefcake seated next to her. Towering heads above, Mr. Beef drags a hand through his hair which does little to smooth the ruffled faux-hawk. The action causes the sleeve of his jacket to bunch and I spot bluish black ink underneath.

"Oooh... That's a first." In the past, tattoos were a 'No-no'. It seems Beef Sausage is a bit of a bad boy.

Have I mentioned I like beef?
I like beef.

The priest does his hand waving and Beefstick slides to his feet. Judging by the size of him, he's around six three, six four and stooped posture aside, has an air of confidence that whispers to my heart causing it to hammer in reply. It's a sensation, I haven't felt since...

...Ronan.

Reflexively, my fingers inch toward the grouping of scars on my chest. Curiosity battles with training and I suppress the overwhelming urge to move closer. Moreover, the way his off-the-rack suit fits, I can tell he's fucking ripped. It clings to his masculine physique, emphasizing what is undoubtedly, a chiseled body comprised of hardened muscle and sinew.

Mmmm...

"Tall, dark, and beefy. Just the way I like 'em."

Groaning inwardly...

Jesus, Jus. He's a fucking target.

...I slink around the tree serving as my temporary blind, "C'mon, Sausage. Let me see that mug." Rein moves to his side and he loops his arm around her. The gesture is familiar but seemingly devoid of romantic inclinations. At least, there's no overt signs they're involved. Simply a quick squeeze and poignant peck to the temple.

Who is this guy?

The pair pivots...

Yes!

...and Rein's face comes into view.

"That's it... Come to Mam-"

"Ma'am, can I help you?"

Instantly, I whirl to frown at the security detail hulking over me, "Ummm..." furtively tracking my Beefy Delight, "Uhhhh..." as he makes his way to the front SUV. His profile is blocked by another visitor of equal height and I exhale in frustration, "Actually, I was on my way out."

Sonofabitch.

"This is a closed-"

"Yeah, I got it. I'm going."

Blocking my path, the guard holds his hand out to detain me, "What's your name?"

So, a boy scout, eh?

By the way...

---

Rule #4: There's always a hero waiting to fuck up your day.
Always. It's the axiom of being a doer of dirty deeds.

---

"I really don't have time for this shit."

"Hu-Oooww!" Gripping the meaty part of his palm, I wrench his limb back, "Mmmmfff," and transition him into an arm bar. On his knees, he wails, "Stoooop!"

"You didn't see me," I warn in a cloying sweet inflection. "Got it?"

"Wha-Aaaaggh!"

Twisting until I hear tendons pop, I add, "Trust me, it'll be better for you if you let me go." He grunts in assent and releasing him, "Good Hulk," I pivot for my Ducati...

"Ssshit."

...parked at the far end of the funeral grounds. I'll need to hoof it to reach it in time to tail Rein and Mr. Meat Pie. Unfortunately, I'll have to navigate an obstacle course of monuments, "Whoa," tombstones, "S-Sorry" ...and the hood of a lone sedan to get there.

Vaulting the abandoned vehicle, leather riding gear grips the metallic surface and I skid to a halt halfway across the faded, navy paint of an unmarked Crown Vic, "Haaah... That never works."

Eeking and squeeeaking to the edge, I frantically scan the horizon for the lead car... exiting the main thoroughfare,

"Perfect," I grump, clucking my tongue, before scampering the remaining paces to the narrow seat awaiting my delayed arrival. There, I labor to don my helmet,

Five, six... seven.

...counting the vehicles as they depart.

Finally, the engine kicks on, tires spin, my front wheel pops off the asphalt in a spectacular display of badassery and seconds later, I'm zipping down the road in pursuit of my Grade A mystery man.

---

Regrettably, by the time I catch the procession, they've already broken ranks and the identical SUVs make it impossible to determine which one is carrying my precious cargo. Rolling to a lit intersection, I plant my feet and rock back to hazard a peek at the vehicle on my left, but all I see is my reflection staring back at me... concealed behind an opaque visor.

Are you in there, Sausage?

Of course, there's no answer. Tinted glass stays up, the light changes, and with no other choice but to push on, I open the throttle and speed into traffic.

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https://youtu.be/4ZqWLIQaKM4

* Author's Note *

"Rules #1 - 3" are noted under the chapter, 'Death is a Beginning', for 'Violent Delights'.

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