Thin plumes of smoke curled through the air above me. I lay on the couch, bone-weary, smoking a Cuban cigar I'd snatched from Takashi Kato's jacket pocket before I'd beheaded him.

A spray of bullets had chewed through leather sofas and bitten into wooden chairs, leaving holes pierced through the walls. Shards of glass glittered like ice on the shag-pile carpet, and AC/DC blared from the speakers studded around the presidential suite at deafening concert decibels.

Besides the thunder I brought with me, the raucous Australian band had been perfect for hiding the rat-tat-tat of Uzis, the panicked boom of sawed-off shotguns, and the pop of handguns, as well as the shouting and screaming. I wasn't particularly surprised that the hotel management hadn't swung by. The Yakuza who had booked the presidential suite for their weekend of celebration and debauchery wasn't anyone you bothered over noise control.

So there I lay on the couch, undisturbed, breathing in the stale smell of air conditioning mixed with the metallic aftertaste of gunfire and the taint of copper from blood. I puffed on the cigar, rolling the pungent smoke around in my mouth before blowing it out in a stream. The haze of smoke plumed upward, masking my reflection in the mirrored ceiling. Not that I was looking. I was staring vacantly upward wondering how the fuck I was going to get out of what my father expected of me this coming weekend. An all-consuming feeling of being trapped gnawed at me like a starved junkyard dog on a bone.

I took a long swig from a bottle of champagne, swallowing down the sweet-tart liquid that fizzed on my tongue, and then rested the bottle back on my bent knee. Tired, I rubbed my face with my other hand that I'd pinched a cigar between my fingers. My calloused palm smeared through the blood that crusted my nose and forehead, as I brushed my hand upwards, pushing sweaty, tangled locks away from my face.

My armor was form-fitting leather threaded with adamere—one of the strongest materials in my world—which was much easier to move in than our ancestors' steel plates. The fish scale cut to the material allowed air to flow through and cool my overheated body. I'd also unzipped the jacket and unbuckled the leather straps that sheathed my swords to my back, tossing them, along with two empty bandoleers, over the armrest of a chair. Which reminded me I needed to collect the small blades from where I'd left them—hurled at moving targets and embedded in soft tissue. Twin bastard swords leaned against the side of the bullet-pocked white leather sofa. Both of the weapons were slick with blood.

A sudden noise had my keen hearing focusing—the door to the suite had quietly opened. I blinked, my gaze sharpening. The swirl of cigar smoke had dissipated, and in that brief moment, I caught my reflection in the ceiling—the long, lanky black hair, the scruffy beard to hide my face, partly from others, but mostly from myself.

I stared directly into my own eyes, at the haunted lackluster sheen in their violet depths. Noxious guilt and hate bloomed in my chest. And then, because I couldn't stomach looking at myself, what I'd done, I squeezed my eyes shut. White light burst behind my eyelids, along with patches of color.

Green.

Sometimes I'd see streaks of sea green splashed with blue.

Calming like the ocean itself.

The music suddenly cut off and jarring silence descended.

A moment later, heavy footfall and the squelch of shoes through pooled blood had my eyelashes parting. I peered sideways. I wasn't particularly worried. There was only one person it could be—my father, Jeroen Crowther.

He was tall—our entire family was—with a shock of silver hair and the violet eyes that were prominent in our family line. His shrewd gaze, cold and calculating and devoid of feeling, took me in. "Kato?"

I waved, my hand wrapped around the bottle, in the direction of the silver-plated champagne bucket.

Takashi Kato's glassy and unfocused eyes stared back at me from where I'd shoved his head between bottles of Moët and Dom Pérignon.

My father grunted, making one of those disappointed sounds he just couldn't suppress. "When I said I wanted his head, I didn't mean literally."

Gee Dad, really?

Sitting up, I swung my legs over the side of the couch and rolled my shoulder to stretch the throbbing muscles in my right arm. "Sirro can mount him on his trophy wall."

My father strode over to the wet bar where the ornate bucket sat next to loosely furled hundred dollar bills and coke poured into wonky white lines, stark against the pure-black granite. He lowered the two leather bags he'd carried in here to the floor and straightened his formidable frame. Digging his fingers into damp hair, he angled Kato's head back to have a better look. Melting ice cubes slopped about in the bucket, and water tinged red with blood splashed over the lip, spilling upon the stone.

My father shifted himself around to face me. One lonely eyebrow rose. "I've been paging you."

I pointed with the hand holding the cigar—this time to the hole in the wall where I'd hurled the pager hard enough that it had gone right through wood and plaster and now sat in the dark, dusty recesses of the wall space. Even over the sound of AC/DC's scream-styled singing, I'd been able to pinpoint its location as the fucking thing went off. Again. And again. And again.

Funnily enough, it wasn't my father who had sent me over the edge...but her. Paging me every single fucking minute. Wanting me to call her back.

Well, fuck you, Irma Szarvas.

And maybe, later, I might fuck her—from behind so I didn't have to stare at her lying ass face.

A surge of bitter fury blasted through me. My fist tightened so hard on the neck of the bottle it shattered. Glass exploded everywhere, and champagne splashed over my face and down my front. The broken bottle thudded upon the carpet and rolled underneath the round dining table where several of the Inagawa-kai had been drinking sake and playing oicho-kabu when I'd stormed in to end them.

I shot to my feet, swiping away glass shards and liquid from my jacket and shirt. Blood spilled from the stinging cuts lacerated across my palm and ran down the tips of my fingers to drip upon the floor.

Fuck it.

Fuck her.

Fuck me.

Heaviness sank through me, pulling at my weary limbs. My shoulders slumped. I was lying to myself. Gods, I was pathetic. I wanted pussy like a toddler wanted to eat vegetables. I knew it would be good for me. I just didn't want to take a bite.

I'd been off sex for months now.

Clamping the cigar between my teeth, I grabbed the edge of my t-shirt, tore a strip free, and bound it around my wound, flexing my fingers afterward.

My father swiped the blood from the bottom of his shoes on the clean carpet, drawing my attention back to him. He was staring at me, his square jaw sawing as his keen eyes scanned my face, assessing and evaluating. I kept my expression neutral and just shrugged like I was an idiot who didn't know his own strength. From the minute twitch of his thin lips and the glint in his eye, the bastard saw through it.

Jeroen was in his seventies, but his physique was that of a man several decades younger. He ran drills with us in the training pit every single morning. His tanned skin was weather-worn, and his voice was a deep rumble in his chest, like storm clouds brewing. "Your cousins and our warband have taken the clan's compound. Yoran's already in Osaka meeting with the head of the Inagawa-kai. He's informed him of his nephew's disloyalty, and the outcome." No doubt the oyabun was on his knees begging Yoran Novak for his life. Upper House Novak was the House to which we were in liege. We served as their enforcers over the cartels that produced illicit drugs for us, and the crime organizations who provided the distribution. We didn't tolerate insubordination or embezzlement. I didn't come in here to demand Takashi Kato return the misappropriated money. I'd simply walked in and unleashed.

My father's cold gaze slid to Takashi's head, floating in the melting pool of ice in the champagne bucket. "The Inagawa-kai will need to prove their loyalty. And this is a message to everyone else."

Don't fuck with the Horned Gods.

I combed through the spacious living room and started collecting all the small blades I'd emptied into the Yakuza. They made wet popping noises as I pulled the daggers free from corpses. I'd purposely arrived just as they'd settled into the Presidential suite before their entertainment of high-end call girls arrived for the night. As much as my life revolved around bloodshed, if I could avoid taking an innocent mortal's life, I did. But sometimes working for the Horned Gods, what they expected from us, it wasn't always possible.

"I take it Sirro wants a new syndicate taking over Ascendria?" I asked.

The soft whir of the zipper's metal teeth sliding apart came from the weapons bag my father had brought with him. He held it by the straps, widening the opening for me to toss the blades into as I retrieved them from bodies. As I worked through the suite I tossed a blade inside, then another, the chink of adamere meeting adamere chiming in the room.

Master Sirro, a Horned God himself, was the link between the Houses and the upper echelon of otherworldly creatures we served. "The Widow Makers?" I asked, curious if it would be the Albanian syndicate. Or maybe it was the Bratvas. "The Rattling Bones?"

"No. The Tipo'deans," my father replied.

I let out a hiss between gritted teeth, rocking back on my heels where I'd squatted by a Yakuza I'd stabbed through the throat. The Tipo'deans were giants, built like rugby players, and menacing as all hells. Their organization was a collection of Pacific Islanders and Australians, presided over by a bat-shit crazy couple: Bazza and Sheila.

"Novak wants them to expand their territory here," he continued.

I took a puff on the cigar, letting the smoke roll out, rose, then headed toward the couch, rounding the up-ended coffee table. Bending down, I grabbed my swords and cleaned the blades against the armrest, leaving a smear of scarlet on the white leather.

My father took hold of them, sliding them into their sheaths and then into my bag.

A thump.

My father frowned, twisting around, honing in on the sound. His leathery skin grew tighter around his narrowed eyes and mouth as his gaze swept the room. His line of sight went straight to the other end of the suite, where the thump had come from. He shot me a sideways look, thick, wiry brows drawing over his eyes. "Where's Sander?"

Another thump.

Ah, shit.

Quickly tossing the cigar away, it hit the back of a hacked-off hand. Doused by blood, the burning-red end slowly fizzled out. I slid my feet apart and braced my stance.

A noise of splintering wood erupted. Near the doorway to the suite, a closet door went flying and crashed against the opposite wall.

My younger brother, Sander, blew out of the closet into which I'd shoved him earlier, swiping away creepy black tendrils that clung to his armored body. He flung the writhing scraps onto the floor, stomped a booted foot over the top of them, and ground the remains into the carpet. He swung my way, fury etched on his features. "You fucker!" he roared, jabbing a finger at me.

He moved fast, an unnatural blur of black speed across the space between us.

I met his lunge. Blocked his flying fist, and used the momentum to spin us around.

I slammed him down upon the couch, a heavy boot pinning him in the gut. The force of it punched the air from his lungs with an oof, and an oil painting hanging on the wall behind the couch shook free from its hook, hit the couch, and tumbled to the floor.

Sander scrabbled against my boot, trying to push me back. I just leaned in and dug deeper. His gray eyes, lit up like lightning scoring through roiling clouds, crackled with rage. "Why?!"

He knew. Surely he knew.

Unadulterated panic had had a stranglehold on me the moment I'd entered the suite. Cold sweat had made my armor stick to my clammy body. My heart was a frantic beat in my chest that had tightened so badly it had been hard to draw a breath.

I'd grabbed hold of Sander, shoved him into a closet, and unleashed a Curse on his inexperienced ass. I'd be facing twenty Yakuza alone in close confines, but what the hells. At that moment I hadn't cared. I didn't deserve to have anyone guarding my back.

While I should have told Sander the truth, that he was sixteen and shouldn't be involved in this level of bloodshed just yet, I didn't. I did what I always did and went for the jugular. I let him go, stepping back. Crossing my arms over my chest, I cocked my head and stared down the length of my nose at him. "Because your killing blow sucks and you'd only get in my way. I had enough to deal with without adding babysitting to the mix."

He jutted out his chin like the moody little teenager he was. "You're such a fucking asshole, Varen."

"You work in pairs," I heard my father insist behind me. "He's to have your back."

Like I hadn't done for Gratian.