The Devil's Beauty (Crime Lord Interconnected Standalone Book 2) by Airicka Phoenix Page B
Authors: Airicka Phoenix
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would bike up to the gates and sit there, wondering what it had to feel like to be the man everyone loved and feared. It had to be amazing.
Back then, it had been Killian’s father on the throne. Callum McClary had paved the road for his son to one day take the reins. He’d had the unwavering loyalty and respect of his people, and a kingdom that had been handed to him by his father before him. Maybe that made the entire line lazy, but each McClary had ruled with an efficiency and strength that would forever go down in history. It was all Dimitri had ever wanted. Not so much the power and wealth. But the acceptance. The being a part of something he could be proud of.
As eldest, Ivan had laid claim to their mother’s empire from infancy. For the rest of his life, Dimitri would be under the ownership of another person. He would be a nobody until the day he died. Taking that chair was his ticket to becoming the man he needed to be to help others. It was his chance to earn his place in the world, because wanting that seat had nothing to do with merely proving himself. It wasn’t about John Paul or his mother, or going down in history. He needed that seat for Yolanda, for all the children before her. He needed it for the men and women who worked themselves to the bone every day to feed their children only to have thugs rush their homes and take what little they had. It was for the empty stomachs of the children who dug in the trash for a scrap of something to eat only to be shooed away. John Paul lived in his ivory castle with his perfect family, his mother cared only when it served her. There was no one looking out for the lost souls swallowed up by the city.
But he would.
At the entrance, he fished out his phone from the drink holder and scrolled until he found the number he was searching for. He studied the series of numbers and the name etched just on top. He contemplated his next course of action. He dug into his consciousness, past the hurt, pain, and doubt, and focused on his training, on what he was good at—negotiating. Everyone had a price. Everyone could be bought. And it was his job to find out how much.
He hit dial.
The car buzzed as the line connected. Each ring echoed loudly in the fraught silence. He gripped the wheel tight, ignoring their clamminess around the leather.
“Hello?”
Part of him hadn’t expected an answer. The other part had prayed for it. When the voice broke through, he was momentarily rendered dumb.
“It’s me,” he blurted after John Paul had said hello for the second time.
There was silence on the other end and he wondered if the man was not sure who it was or if he was trying to decide if he should hang up.
“Is it your shoulder?”
The thing had been throbbing all morning, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t ignore. He’d had worse.
“No, it’s fine.”
“Good.” John Paul cleared his throat. “What do you need, Dimitri?”
There it was, the thread of annoyance woven tight around a wedge of disappointment. He had done his fatherly duty by inquiring about Dimitri’s shoulder. Now, he was ready to get off the line and go back to pretending he had no son.
“I wish for an audience.” Dimitri reminded himself he was a thirty-one-year-old man and this was just another negotiation. “There is something we need to discuss.”
“I don’t think there is,” John Paul said almost immediately. “I already told you—”
“You will see me.” He squinted hard at the blackened heap of concrete that had once been someone’s home. “You will want to hear what I have to say. I will be by your house in an hour.”
“No!” There was no missing the anger that cracked through the warning. “You will not come here.” He paused, then added with great resignation, “The pier in an hour.”
The line went dead.
Dimitri ended the call on his end, then sat there, staring at the ruins, while his mind decided what exactly he was going to tell the other man.
An hour
Back then, it had been Killian’s father on the throne. Callum McClary had paved the road for his son to one day take the reins. He’d had the unwavering loyalty and respect of his people, and a kingdom that had been handed to him by his father before him. Maybe that made the entire line lazy, but each McClary had ruled with an efficiency and strength that would forever go down in history. It was all Dimitri had ever wanted. Not so much the power and wealth. But the acceptance. The being a part of something he could be proud of.
As eldest, Ivan had laid claim to their mother’s empire from infancy. For the rest of his life, Dimitri would be under the ownership of another person. He would be a nobody until the day he died. Taking that chair was his ticket to becoming the man he needed to be to help others. It was his chance to earn his place in the world, because wanting that seat had nothing to do with merely proving himself. It wasn’t about John Paul or his mother, or going down in history. He needed that seat for Yolanda, for all the children before her. He needed it for the men and women who worked themselves to the bone every day to feed their children only to have thugs rush their homes and take what little they had. It was for the empty stomachs of the children who dug in the trash for a scrap of something to eat only to be shooed away. John Paul lived in his ivory castle with his perfect family, his mother cared only when it served her. There was no one looking out for the lost souls swallowed up by the city.
But he would.
At the entrance, he fished out his phone from the drink holder and scrolled until he found the number he was searching for. He studied the series of numbers and the name etched just on top. He contemplated his next course of action. He dug into his consciousness, past the hurt, pain, and doubt, and focused on his training, on what he was good at—negotiating. Everyone had a price. Everyone could be bought. And it was his job to find out how much.
He hit dial.
The car buzzed as the line connected. Each ring echoed loudly in the fraught silence. He gripped the wheel tight, ignoring their clamminess around the leather.
“Hello?”
Part of him hadn’t expected an answer. The other part had prayed for it. When the voice broke through, he was momentarily rendered dumb.
“It’s me,” he blurted after John Paul had said hello for the second time.
There was silence on the other end and he wondered if the man was not sure who it was or if he was trying to decide if he should hang up.
“Is it your shoulder?”
The thing had been throbbing all morning, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t ignore. He’d had worse.
“No, it’s fine.”
“Good.” John Paul cleared his throat. “What do you need, Dimitri?”
There it was, the thread of annoyance woven tight around a wedge of disappointment. He had done his fatherly duty by inquiring about Dimitri’s shoulder. Now, he was ready to get off the line and go back to pretending he had no son.
“I wish for an audience.” Dimitri reminded himself he was a thirty-one-year-old man and this was just another negotiation. “There is something we need to discuss.”
“I don’t think there is,” John Paul said almost immediately. “I already told you—”
“You will see me.” He squinted hard at the blackened heap of concrete that had once been someone’s home. “You will want to hear what I have to say. I will be by your house in an hour.”
“No!” There was no missing the anger that cracked through the warning. “You will not come here.” He paused, then added with great resignation, “The pier in an hour.”
The line went dead.
Dimitri ended the call on his end, then sat there, staring at the ruins, while his mind decided what exactly he was going to tell the other man.
An hour
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