Shattered Dynasty by Ava Harrison

Chapter 1

Cyrus

I’m the king. This is my castle, and if I had a throne, I’d be fucking sitting on it.

I set my cognac glass on the staircase’s banister, watching it teetering near the edge. Below me, one of my subjects holds court in my mansion, no shits given, but once I descend the steps, he’ll remember his place.

I own him.

I own everyone here.

Officially, my bank is the wealthiest private bank in the world. Unofficially, it is the gateway to the underworld. Every penny earned by criminals passes through me. Unlike most of the banks on Wall Street, I don’t pretend to be something I’m not. The money that lies in my vaults is dirty as fuck because I don’t cater to a normal clientele.

No.

Mine is of a different breed.

The lowest dregs of life.

They are drug dealers. Gunrunners. They are the cartel and the mafia. At times, they are even the shady politicians who run countries, and the trust fund babies who fuck up.

To them, I’m their savior. No more hiding bags of cash under their beds. Nope. Instead, they all come to me to clean their money and, once it’s spotless, grow it.

Even though I’m technically one of them—a criminal—I can’t stand them. Although that really means nothing, as I can’t stand anyone. But their cash is green. Fuck, theirs might be greener. A new shade stained by the life taken to make it.

Tonight, the money they don’t deposit in my bank will be brought here instead. It will arrive dirty, smeared with the sins from which they earned it, but by the time the evening ends, the tainted blood will be gone, and they’ll leave with bills as clean as freshly washed laundry.

My house is ready, and the staff is prepared. The game will begin soon, so all I have to do now is wait.

I hate this shit, but it’s a necessary evil. Here, I’ll learn secrets. Possess fortunes. I will amass an empire.

This is my corrupt kingdom, where I am a god.

Time comes to a halt as I wait at the top of my stairs. My gaze drifts across the foyer as each guest arrives. The crowd assembles in the center of the room, waiting for instructions, but really, they’re waiting for the poker game to start.

Sometimes, I only observe. Sometimes, I don’t even bother to come down. I’m not always needed. The fact that I host the game is enough to keep the players in line. Today, I’ll venture downstairs.

I want to monitor a new guest who will be attending. Someone I have been luring for years. He hasn’t arrived yet, but my sources say he has taken the bait. Once I have the opportunity, I’ll set the trap.

As I wait, I notice a few unfamiliar faces that I need to vet before they can play. I can tell tonight will be worse than most nights, and that is saying a lot. Some of the seediest men I know are among the crowd.

I see the irony. Judging men who are no different from me.

They kill.

I kill.

But there is one difference. I only kill when I need to.

Some of these dipshits kill for sport.

To prove they are men.

None of this shit makes them a man. Since they don’t see that, there really is no helping them. So, I just clean their money and bleed them with interest instead.

Yet even knowing this, they stand here in my house, offering me their souls. I have enough leverage to bring them all down. But there’s only one I’m looking for.

With a shake of my head, I walk in their direction with slow and deliberate steps. Sizing them up, one by one.

Until I find him, I’ll search for the big offenders and then signal Z. He will be my second pair of eyes and ears and watch them.

At first, I notice the usual crowd—rich douchebags who have nothing better to do than spend their daddy’s money. I know the type, and I fucking hate the type.

On the other side of the room are the drug dealers, mafia members, and dirtier than fuck politicians.

Each group is important to my operation. One washes the other’s hand. Most of the people in this room are on my client lists. My banking does the heavy load of cleaning, but what I can’t clean that way, I clean through my poker game. That’s why the rich boys are here. They don’t know how to play; they know how to lose.

With drinks in hand, the men sit at the tables. The crowd tonight is not as large as usual, so only a few tables are set up, each ranging from eight to ten players. It’s a healthy mix of legit versus illegal.

Slowly, but with precision, I make my way over, skating my gaze across the tables.

I take in each guest tonight.

At the far left is Matteo. He runs the East Coast mafia, and I do a lot of business with him. Beside him is his right-hand man, his cousin. I don’t care too much for him either, but he’s a necessary evil.

Alaric, Tobias, Mathis, and James are also in attendance. Even though they are some of the fiercest men around, they’re also the only clients I can tolerate.

To the left of them is just another rich pretty boy. I say this because that’s what he is, a trust fund baby who’s perfect to clean their money. Also known as Trent Aldridge.

He’s been coming for years, even though he sucks at cards. His motives don’t differ from my motives for being here. He wants to get more clients. Recently, Z mentioned he works in hedge funds, and apparently, he’s been funneling clients out of here.

Regardless of why he’s here, he’s harmless. I look at who sits next to him. I’ve never seen him before, and he stands out from the rest of the crowd. He looks older than my norm.

Like he could be my father. Or, better yet, Trent’s father. They have the same eyes, same coloring, and same hair. Trent is a younger version of him. Except Trent isn’t weathered. Trent does not look haunted. Interesting. Why is this man here? I need to monitor him.

I pull my gaze away, and my eyes land on the man I have been waiting for.

He’s here.

Looking at Z, I incline my head, and he nods his understanding. Hook, line, sinker.

“Welcome,” I say, all eyes on me. “Boris”—I turn to the man in question—“how good of you to come.”

Boris.

AKA: The Butcher.

The man I hope to entrap tonight. He is one sick fuck. He and his friend are not clients. Even I have some limits. I don’t clean money for men who traffic women, but he is a means to an end.

Now to figure out a way to get him to tell me what I want.

To tell me about his organization and where his boss is.

That’s why he’s here. The best way to gather intel is to get him drunk, make him money, and wait for him to get comfortable. He might not disclose exactly what I’m looking for, but men talk, and all words are clues.

Like a game of chess, look for the advantage, learn to spot patterns, and then play the board in front of you. He’ll give something away and I’ll take it. I’ve waited too long for this chance to let anything fuck it up.

With a drop of my head, I give my approval to the dealer, and the game begins. From the sidelines, I watch, observing and gathering information about each person’s character. Especially Boris.

As the pot continues to grow, some players act reckless while others are more confident.

One server comes over and takes the drink orders. Most of the men have stopped playing to look at her. I glance over too. She’s pretty, but she’s not my type.

As the rest of the men sit out the hand, Trent’s father is apparently all in.

He’s reckless.

From where I am, I can see a line of sweat drip down his brow, and when I look at who he’s playing, I understand why he’s nervous. He’s playing Boris.

This is more than just fear that The Butcher might chop him up. This is something more.

This is desperation. Interesting.

I hope for his sake no one else notices. He needs the win. For the money.

Millions are in the pot.

Things will get interesting now. I step closer so I don’t miss a minute. He’s really sweating. It pours off him, and no one misses it. Trent especially.

“Father.” He tries to intervene, but his father doesn’t listen. Instead, he pushes forward on to his elbow, throwing more chips into the fray. The gleam in Boris’s eyes is predatory. He has him right where he wants him.

He’s all in.

Trent’s father looks toward Trent. He has no more chips to throw in. Trent shakes his head.

“Father.” Nothing. “Dad.” His eyes implore him to stop, to halt the insanity. He can’t, though. It’s clear as day in the old man’s eyes. He came to win. He needs to win.

“I have to,” he whispers to his son. “It will be okay.”

Father and son are at a standstill. A silent argument. Trent won’t win. I know men like his father . . . I had a father like that.

“So what’s it going to be?” Boris asks, pulling me from my inner thoughts and back to the present. I watch as Trent’s father fumbles around.

“I call.” There is no conviction in his voice. Boris leans onto the table, resting his elbows on the surface. Cocking his head, he lifts his eyebrow. “With what money? It looks like you are out of chips.”

“I have it . . .” His voice breaks. “Just not on me.”

“No good.” He shakes his head. “Something else . . .” he leads.

Aldridge Sr. lifts his wrist. Red and flashy. A Richard Mille watch.

“No.” Boris shoots him down again, boredom etching away at his face.

“B-But it’s worth almost six hundred thousand dollars,” he stutters.

If I was a better man, I’d step in and stop this shit. But I’m not, so I nod to Z, allowing it to continue. It’s entertaining me, at least. Plus, this could be what I need on Boris. I’ll see where it goes.

“What else do you have of value . . . because I have watches.”

“My house?”

“I already have a home. I have multiple.” A sinister smirk spreads across his face. “Something of real value . . .” He trails off.

“Cars.”

“You have nothing I want.” The answer is final as he places his hands on the table to pull the pot to him. The game will be over before it’s even started.

“My daughter.”

Fuck. This is not what I want.

Silence descends on the room, hovering over us like a cloudy smog, clinging to everything in its path. I feel as his words enter through my mouth into my lungs.

He would sell his daughter.

To this man.

The man people call The Butcher.

A man known through the underworld to capture and play with his prey. His favorite pastime is carving flesh. Hence the name.

“You would sell your daughter to me?” He’s not surprised. This is what he does. He barters and steals.

“Father . . .” Trent tries desperately to interject.

“Shut up,” the old man shouts at his son, who’s now ghostly white. If possible, Boris’s grin becomes even bigger, spreading farther across his unshaven face. “Yes.” He tries to appear strong, but he’s bluffing. I know this. Trent knows this. To be fucking serious, everyone in the room knows. Except for him. He’s so desperate, he truly believes his lies. I should put my foot down. This is not what I intended when I started this game.

“We don’t trade flesh here.” I step forward, and from the corner of my eye, I see Z shake his head. He doesn’t agree with me intervening. Knowing him, he thinks this is exactly what we need on Boris. But even I have limits, and I won’t condone it. My word is law here, and no one would be dumb enough to cross me.

“Is there something else of value you have?” Boris leads. I don’t listen to them talk anymore. A new deal happens, and the game continues.

It always does.

It’s inevitable. This man will lose, and he will owe the Russian his life.

I raise my hand to Maggie, the woman who owns the company I hire for waitstaff. She knows what I want, so without a word, she scurries off.

The game is back on, and as Maggie rushes up to me, her heels clinking against my marble floor, she hands me my glass of Louis XIII.

I take a swig. It burns as it trails down my throat, scorching old demons that once lay dormant.

They deal.

Words are spoken.

Cards are flipped.

The winner revealed.

I know the victor without looking.

I know the prize too.

A life.

The question is whose?