THE LAWS OF KINGS
Jennifer Loren
Books by Jennifer Loren
The Devil’s Eyes Series
THE DEVIL’S EYES
THE DEVIL’S REVENGE
THE DEVIL’S SON
THE DEVIL’S MASQUERADE: THE POISON
THE DEVIL’S MASQUERADE: THE REMEDY
The Finding Ava Series
FINDING AVA
RECKLESS
THE LONG ROAD
Short Story
THE HAND THAT HOLDS MINE
Acknowledgements
Copyediting: Erinn Giblin, Yours Truly, The Editor
http://www.yourstrulytheeditor.com/
Cover Design: Hang Le, By Hang Le
http://byhangle.com/
Dedication
This is dedicated to Riley, my beautiful sweet boy, you captured my heart from the first moment I saw your malnourished body and sad eyes plead for help. You were at my feet through every word written, supporting me the best way you knew how. My heart is still broken from your loss, but my head is still full of the loving memories I shared with you. You think I saved you, but in reality you saved me.
I will love you forever, Riley.
6/2005 – 4/16/2014
Chapter 1
Dace
My name is Dace Colletto. My family is known, understood, and feared. We have maintained a growing family business since my great, great grandfather. We have had, at times, other families attempt to remove us from power, remove my father from his high position in the world, but somehow, he has always managed to maneuver us around attackers, around controversy, and around anyone that might be a threat. My mother and father lived a relatively perfect life; they had two boys, Michael and Ettore. Michael is a born leader. He can navigate through any problem without a single drop of sweat from his brow, and his charming demeanor is only outdone by a smile that instantly puts you at ease. Everybody loves Michael, especially my father who is sure he will be the next JFK. Ettore, the second oldest, is a man about business. A savvy mind, he is always ten steps in front of everyone; his charm, however, is lacking. Ettore has never been one to care about making friends, but then again, he is a Colletto, and friends will always come to join his crew. With Michael, my father’s clear favorite, there was never a doubt the family name would live on and escalate to higher social circles. With Ettore, my father was assured the family business would only grow stronger. There wasn’t much need for any more children after them, but they came anyway and so did the heartbreak.
It was many years after the first two children were born before my mother, Raya, became pregnant again. She was hoping for a daughter; nevertheless, she had two more boys. We were the babies of the family, and with Michael and Ettore already of age to begin being groomed for the family business, our father had little time to deal with Antony and me, so my brother and I rarely left my mother’s side. Our day to day lives were seen to and approved exclusively by her. While my father trained Michael and Ettore for their futures, my mother allowed Antony and me to live a somewhat normal childhood, away from the drama and the fears that my father’s business caused—for a while at least. I don’t remember the exact moment things changed, but at some point, my parents became distant from each other, and my mother became more on edge. She rarely slept. She always seemed to be watching us and never, ever, let any of my father’s men be alone with us.
Her worry escalated, and one day, she took Antony and me to see a so-called family friend, only we weren’t allowed to talk about him to anyone. “Boys this is John Scott, a friend of mine. He is going to spend some time with you.”
“Hi boys, how are you today?” John asked us both. Antony simply looked up at the man silently while I did nothing more than shrug. John laughed. I really didn’t understand the reason for us knowing this man, but our visits with him became more frequent and more fun. John taught us a lot of things that most fathers would teach their sons; it was a nice change from being with our mother all the time. When I became old enough, or what John deemed old enough, he took me to the side and showed me how to shoot a gun. I could barely hold it, but I enjoyed learning how to shoot it. Antony and I spent a lot of time with John, and the more we got to know him, the more we looked forward to seeing him. Our father barely paid attention to us; all we had for a father figure was John. On occasion, our two older brothers would take the time to play with us, Michael mostly, but for some reason, he was more interested in acting like he owned us, like we were his children. I always assumed it was because Michael was already feeling the pressure of being the next in line and felt the need to watch over everything and everyone about the family. It was John, though, that made everything fun and easy, something we never felt with our own father. Dominic Colletto was stiff and always about business, except when we got sick. He would drop everything to sit at our bedsides. No matter how busy he was or how serious he was about business, he wasn’t going to let anything happen to his family. Nothing and no one would ever harm his children—not as long as he was still breathing. I think Antony would purposely get sick or hurt because he knew Father would be there for him. Although, I admit, I savored the moments as well.
No matter how gentle my father might have been in those moments, it was clear at an early age how powerful he was and what Colletto really meant to people. My first real understanding was when I was ten and allowed to join a little league baseball team. I was late joining and worried that the cleats I wanted might sell out. I begged my mother constantly until she finally gave in and took me to the store. When we got to the local sporting goods store, I ran in knowing the ones I wanted, but sure enough, only one pair was left, and another kid was already trying them on. My emotions sank, but my mother tried to reassure me as she hunted down the manager. “Sir, would you be able to get my son some cleats ordered and in before Wednesday?”
The manager huffed, “No, we might be able to get some in by next month though. Let me get your name and phone number, and I will be happy to let you know when they come in.”
My mother glances my way before looking back at the busy man that was barely paying attention to anything outside of her breasts. “The name is Colletto, Raya,” she said with a cock of her head and concentrated frown toward the man who suddenly began to shake uncontrollably.
“Oh! Oh, Mrs. Colletto, I am so sorry. We have new people here, and they must have not realized that it was our last pair and it was surely promised to you ahead of time. Let me get this situation fixed for you quickly.” The man rushed over and grabbed the box of cleats from the other mother with a whisper I couldn’t hear and a callous concern for her vocal complaints. “Here you go, Mrs. Colletto, all wrapped up and we will throw in some extra socks and a new glove too. How about that son?” he said, handing me the glove with a nervous laugh.
“That sounds great. How much?” my mother asked.
“Oh no charge, our mistake. We shouldn’t be rewarded for such stupidity.”
“Maybe, but a Colletto never seeks handouts and will always pay their debts in full. We don’t like to owe anyone favors.” She took out her wallet, and the man apologized profusely as he rang up our purchases. As we walked out with my new desired cleats, I only glanced at the crying boy the shoes were taken from. I didn’t fully understand why we were given such special treatment, but I understood the name Colletto means something to people. It means instant acknowledgment followed by respect—unwavering respect.
I am a Colletto, and even at ten, I was acknowledged and most assuredly respected.
I am not ten anymore, but I am still a Colletto. I have done my best to go to a place where my name means nothing. I lost interest in being a Colletto a long time ago, and except for my brother, Antony, my desire to separate
myself from my family only grows with each passing day. I have been away from my so called home since my mother was killed. Antony and I were shipped off to our aunt’s house soon after her death. Aunt Terri, as she was called, wasn’t much of a mother. She despised children and only took us in because my father continuously sent money for our care, most of which she used for her own benefit. She was strict and didn’t hold back on her punishments, except when Michael would come to check on us and then she was Mary-Fucking-Poppins. She had to act perfect after all of our complaining to our father about her; she had to prove we were little liars who were simply homesick. Antony and I hated her and begged to come home, but it was thought that we were better off there than in constant danger at home, so we were stuck with “Aunt Terrier”. She sounded like a barking Yorkshire terrier whenever she was upset about something, so we, lovingly, named her as such. As I grew older, I would mock her dog like sound to piss her off. There was never a reason to stick around, and as soon as I was able to go to college, I moved out and took my little brother with me so neither of us would have to endure the witch any longer. Antony wanted to return to our father, but I wouldn’t let him. He didn’t want us when we needed him, so why should we ever go back there? I couldn’t come up with one good reason, but Antony always tried to. I managed to put him off and redirect him for quite a while, but recently, he decided to try and reconnect with our father and older brothers. I have no idea why he picked now of all times to confess his secret. I love Antony, but his timing has never been very good. He misses our mother. Not that I don’t, but Antony was devastated when she died and even more so by the way it happened. I have done my best to be at his side and help him get past it. The only problem with that is I am not so sure I have gotten past it myself.
That night changed me. It changed my life and the way I view family, especially my family.
That night, I slipped past my guard like I learned early on how to do, and Antony did the same after picking up on my techniques. We spent the night doing whatever we cared to do, which wasn’t much of anything. We simply wanted to break free from our watchers. It happened once in a while when things would tense up around the house. Guard numbers would pick up around my father and two older brothers while Antony and I would be restricted to the grounds. We were young and didn’t fully understand the ramifications of our actions. Outside of our mother and John, no one seemed to care about us anyway. It wasn’t very hard to sneak out; when you’re small, people overlook you. We would slip out the estate gates and into our favorite movie theatre, which just so happened to be down the street. When we grew tired, we would easily slink back through the security gates and wait for our mother to go to her room to read before sneaking into the house and up to bed. It was usually an uneventful process, but it wasn’t that night. No, that night, instead of quietly slipping into her comfortable chair with her favorite book, in front of the fire, our mother was actually out of the house, frantically searching for us with minimal guards to protect her.
The lights are all still on within the main house, and our mother’s bedroom light is still off.
“She should be going to her room by now. She never stays up this late. Do you think she is waiting up for Father?” Antony asks as we crouch down behind some bushes, waiting for guards to look the other way so we can get into the house undetected. The bastards keep walking past us and forcing us deeper into the cover of shrubbery. I keep pushing Antony back out of the way, knowing if either of us get caught, Father will have our heads and our guards too, whom we have become fond of and would hate to see replaced with someone new. The house guards walk past us again, patrolling the area anxiously as they talk to each other. “Dace, what are we going to do?” Antony asks.
I turn to him and press my finger to my lip. “Shhh,” I whisper softly. “Something is going on, and I don’t think we want to get in the middle of it.” As a guard comes near us again, he stops and listens, and I just know we have been caught. A light breeze blows through and chills the air, seeming to freeze my eyes wide open as the curious guard has his throat slit and is thrown to the ground in front of us. Masked men come running in from everywhere. As blood runs between our feet, we hear more scuffling develop into screams as our mother is dragged past us by her arms and one of her guards by a rope, tied around his neck.
“The police will be coming soon. The panic alarm was sent out,” Tyson, my mother’s guard, yells out.
“We are the police, you dead fuck,” the man says, kicking Tyson in the head with his fancy, black, steel-toed boot. A deep, bloody wound appears on Tyson’s face, the imprint of a skull and crossbones etched into his skin.
I grip Antony’s hand as we both wait breathlessly, wondering if we are next. The screams become more intense, more excruciating to listen to. Antony pleads silently with me for us to run, but I am afraid we will be seen, and I have to protect him. I have to protect my brother and hope that my mother can somehow survive until our father can save her.
The wind blows against my face and pushes the curling ends of my hair into my eye as my mother pleads for her guard’s life, but it isn’t him that they want. “You want his life to be spared, then tell us where your two little ones are?” the man grinds out with a snarky laugh. There is a long pause. “It’s you and your guards or your children, which will it be? Don’t worry, we don’t want to hurt them. We only want to ask them a question.”
A rowdy brawl develops … “Boys run, RUN!” my mother screams. “No!” she yells once before her tormenting cries are muffled. The sounds are confusing but still float through the air, forming a blade of agony that penetrates into my ears, shaking my body into a painful fear.
All I can do is hold my hand over my brother’s mouth and try to calm his tears through my own fears. I don’t even realize my own tears until my brother presses his hands to my face and wipes them away. My hands are trembling, and my head is spinning as I desperately try to block out the images forming in my head. When the silence finally blows through, my stiff limbs are too heavy to move. The silence finally gives way to a door flapping in the wind and dogs barking in the distance. Can I move? I am not even sure that matters. The real question is, should I? With a slight twitch, I twist my head to one side to look around us before motioning for my brother to stay put. Pushing the lifeless body off our feet, I creep out of our cover and around the back of the house to the open, bloody door. I take a step inside and breathe. I take one more and breathe again. My next step creaks, and I swallow hard. Sliding to the edge of the opening of the next room, I wait and listen. Nothing. I twist my body carefully inside the room with my eyes facing the wall and slowly turn them to the depths of the destruction and to the bloody massacre that once was my mother.
“Momma!” Antony screams out suddenly from behind me.
Before I can get a hold of him, he alerts the one man that stayed behind. The rapid footsteps coming for us only give me a few seconds to push my brother out of the way and dive towards the nearby table that holds one of my father’s guns. I wait as the man rounds the corner with wild eyes … and shoot.
It was hours later when I come back to reality. “Dace, give me the gun.” Michael says to me as he pries the gun from my hand. “You’re okay. You and Antony are both okay. Don’t worry, Father is taking care of everything. We are going to get you and Antony out of here and somewhere safe. Okay?” I nod silently. My tall, older brother sighs and picks me up into his arms and wraps a blanket around me. As he carries me out of the house, I catch sight of my father buried deep into the palms of his hands over my mother’s blood-soaked body.
Antony and I were carted off to Aunt Terri’s house that night and left there as if we never existed. After I finished college, my father wanted me to go to work for a friend of his in London. I, wanting to defy my father anyway I could, demanded to find my own way, without my family’s influence. My father didn’t like it one bit, but I didn’t give him a choice.
Antony was in college and enjoying life with new
friends, so I packed a small bag and left on the first plane out. It didn’t matter where it took me; anywhere was better than where I was supposed to be, or where he thought I should be. Since that first country, that first small town I stopped in, I haven’t told anyone my last name. Hell, the places I’ve been, they didn’t give a damn who I was. I was simply Dace, the smartass fuck that floated from one place to the next like a lost gypsy.
Chapter 2
Dace
Gypsy. That’s the nickname people have given me because when they ask where I am from, I give them a random list of nowhere places. I grew my hair out and rarely shave. I have been anything and everything but a Colletto. It’s easy to convince strangers that you’re from nowhere in particular. It’s impossible, however, to convince yourself, but I’ll be damned if I won’t keep trying.
Sitting in a bar with others who don’t give a damn, I try to forget and look forward to filling my head with new memories to replace the old. This bar is a rundown place with what I wouldn’t call the most upstanding patrons, but no one is making any trouble, and everyone is quiet, nearly silent actually. It’s odd. I try to write it off and concentrate on looking straight ahead and ignoring all that is going on around me, but it’s difficult. I have spent every day since my mother’s death waiting for someone to come for me, so I have grown used to searching the shadows for trouble. Let it go, Dace. No matter how hard I try, I can’t help but notice something odd about a man off in the corner. He makes eye contact with four other men surrounding the bar. All five men eye one man gambling at a nearby table. I wait until the stranger looks my way, and I instantly look towards the supposed leader of the group and back down at my drink. The stranger in trouble suddenly gets up and moves towards the broken down restrooms in the back of the bar. All of the men motion towards each other and start to follow the stranger. I am not sure how to help the clearly outnumbered man, but I devise a plan to try and even out the numbers a little.