The streets were dark and wet, normal for this time of year in the city of Queenstown. In fact, it rained most days of the year here. The people were used to it, heavy coats and umbrellas a staple in every resident's closet. Some in the city thought it was God punishing those who lived in sin, for the sin that was committed in Queenstown was no ordinary immorality. It wasn't just the normal casinos taking money from people who couldn't help but gamble their life's fortune away. Or the strip clubs that offered special perks in the back rooms for those willing to pay. Or even the men who prowled the parks late at night.
No, Queenstown had a history. One that not many liked to speak about. It was practically forbidden in the circles of worship, believers terrified that if they even spoke one word that God would punish them. With what? Who knows? Maybe it would be a car running a stoplight as they crossed the street, or running into one of those so-called sins in person, or maybe God would throw down a classic lightning bolt and fry their insides where they stood.
Those who did speak about the sordid past of this town did so in whispers, not necessarily thinking God would do them wrong, but that speaking it into existence might bring them right to the front door of those responsible for said sins. The younger they were, the less serious they took it. College aged kids who either grew up with the ghost stories or the ones who moved there for Queenstown University found the history of the city amusing, exciting, intriguing.
That was until they experienced part of that darkness for themselves.
And they always did. No one was safe. Everyone was fair game, and the monsters who ran the city - everywhere from the pubs on the Southside to the mayor's residence - were sure to catch you.
†††
"Sick of this goddamn rain." Cillian Malone muttered to himself as he made the turn onto the street where his pub stood.
It had been an abnormally long rainfall this time. Two straight months of it. While it rained a lot in Queenstown, there were usually at least small breaks in between storms. Little pockets of relief. Sometimes the sun would even grace the city with its presence.
Malone wasn't normally bothered by the weather too much, but he was already in a pissy mood. One of his bars - not a big one or even a profitable one - had been robbed. They didn't steal cash or liquor. Instead, they focused on the cache of guns that were in the basement. A hidden basement. One that only a handful of people knew about. The entrance was a loose floorboard that blended in so well that even if you knew it was there, it took a second look to find it.
That meant only one thing.
They had a rat.
People parted in the street to let him through, the hat and pin on his jet black overcoat signaling to everyone just what and who he was. It had been a long time since that affected him. Malone used to relish it, stare down those who took too long to move or gazed too long at the gold pin on his breast pocket. Then the paranoia set in after a few years of his ascension, eyeing every single warm body that passed him in the streets, hating how recognizable he had become.
Now, it was as normal as the rain that fell on his shoulders.
He had reached a point in his life where he was finally comfortable. He was the top of the food chain in Queenstown, reputation allowing for a certain level of protection. There were those who tried, of course, but there was nothing more that Malone valued than his trusted inner circle.
That trust was now frayed, Malone unable to figure out who it was who had given up valuable information. Not one of his people had ever given him a hint that they would turn on him. And that was a problem. This information had cost him thousands upon thousands of dollars. Since learning of the heist, that paranoia that had almost cost him everything back in his early days had started to edge its way back into the folds of his mind. Every waking thought was dedicated to finding this turncoat.
And he would.
The bells at the door jingled as Malone entered his pub. A mixture of cedar and whiskey filled his senses, the familiarity calming the unease sifting through his stomach. He knew the man sitting in the corner seat at the bar, what section of the newspaper he was reading, how many drinks he had had by the slump in his shoulders. The screens were all set to sports, most playing baseball as its was heading into the World Series. The bartenders shaking drinks and pouring beer were making jokes with the others at the bartop.
Home. That's what this felt like. Safe. Something his family rarely felt.
But that was where this story started, right? With the mistake of getting too comfortable, too trusting, too safe. With age and success, Malone had failed at the most important rule of this job.
Never trust a warm body.
Warm bodies could think and scheme and lie. No matter how good you were, there were always those who were learning from your lapses in judgement. Every successful empire to ever exist had fallen to the next. The goal was to last as long as possible without getting complacent.
It looked like he had broken that cardinal rule.
Bypassing the crowd, Malone stalked to the back, knocking on a door in the far side corner by the kitchen. A large, hulking man opened it. The guard looked at him for mere seconds before stepping aside.
That back room was smoky, card tables spread about. A ring of men nodded their heads at Malone as he passed, not a single one daring to actually speak to him. These were men with power and still they shrank in the midst of Malone. A spark of sick delight filled him. At least he knew his reputation was intact, and that no one had let it slip that he had been compromised.
Cigars were being presented at the next table by a young woman, potbellied men fingering them in their wooden cases lined with 24 karat gold. An argument broke out at the table in the corner but was stopped immediately by security. It didn't matter that these were some of the most powerful men in the city. They were bound by the same rules as everyone else at Malone's.
Malone swept past all of them, not looking a single one in the eye. His destination was beyond this room. Through a hallway, past restrooms, a private room lay hidden behind a locked door. When he entered, a large man stiffened, eyes trained on Malone. Behind him was a bank vault door with one of those wheel handles - not very inconspicuous, but his father had been one for theatrics.
"Key, boss?" His deep voice rumbled.
His large hands reached into his overcoat, finding the ring of keys easily. The guard took his own key out and they slid them both into the locks simultaneously. With a resounding click, the handle shuddered before it was turned by strong hands.
It opened to a winding staircase, Malone knowing just a simple wooden door was waiting for him at the top. By now, the men inside that door had guns trained to the entrance, no doubt the flashing red light indicating that the vault door had been opened. The climb was four stories tall, Edison bulbs lighting his way. There were no more doors, no windows, only bricks, cracked steps and waning lights.
He let himself catch his breath once he reached the top, gathering himself for what was most likely the most important meeting he'd had in years. Malone fixed his watch, making sure the face was perfectly placed in the middle of his wrist.
Knuckles rapped against the old wood in a very particular rhythm. Seconds later it opened, letting him in. There were only five other people in the room. Malone's two guards, his right hand, brother Tully and another man who stood in the corner behind the figure that Malone had invited.
"Cillian." The man spoke first, shadows dancing across his face.
Walking up to the small table and taking the seat across from him, he replied, "Patrick. Thank you for coming."
"Not really a choice when a Malone requests a meeting."
He was right, of course.
"I think you are well aware of the new threat that has plagued Queenstown recently." Waving his hand, Malone called for a drink wordlessly.
"Ah," Patrick nodded, "Yes, I heard of your recent troubles."
"But it's not just me, is it?"
Sharp eyes flew to his. Patrick Styles was known to be cold. They all were, really. But especially him. He ran the business sector uptown, his tech company one of the biggest in the world. Malone might be rich and successful, but Styles was rich and successful. He came from old money, his family owning property all over the world. There were even rumors that they were related to Kings and Queens and that one of their properties was an old castle hidden in the marshlands.
Styles stayed silent, waiting for Malone to give up what he knew. Taking his time, he tasted his signature whiskey. A hint of vanilla met his tongue and he savored it. Setting the glass down on the table, hand still wrapped around the tumbler, he began. "Bianchi and Dvorsky have had some troubles. The gardens and docks were raided last week." He listed off the territory of the respective families. "And I heard through the grapevine that you're being audited."
Eyes narrowed, "Normal for any business," responded Styles.
"But not random." Malone shot back. Loud silence filled the air around them. Malone knew he had to play for power. Styles might be an old associate of his, but their power structure was always shifting. Finally, he continued, "I've got information that you might be interested in."
"Do you?" He asked breezily, sitting back in his chair.
Styles' face became illuminated at once. Sharp lines, prominent jaw, and chilling black eyes. Certainly, they were brown, but so dark they gave the illusion of a never-ending back hole.
"A new player has arrived in town."
The sentence was exactly what Malone needed to shift the power in his direction. He was the one with information. He was the one leading this meeting. He now held the cards in his hand, able to lead Styles to exactly what he wanted.
"Who?"
Looking away, he said, "I don't have a name just yet. Only a moniker." Pausing, he waited for the tension to thicken. "Cain."
"And how do you know this?"
"I have my spiders." Speaking of the individuals who heard whispers on streets, in bars, along rooftops.
Styles stared at him, never blinking. He was considering his options. At first, this used to unnerve Malone, the cold deadness of his gaze, but now it was as casual and normal as the rain pelting the cobblestone streets below.
"Cain," Patrick Styles spoke softy, "how cute."
Gruffly, Malone sad, "He's been toying with us, like this is a game to him."
"A street gang gone rogue?" He asked.
He could be. Little street gangs popped up all the time in Queenstown. They would let them battle it out over turf and the victors would be swallowed by the kingpins. Malone, Styles, Bianchi, Dvorsky and Hayashi. They absorbed them into their own, using them as spiders and bats - the nickname for those who would handle the most brutal affairs on street levels, often times carrying around bats and crowbars.
"Maybe, but my gut tells me no." He confided in Styles. "No one in this city would dare. He has to come from outside."
"What are his goals?" Styles drawled, "To take down the king of Queenstown?"
He was taunting Malone, knowing that it was his family that had ruled this city for over a century. This Cain would come after Malone first. It was typical of those who craved power. Always go for the head.
"Yes, he'll come for me and my family."
"So why should I concern myself with your family's affairs?"
A cruel smile spread across Malone's face. With a deep chuckle, he said, "You think he'll just stop at me?" He leaned forward, elbows placed firmly on the wooden table, "You're next in line Styles. He's already attacked you and you have no idea."
A scowl twisted onto the man's face, just as sharp as his other features, "What's that supposed to mean."
"Your stock has dipped. Rivals are moving in on your territory. And some of your top executives have left recently." He finished his drink, holding it out for a refill. "Cain isn't coming after just me, Patrick. He's coming after all of us. If you think all of that is just coincidence..."
It was a guess, but one Malone was sure of. If it had been him, he would've done the same thing. Take out all the gangs he could to rise to power. The same strategy his great-great grandfather had used to overthrow the old gangs back in the eighteen-hundreds.
"So, what's your plan?" Said Styles.
"Strengthen our alliances."
"And how do you propose we do that?" Asked Styles.
Malone tilted his head, "We've worked together for many years now. I think it's time we tie our families together."
Understanding gradually crossed his face, "And which daughter will you gift?"
Tully glanced at him. They both knew exactly which daughter the Styles would get. Cara was too soft, too flighty. If he sold her off, she would flee.
"Ivy."
A wide grin formed on his face, "The Whiskey Heiress?"
"The very same." He nodded, "Your son, Harry, is around the same age and they both get a lot of press. It would be good for both businesses, as well as strengthening our hold on this city. Stocks will flourish, the PR will be good and everyone likes a lavish wedding. It's the perfect distraction to what we're currently dealing with."
Patrick finished his drink, setting it down with a clink, "And we'll share all information and intel we gather from our spiders? This will be a true partnership?"
"Yes." He said, "We will need each other to survive this. War is coming. Whether it's Cain or whoever else feels inspired by him. Queenstown has been quiet for too many years."
"Quiet." Styles chuckled, "Only you, Cillian, would call this city quiet."
A small smile spread across his face, though never reaching his eyes. Malone shrugged, "I should've seen this coming. Oh well, it's here, and we can do something to stop it. Do we have a deal?"
This time there was no hesitation.
"Yes." Styles stood up, fixing up his coat. He was dressed in pinstripes, a pocket watch in his hand as he checked the time, gold chain draping across his frame. He was the picture of sophistication and wealth. His bodyguard stood directly behind him, eyeing the room as everyone shifted. "I'll speak with my son tonight."
"Now, unless I'm mistaken, your son was seen out last night with his latest conquest."
A sigh left Styles' lips, "That would not surprise me."
"To make this work properly, we should wait a few months. Your son and my daughter will not be seen in public with anyone else. By the end of fall, they'll announce their relationship with a date and by Christmas they'll be engaged."
"A whirlwind romance." He muttered, then nodded in agreement, "I'll make sure my son doesn't bring any of his whores around."
"Good."
With that, Styles exited without another word. Malone waited until the light flashed red, indicating that the vault door had been opened again. Turning to his second, Tully, he said, "Well, that turned out exactly as planned."
"Do you really think marrying off Ivy will help with this situation?" Tully asked, making himself a drink.
"Yes, Styles would've dropped us in an instant if he thought we were going to lose, but now we've ensured that he won't be able to do that."
"A marriage alliance hasn't been done in a long time." Tully pointed out.
"Exactly why no one will be expecting it."
"And how do you think Ivy will react to this news?"
Malone shrugged, "She's known since birth that this might happen. She'll do her duty."
"And everyone in this city knows that Patrick Styles' son likes to have a menagerie of men and women at his beck and call. Think he'll stop with his so-called whores for your daughter?"
"Have you met Patrick Styles? You know the rumors about their family." Malone swiped up on his phone as he talked, "His son will do whatever he says, just as my daughter will."
Tully nodded, "Not gonna lie, that match up will be entertaining. From what I heard about the younger Styles, he'll drive our dear Ivy up the wall."
"She'll behave herself if she knows what's best. Let her be the Styles' whore. As long as the marriage sticks, we will have the upper hand with this Cain." Malone drew out the name, tasting it on his tongue. The bitterness made him suck down another drink. After a moment's silence, he turned to Tully, "Have your people put out extra ears near Hayashi territory. They're the only ones we haven't heard had any hits. Either they're keeping it quiet, it hasn't happened yet, or they know something."
Tully nodded, "I will tonight."
"Now." He reiterated, a fierce growl to his tone. They had no time to waste.
His brother left, leaving him in the silence of the room. Two guards stayed still by the door, guns in hand just in case. Malone stepped up to the window, looking down at the Southside. His pub was the tallest building in the area, most others maxing out at two stories. From here, he could see the sprawling sky-scrapers of downtown, the greenery of the gardens, and the spotlights near the docks.
Queenstown, his city, was too valuable to lose. He had sacrificed so much to be where he was - his own heart - and he refused to let it all slip through his fingers. Cain was coming. Everything that had happened was little games, cat and mouse, but Malone knew this was just the beginning.
Thank you to @Harper_raven for editing this chapter!