Devil's Praise: A Dark Age-Gap Mafia Romance, page 1
DEVIL’S PRAISE
ALANA WINTERS
Copyright © 2023 by Alana Winters
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover By: Bookin It Designs
Created with Vellum
CONTENTS
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
Throne of Lies
Ready for the next book in the Dark Reign Session 2 series?
DARK REIGN SESSION 2 SERIES
About the Author
Also by Alana Winters
INTRODUCTION
The Nation’s Capital Of Criminal Corruption Is Deeply Rooted In Dark Deeds. In The District Of Cover-Ups, Nothing Is What It Seems.
I joined the Army to honor and carry on my father’s legacy.
Leaving after four tours to save my mother, I use my deadly skills for hire.
But everything changed when I found out who my real father was.
A brutal bratva boss who reigned with cruelty, violence, and fear.
At his funeral, I stare at the stranger’s face in the oversized picture by the closed coffin.
It's unsettling to see our similarities.
And far more disturbing to know how deep they run.
Immoral wickedness, killer instincts, and morose cravings are ingrained in my blood.
When I turn around, I feel like I’m the one who has died and I’ve gone to heaven.
I’ve never seen anyone so ethereal.
So…mesmerizing.
So…magnetic.
So…Mine!
Forbidden, tempting fruit just ripe for the picking. I’ve just inherited a new stepsister and she’s just sealed her fate to me. I’ll never let her go and I’ll paint this town red if anyone tries to get in my way.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: “The Devil’s Praise” contains an OTT possessive anti-hero with a vulgar mouth, explicit sexual actions, graphic violent tendencies towards his enemies, and an undying, devout loyalty to his heroine. So if you’re looking for something warm and fuzzy, don’t say I didn’t warn you. ;)
You’ve felt the power that the men of Dark Reign hold. Now it’s time to fall under their rule again with new men who hold their world in their hands as they find the women who make them fall to their knees.
Power comes at a cost and these men have sacrificed their souls. They know violence, death, and how to walk in the gray, but that doesn’t mean they are without weakness. The women they love are their light and they would scorch the Earth to protect them. This December meet the men who rule their empires of crime and the women who stand by them while darkness reigns.
ONE
SLATER
I’m at the airport, sipping on an iced patron margarita with a tajin rim as I contemplate my destination. I’m waiting for my flight to D.C. to head to the funeral of my father, Remi Vidal.
A man who until last week was nothing more than a phantom to me. His life was a string of fabled webs strung together through my mom who told me he died in the name of duty. A sworn oath to obliviate the enemy at all costs. A battle which ended with a bullet, banishing him to bend to his ultimate fate. Meeting his maker with a medal from the government…that says yeah I’ve murdered, but I did it for the “right” reasons. So let me in and give me V.I.P. access.
I feel lost, and faithless with my evil existence. I followed this path, believing it to be righteous. I’m a mass murderer hiding behind the same medal. It’s an end to a means. A way to meet my intrinsic bloodthirst that doesn’t lead to being institutionalized, I convinced myself. I was just following in the footsteps of my father by joining the Army.
My mom died six years ago leaving behind a warped inception that burst from one phone call from my long, lost cousin. Javier Vidal.
All we share is a last name and what seems to be a lack of grief for the loss of my biological father. After looking into it further, I found the man I thought was my dad was in fact my Uncle who died in the Vietnam War.
Or so I was told. This elaborate fabrication has left me in a dazed state of mind where I can’t distinguish the truth from reality. Life is confusing enough as it is and now I’m wrapped up in a labyrinth of riddles.
I’m feeling more buzzed than I should have since I’m having a liquid lunch. My breakfast wasn’t much different. It involved a waffle I made myself at my hotel and the rest was purely caffeinated. So all in all I’m running literally on chemicals.
The crowd at the bar I’m at is caught up watching something that seems like boxing except pillows are involved. After a quick Google search, I’ve discovered that it’s actually a Pillow Fight Competition which is being broadcast from ESPN8: The Ocho. This is considered a professional sport. Only in America. Jesus-Fucking-Christ! Why is natural selection taking so damn long?
It’s at this moment that I realize I’ll be on a red-eye flight to Washington in less than an hour and a half as I watch the sunset in the desert through the windows. It occurs to me that the weather to which I’m accustomed is going to get a chilling wake-up call—Literally! It’s seventy-seven degrees here currently.
In D.C, it’s fucking-fifty-five degrees and raining. Which seems like an appropriate arrival. That’s cool with me. The sky can cry the tears for the stranger’s funeral I’m attending for me. As long as it doesn’t turn into a storm which will end in me joining him on the other side.
An uncertain destiny where I’m not sure we will land in the same place. I’m far from a saint and I’ve taken more lives than most serial killers in the sake of providing safety to my country. Strapped with justice, allowed to annihilate anything I claim is a threat in the name of liberty, just to quench a blood thirst that’s been dying to crawl out of my bones from the day I stopped resisting my most basic instincts.
I figured Hell— join the Army and kill without consequences that lead to being behind bars. Instead, I’ve been given a purple heart which ironically is closer to the shade that it actually resembles. Which I imagine is much more an obsidian shade that is so shaded it’s essentially shadowed into oblivion. Blackness. Darkness. It’s the depth of the night in which I will find myself.
It’s probably not a good look to board the flight walking around like a toddler who just learned how to put their legs to work for the first time, but fuck it…I’ve got grievance as an excuse and I’ll play the fuck out of that card if need be. With my luck, I’ll end up in Albuquerque, New Mexico with a wicked hungover and just miss the whole damn thing. It doesn’t sound half bad and the tequila will certainly be a lot better than what is offered at an airport.
As the plane drives its nose into the sky, the jolt drives my attention to the land we are descending from. Turning swiftly into a plane of multi-colored lights that resemble the holiday season. Christmas. Hanukkah. Kwanzaa. Blah…fucking…blah—if you don’t have anyone to share it with. Bah…bah, humbug and all that shit. Cliché sure. It’s almost embarrassing—if I gave a half of a fuck. The true meaning behind most holidays is pure fabricated bullshit for sheep. Flock to those sales. Baaaa…buy this,baaaa… buy that. Baa, fucking broke into the new year. Repeat, rinse…responses that feel so right, it can’t be wrong. Right? What’s the difference? Seriously? Everything can be justified if you know how.
I can’t keep my mind from trying to figure out the truth. Trying to tie together clues without any luck. My curiosity just won’t give up. It only grows as the flight attendant continues to bring me mini bottles of Cazadores Blanco tequila. I’m pairing it with Dr. Pepper to keep my chemical comfort lined with confusion. My once-known reality has become a warped perspective that I don’t feel equipped for. A foreign feeling for someone who has a formidable force of foulness fueling through every fiber of their soul.
All of that changed from one monumental life-changing phone call from a man named Javier who shares my last name without sharing much more. There certainly is much to discover about my true identity once I arrive and the only way I’m able to deal with that right now is tequila. Lots and lots of tequila.
I’ve got to piss and the pilot is taking his sweet time to give us permission. I’m half into pouring the snack mix down my mouth when the seatbelt light goes off. I’ve got six drinks at this point. Two Dr.Peppers, one just became empty along with what was left of the shot number who fucking knows. Everyone seems to be trying to sleep. While I’m working on writing a watered-down version of my autobiography that is becoming more factual from the altitude. Every drink becomes two as we get higher in the sky.
Three shots is the limit that can be served. I’ve got only one left and four hours to go. Trash is collected and now I have three drinks left. I was handed a can of Deja Blue canned water at some point when my third shot arrived. Just as I pop the last pretzel in my mouth the fucking pilot turns the seatbelt on again. I have the whole row to myself so I don’t need to get around anyone. Just this fucking light that tells me to stay. It only makes me want to get up more. I mean what the fuck are they going to do at this point
As I relieve myself, I figure the flight attendants are far too busy to be concerned with someone taking a rogue bathroom trip. Until the door flashes open and my heart halts for a moment. As I look over my shoulder, I see a pale elderly woman’s cheeks filling with blush, an amused expression while her eyes are struggling to stay where they are. She rambles out an unconvincing apology as I joke that she owes me a drink. It’s then that I realize I'm so intoxicated that I didn’t lock the door. I wash my hands quickly and make my way back to my seat, where I’m drifting off, unable to fight the powerful urge to pass out.
My body jolts from a thud as a series of sharp pings hitting the window wakes me in a startled state. It takes a few moments for me to register where I am and what is going on. We’ve landed and it’s pouring outside.
I’m teetering the line between drunk and hungover, leaning towards the latter as the baby in the adjacent row fills its diaper. The stench comes in waves that have me bordering on throwing up.
The exhausted passengers seem to be taking their sweet fucking time to get off this tin box. It infuriates me to witness them as they grab for their overhead luggage with little care for their surroundings. I’m getting to my breaking point, about to snap on anyone or anything that bothers me in the slightest just as the cramped line finally begins to move at a steady pace.
The moment I get into the airport, I head to the nearest bathroom to empty my stomach. It reeks worse than the baby, yet my stomach only swirls my nausea, refusing to let it go. I give up after a quick piss, splashing cold water on my face a few times after my hands are clean.
As I walk towards baggage claim, I call a car to take me to my hotel. Everything happens so fast after that. I awake in a vehicle with a stranger opening my door with an annoyed expression and my bags behind him on the curb. I’m too tired to apologize so I decided to do it with a tip tomorrow when I’m no longer tipsy. I check in and check out the minute my body hits the mattress.
****
I’m far from prepared for what awaits me here, and being inebriated did more damage than good. I’ve got a few hours to get to this service and sober up. I can’t be throwing up all day or show up looking like something the cat dragged in. My only hope is the hair of the dog that bit me which won’t be easy to obtain considering it’s ten o’clock in the morning. I’m hoping I can sway room service to hook me up. After my charm fails to get the man on the phone to make an exception and find a way to sneak me a shot from the bar, I let Benjamin Franklin take over my pursuit of tequila for me.
In no time at all, I hear a soft knock on my door alerting me that my breakfast is here. I thank the man with the tip I promised and make my way to the desk with my food. I wince from the delectable smell of the scrambled eggs, sausage, and golden, crispy hash browns that will give me the substance that is much needed today. They become far more appealing the longer I sip on my bloody Maria and by the time I’ve finished I’m feeling much more like myself again. All I need now is a cold shower and a time machine to fast-forward through this funeral.
TWO
TWYLA
“Twy—honey,” My mom sighs, getting ready to tell me the same thing I’ve heard countless times. “What can I say? It was the seventies.”
Zilch. This is the exact amount of information that I knew about my dad until my eighth birthday. Out of guilt, my mom bought me one of those ancestry kits when they came out and decided it would make a great gift. Let’s just say it was a very confusing year for me and the first time I saw a therapist.
I was so excited thinking I might be able to find some of his relatives or find out more about my background. Maybe get to know him through friends or something. All I got was more of an explanation on why my hair is auburn and my ivory pale skin is doused in freckles. My mom, Gwyn Calloway is Irish and English which is how I also found out I’m Scottish. That is it. All I’ve ever been able to find out about him. At this point, it slightly seems like a blessing. The men in my life have been pretty terrible, so statistically speaking he would have just been another disappointment.
It started in middle school when they decided to put us at a high school while they remodeled. I was in eighth grade going to school with much older teens. It was supposed to be our year to rule. Instead, we were the fresh meat. I couldn’t go a day without getting my ass smacked by a group of boys. Even if I had the guts to snitch, I wouldn’t have known who to point out. Every time I turned around, it was a group of guys laughing at my disgusted expression.
My mom got married to my stepfather, Remi Vidal and we moved into a whole new lifestyle. I began babysitting for my extremely rich neighbors. A ten-year-old boy tried to convince me to massage Vaseline into his balls because his mom did every night. I was horrified, not knowing what to do. Until I heard his brother and sister laughing in the hallway and became horrified. Then to make things worse his father and mother came home very drunk. I was ready to walk home even though it was late. My new house was just around the corner, but the father wouldn’t relent and drove me home. He already annoyed me from his overuse of the word howdy then he got flirty asking me things like I can’t believe you’re only fourteen and are you sure you’re fourteen in his inebriated state.
Then in tenth grade, I went on a ride along with a cop for my criminal justice class. He had me show him how to get to my house, then drove us under a local bridge while playing romantic music. I could tell he was trying to read my reaction to his advances which I returned with bringing up my parents as much as possible. On the way back he dropped his girlfriend into conversation. Classy. Professional. Ugh…just gross!
It wasn’t the last time a cop hit on me while they were on duty. At a movie theater, after I first got my license, I accidentally drove over one of those yellow concrete things they put at the end of parking spots so you don’t end up in a ditch. Instead, I just had my front tires over it. A cop drove by and stopped to “help” and he did get my car out for me all while flirting with me and eyeing me as if I was his next meal. I already had a bad taste in my mouth for police officers, the ring on his finger just was the cherry on top.
As I got older, sexual harassment came as an occupational hazard. It just came with the territory. I worked at a bagel bakery and it came from one of my managers and from the guys in the back making the bagels. All delivered as a joke with foolish laughter.
It’s slightly twisted and troubling to see how happy my mother is to be rid of my stepfather. I’m far more concerned that I’m sharing similar sentiments. I watch as my mother dances around the living room, a gleeful smile lighting up her face. She's finally free from the shackles of a toxic marriage. But as she twirls in a euphoric celebration, I can't help but feel conflicted about my own emotions.
The truth is, my stepfather wasn't the kindest soul. Far from it in fact. His departure should be a cause for celebration, a release from a stifling atmosphere filled with tension and unspoken resentment. However, as I witness the joy radiating from my mother, I can't shake the unsettling realization that I'm not entirely displeased to see him go. All of the secrets I’ve been seeking are going six feet under today and so is the harassment.
It was starting to get bad too. To the point where I was sleeping with a knife under my bed, and mace inside of my bedside table next to a steel baseball bat. He started making inappropriate comments, and then he “accidentally” walked in on me showering. I was listening to music really loudly and the door was locked, but the shower was built between two bathrooms so there was another entrance. Instead of covering his eyes, apologizing, and backing out as soon as possible, he did the opposite. Stood there for what felt like forever, and told me I looked good naked while taking his sweet time to leave. I began locking both sides of the bathroom and my room as well as avoiding him at all costs.
