Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

N A T
O
ver the next week, what seems like a hundred men in
suits come and go from the penthouse, paying their
respects to their new king.
There are serious handshakes. Formal double cheek kisses.
Quiet conversations in the library with whiskey and cigars.
And always, on arrival and departure, a bow and a kiss to
Kage’s signet ring.
He introduces me to some of the men. When others arrive,
he quickly ushers me out of the room. I know the intention
isn’t to keep more secrets, but to protect me.
No cast in any mafia movie I’ve ever seen comes close to
the reality of the darkness and danger those men wear like a
second set of clothing. It’s palpable. A scary vibration in the
air. An unmistakable energy of violence hovers over them,
emanating from their narrowed, watchful eyes.
If Sloane were here, she’d be in hog heaven.
I do my best to be poised and polite, though I don’t know
what’s expected of me. I don’t know how I fit into this world,
or if I do at all. The only certainty is that Kage always wants
me within arms’ reach.
If I’m across the room, he’ll come and stand beside me. If
he’s talking with someone and I’m not near, he’ll beckon with
his finger. His gaze is always on me, too, following me with a
focus and heat I feel as a tingle of awareness under my skin.