Page 58 of Claimed By the Ruthless King

But his gun is lodged under his belt. In the Crows world, killing people at the very top of society feels like murdering kings and queens. You work your way up the ranks, and gradually the leader will send you on larger, riskier missions until you’re ready to face your ultimate arch nemesis—the person you want dead most of all.

For me, that was Richard Campbell.

I was never meant to survive that day. Killing your arch nemesis is a suicide mission. You never come out of it alive, but I did. And I lost my friends as a result.

“I don’t understand,” I mutter. “Why aren’t you killing me?”

“Killing Salvatore Moretti won’t look great on my prison sentence,” says the boy. “The police are already here. My life from this day forward will either be bad or terrible,” he says. “And I already had terrible.”

Of course he did. Pain strikes my chest as I look at the failure in front of me. This boy only joined the Crows to save himself, but there is no way out, not even when you leave. Death is the best option for him. The pleading look in his eye suggests he wants me to put him out of his misery.

“What are you waiting for, old man? I killed some of your workers and you’re not going to retaliate? Come on. Show me your true colors. We all know who you really are.”

“And who is that?”

“Selfish.”

“True.” I fold my arms over my chest. “Tell me who you work for, and you have yourself a deal.”

The boy taps his chest. “The Crows. You ever heard of them?”

Pinning the man a look, I shed my suit jacket, undoing the top few buttons of my shirt.

The boy’s face shifts. “How is that even possible?”

“The Crows were around when I was just a boy, no older than yourself. You think you know me? Think again.” I gesture to my chest. “Once that tattoo has been stamped on your body, there is no getting rid of it. You either die in the Crows, or you grow to become the very same person you once hated.”

“It’s not possible.”

“Oh, anything is possible, but defeating the impossible isn’t as rewarding as you might think.” I step forward. “Tell me who is leading you.”

The boy’s jaw trembles, like he’s at war with his own mind. Breaking the Crows code of conduct costs you your life, but the boy said it himself—his life is already over.

“I can stop him if you tell me.”

“The Crows cannot be stopped,” says the boy before reaching for his gun and raising it to his head.

“No!”

The gun goes off before I can intervene, and the boy falls to the floor, dying in a pool of his own blood. I watch it spill from his temple, pain striking through my chest as I fail, not only myself, but generations of young, impressionable boys to come.

I will not stop until I’m wiping this person’s blood off my knife.

I roll my eyes, hearing footsteps pound down the corridor. I slip my knife from my belt, unscrew a bottle of bleach and douse the weapon in the liquid, covering my tracks and eradicating any trace of fingerprints.

Stepping out of the janitor closet, I raise my hands above my head and walk slowly toward the group of armed police barreling my way.

“I was trying to get answers out of him, but he killed himself.”

The officers come to a halt down the hallway.

I kick open the door. “See for yourself. Some bleach was spilled in the process. He was very angry, but can you blame him?”

“Sir?” asks one of the officers, waiting for me to elaborate.

“Some people will always have nothing, so when you have everything, you become a target.”

The officers exchange a look, holding shields in front of their bodies, guns fixated in their hands.