To Deal with Kings

Book 2: Thieves & Kings

by M.K. Lobb

Genres: YA Dark Fantasy; Sword & Sorcery

Synopsis

Zaria and Kane, alchemologist and con man, are a match made in hell—yet they'll have to team up again to stay out of jail, as new threats arise and rival kingpins clash throughout London's slums.

Zaria Mendoza doesn't think she'll ever see Kane Durante again. In fact, she thinks he's dead, burned up in the flames that destroyed the pawn shop where she lived with her best friend Jules. All Zaria has left is the necklace they stole from the Crystal Palace: valuable not just for its jewels, but for the magic it holds within as a rare primateria source. Yet why did Kane slip it into her pocket right before everything went up in smoke? Why did he give her what she needs most, after she betrayed him?

With the previous kingpin dead, Kane feels adrift, even though he's the one who pulled the trigger. He may be the natural successor as kingpin of Devil's Acre, London's worst slum, but not everyone in his crew respects him as leader. Yet Kane has bigger fish to fry. Inspector Price knocks on his door and demands his help in discovering the identity of a mystery man calling himself the Curator, who has installed an unidentifiable alchemological device in the Crystal Palace—the location of the heist Kane pulled off with Zaria. He has ten days to find the Curator. Otherwise, he and his estranged best friend Fletcher end up in jail, Zaria alongside them.

Trouble faces Zaria and Kane from every side as they're forced to team up once again, to save themselves, and maybe even all of London. Because Zaria's being manipulated by Vaughan, a faceless man calling himself the new kingpin of the Seven Dials slum, and he's hiding more secrets than anyone bargained for...

Release date: March 24, 2026

Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers

Print pages: 432

Sample

Moonlight fell in shattered increments across the floor of the Crystal Palace.

The exhibits were dark, echoes of the day’s excitement and chatter having long since faded into obscurity. The bustle of innumerable patrons had given way to stillness; even the steam-powered machines had ground to a halt. The only noise came from the dull, intermittent thud of polished black boots as the coppers made their rounds.

There was more security than originally planned. The Exhibition had closed early that day—opening day—giving time for shards of glass to be swept away and the aleuite smoke to dissipate. The queen and prince consort had been less than pleased to receive the news: A priceless artifact, stolen from right under the commission’s noses during broad daylight. The ire of George Waterhouse, the Irish jeweler who’d supplied the necklace that now was missing. Most infuriating and disturbing of all, however, was what they knew about the thief. The means by which they had pulled off their daring heist.

Alchemology. A collision of magic and science that had proven impossible to understand—let alone regulate—and thus had been outlawed in Europe for the better part of the century. Alchemologists didn’t often rear their heads amid polite society, thus sparing most from giving the illegal study much consideration, but England’s rulers knew enough to recognize the devilry when they saw it. The Royal Commission for the Exhibition had been left humiliated and bewildered, every member with the same questions on their tongue: Who could possibly have managed to pull off such a feat? How had they gotten in and out without anyone being the wiser? Perhaps most curious of all, why had they taken a single item? The necklace had been far from the only priceless piece in the Waterhouse exhibit, yet the rest of the jewelry remained untouched.

It was convenient, then, that these questions distracted commission members and police constables alike as they circled the unlocked display, paced the exterior of the building, and stood at attention beside the gaping hole where a panel of glass had yet to be replaced on the ground floor of the Crystal Palace.

They didn’t see that while one item might have been missing from the Exhibition, a new one had appeared. They wouldn’t know its function, nor that it had been carefully placed and meticulously designed. They couldn’t possibly understand that in due time, everything—everything—was about to change.

Not yet.

But they would.

THREE DAYS EARLIER

Zaria Mendoza had been held at gunpoint far too many times for one day.

It was an absurd thought to have as she approached the stagecoach waiting at the end of Horseferry Road, but her mind had long since stopped processing things logically. The fear settling in her chest was accompanied by a not-insignificant amount of resentment. First she’d stolen from London’s Great Exhibition, betraying Kane in the process. Then she’d returned to the pawnshop only to find Alexander Ward waiting there. And then she’d watched Kane kill Ward—the man he’d both hated and loved—only to come unhinged and set the pawnshop on fire.

All of that was to say, the last thing she needed was for the stint she’d pulled on a former client to catch up with her.

“In.” The girl at Zaria’s back jammed the barrel of the gun between her shoulder blades. Zaria started, eyes fixed on the gloved hand of whomever was waiting inside the stagecoach. Mister Vaughan, no doubt. The man to whom she’d delivered a faulty explosive. He was holding the stagecoach door ajar, and though she couldn’t yet see his face, she could only imagine the expression there. After everything, was this to be the end for her? It seemed almost unbearably unfair.

She clenched her fingers more firmly around the necklace in her pocket. Though she hadn’t yet taken it out, she could tell what it was by the way it seemed to pulse against her skin. Somehow—for some reason—Kane had given her the primateria source. It didn’t make any sense. He was adept at sleight of hand, sure, but Zaria couldn’t recall being close to him in the moments after he’d snatched the necklace from Ward’s cooling body. More to the point, why would he want her to have it? After everything she’d done, she couldn’t see a single reason for Kane to help her.

Because the source would help her. It was why she’d snatched it from under his nose in the first place. It was the only way she could keep practicing alchemology without destroying herself in the process, and Kane knew as much.

She was still reeling as she sank onto the firm leather seat of the stagecoach, the girl with the gun clambering in behind her. With her broad shoulders and muscled arms, she was more imposing than the slight man who now sat across from them.

“Miss Mendoza.” The man removed his hat and extended a hand. “A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”

Zaria shoved her apprehension aside, arranging her face into an expression of cool confidence. It was the demeanor she adopted whenever she engaged in business dealings, and though it was certain to be of little help here, she let it wash over her with practiced ease. Finally relinquishing the necklace, she grasped the man’s gloved fingers. “Likewise. Mister Vaughan, I take it?”

The man’s smile was tight-lipped, not quite reaching his blue eyes. He looked to be in his forties, with prominent features, pale skin, and dark hair that was starting to gray. If the stagecoach hadn’t marked him as someone of status, his outfit would have done the trick; he was dressed according to the latest fashions, his black ensemble uncreased and well-made. Zaria disliked him at once.

This fact was only cemented when he said, “You’ve found yourself in all sorts of trouble now, haven’t you?”

She didn’t answer, glancing out the tiny window. Gray clouds still billowed into the air above Horseferry—eighteen years of her life and work up in smoke alongside George Zhao’s smoldering pawnshop. The acrid scent of it infiltrated the stagecoach.

“I’m Evan Pritchard,” the man continued. “Mister Vaughan’s most trusted, as it were. Don’t roll your eyes, Maisie,” he snapped, attention suddenly flicking to the girl at Zaria’s side, whose lips were pursed. Collecting himself once more, Pritchard folded his gloved hands in his lap. “Vaughan is far too busy to chase after those who have disappointed him. And you have disappointed him, Miss Mendoza. An explosive meant to destroy only organic matter—is that not what he commissioned from you?”

Zaria inclined her chin. “Yes, but—”

“You can imagine his disappointment, then, when the detonation of the faulty device caused quite a scene. And if there’s one thing my employer doesn’t like, it’s being disappointed.”

“My intention was not to disappoint,” Zaria said, keeping her voice measured. “The explosive wasn’t faulty. I know what I’m doing, Mister Pritchard. But alchemological supplies are expensive, and I didn’t have the soulsteel required to properly complete the job. I knew I wouldn’t be granted another extension, so I delivered what I had.”

“Which was nothing but a regular bomb,” the girl—Maisie—snapped. A pink flush had crept into her lightly freckled cheeks. “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you the moment I tracked you down. Do you know how it made me look? Delivering a device that didn’t work as promised?”

Zaria had a vague recollection of Maisie inspecting the commission the night she’d come to collect it on Vaughan’s behalf. It was obvious then that the girl was familiar with alchemology, even if she hadn’t been able to identify any issues. And why should she? Zaria was careful. She knew how the dark market worked, and how the most impressive magical items were those indistinguishable from their nonmagical counterparts.

“Oddly enough, your reputation didn’t factor into my decision,” Zaria retorted, irritation prickling along her spine. She knew it wasn’t smart, speaking this way to someone holding a gun, but she was just so tired. “Like I said, I didn’t have the supplies I needed. It had nothing to do with my inability to create what Mister Vaughan was asking for. Please pass along my sincerest apologies.”

Maisie let out a disbelieving snort, and Pritchard silenced her with a look. To Zaria, he said, “Vaughan is well aware of your capabilities. That’s part of the reason he was so disappointed. There are precious few alchemologists in London as it is, which I’m sure you know, and most are highly specialized. You, though—you can create a wide variety of items, like your father. That’s why he’s willing to give you a second chance.”

Rather than feeling relieved, Zaria tensed in her seat. “What do you mean?”

“Did you think Vaughan wouldn’t recognize aleuite when he sees it?” Maisie cut in. “Everyone’s talking about what went down at the Exhibition. They’re already trying to pass it off as a malfunction with one of the displayed steam engines, but anyone with dark market connections knows what really happened.”

“You caused quite the stir, Miss Mendoza,” Pritchard said smoothly. Then, in response to her look of horror: “Yes, Vaughan knows it was you. I understand the Waterhouse exhibit was left in quite a state, too.”

“How does he know all this?”

“That’s not important.”

Zaria brought her teeth together, then spoke through them. “I’d never even heard of your employer until I saw his name in my father’s list of commissions. His alias, that is,” she amended, remembering how Kane had looked into the matter and discovered nobody involved in the dark market went by that name.

“Regardless, Vaughan knows what you’re capable of, and you interest him.” Pritchard tilted his head to one side. Deciding how much to tell her, no doubt. “You see, he’s made considerable strides when it comes to his status in this city. One might even call him the kingpin of the Covent Garden area.”

“You mean Seven Dials,” Zaria said, referring to the slum in London’s West End. She’d rarely had occasion to go there, but she knew it wasn’t dissimilar to Devil’s Acre, which meant Vaughan was undoubtedly the Alexander Ward of that area. The thought made her uneasy. “So you’re part of his crew.”

Maisie’s expression tightened further, but Pritchard smiled again. “Something like that. As I said, considerable strides. My employer’s influence is growing, Miss Mendoza. He’s clever. He understands an asset when he sees one, and he isn’t so quickly moved to violence. A relief for you, I would imagine.”

Zaria gave a noncommittal shrug, unable to ascertain where this was going.

“If one wants to extend that sphere of influence to the dark market, it’s imperative that one participate in it, no?”

“I suppose.”

Maisie let out a harsh sigh. “Get to the point, Evan. She’s obviously not going to make it there on her own.”

Pritchard waved Maisie’s words away, his impassive gaze locked with Zaria’s suspicious one. “Vaughan is aware of your allegiance to Alexander Ward, and his offer involves changing that allegiance. Rather drastically, I might add.”

“I’m not—” Zaria began, then stopped herself. Admitting she was not, in fact, connected to Ward might well mean the difference between getting shot and leaving this stagecoach alive. In the same vein, it didn’t strike her as prudent to reveal that Ward was currently dead beneath the rubble of the pawnshop. “I’m listening.”

“Mister Vaughan wishes to continue to grow his influence even further. As a result, what he requires most is information.”

Zaria had been shifting in her seat, fingers roaming the vertical stitching. At Pritchard’s words, however, she froze, a harsh laugh bursting from her lips. “Are you asking me to spy on the dark market kingpin?”

“I wouldn’t call it spying.”

“Just because you wouldn’t call it that doesn’t mean it’s not.”

Pritchard leaned forward. His smile was a brittle, ingenuine thing. In that moment, the polite, amicable demeanor slipped away, and Zaria realized she was looking at a man who could be very dangerous indeed. “We’re aware of your relationship with Kane Hunt, Miss Mendoza. And although he may try to maintain a low profile, we know he holds a considerable amount of influence among Ward’s crew.”

“Then why don’t you ask him to spy for you?” Zaria bit out. “Why don’t you ask one of the other crew members? Why me?”

“Because Mister Vaughan doesn’t want Mister Hunt or any of the other members. He specifically requested you, and there’s a reason you might want to please him.”

That made Zaria’s insides turn cold, as if ice water had been shot into her veins. When she replied, it was through a dry mouth. “And that reason is what, exactly?”

Maisie rolled her eyes, and Pritchard surveyed Zaria in a way that suggested he thought she was being purposefully obtuse. “Why, he could reveal your culpability in what happened at the Exhibition today. Am I correct in assuming you don’t want that?”

The necklace in her pocket suddenly seemed to weigh a ton. “You don’t have any proof.”

“Do you truly believe we need it? Mister Vaughan is a powerful man in London. And you? You’re a girl who lives in a slum and deals in illegal items.” Pritchard’s lips twisted. “Whose word do you think the authorities will give more weight?”

Was it possible, Zaria wondered, to so thoroughly detest a man you’d only just met? Either way, she couldn’t let Pritchard’s ultimatum rattle her. She had a primateria source. And although that was the only thing she’d taken from the Waterhouse exhibit in her haste, she and Jules still had plans to leave this city behind. All she had to do was appease Pritchard in this current conversation, then get the hell out of London before Vaughan could wise up to the fact that Ward was dead, Kane hated her, and this entire scheme was moot.

Still, she made one last-ditch effort. “Look, I just really don’t think I’m the best person for the job.”

Maisie pivoted her entire upper body to face Zaria. Her dark eyes were disdainful, and one hand still clutched the gun in her lap, barrel facing outward. “When Vaughan wants you to work for him, you say yes. There is no other option. You take the job, and you thank God for the opportunity.”

“Is that what you did?” Zaria demanded before she could stop herself.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Pritchard tsked, unclasping his hands. “Miss Ó Coileáin, if you can’t learn to adopt some patience, I’m going to request we aren’t partnered again. God help us.” He turned back to Zaria coolly. “Here’s the bottom line, Miss Mendoza. Your options are twofold: You can accept Vaughan’s offer and rise alongside him as he wrests command of the dark market. Or he can tell the authorities and the Exhibition’s Royal Commission what he knows of your involvement in today’s events. Perhaps you and your friends can get a row of cells at Newgate Prison. Assuming you manage to escape execution, of course.”

Zaria felt the blood drain from her face. Threatening to turn her in was one thing, but the rest of them? Kane might escape arrest, slippery as he was, but what about Fletcher? If she and Jules ran, would Vaughan go after the two of them? Did she care? That was something she would need to decide, and quickly. “What kind of information is Mister Vaughan looking for?”

“For now, collect as many names as you can of those associated with Alexander Ward. Not only his lackeys, but clients he frequently works with. Aristocrats who consider him an ally. Coppers under his thumb. That sort of thing. I’ll expect a report… oh, shall we say by Monday? That gives you an entire weekend.”

“That’s not very much time.” It sounded like the words had been shaken out of her. Zaria’s mind, though, was elsewhere. Trying to decide on a course of action. Trying to imagine how quickly she and Jules could get out of London.

Pritchard gave that empty smile again. “I think you’ll be able to make it work.”

“We know full well that your loyalty to the kingpin runs shallow,” Maisie said, her posture suggesting she’d been about to rise but decided against it. “Surely you must be paying him dues, and no doubt he threatened you to gain your compliance in the first place.” Perceiving Zaria’s guarded expression as affirmation, she added, “I think you’ll find Vaughan is a much better man to have on your side. Besides, prison is hardly your only concern. In the meantime, do you really want people to know you sold a paying client a faulty explosive? That could really damage one’s reputation.”

Zaria met the other girl’s malicious gaze and held it. “I’ve proven my reputation through my work. It’ll take more than idle gossip to ruin it.”

“So you hope,” Maisie said coolly.

“Enough,” snapped Pritchard. “Bring us quality information, and you won’t need to worry about such things.” He indicated the door. “Now, get out.”

Zaria didn’t need to be told twice. She scrambled to do so, awkwardly contorting her body to avoid Maisie’s tall form.

“Oh, and Miss Mendoza?”

This was Pritchard again. Zaria turned, half-hunched where she stood framed by the stagecoach door. “Yes?”

His eyes held a warning behind their icy amusement. “Don’t try to skip town.”

PRESENT DAY

Kane Durante was having a hell of a week.

He might have laughed about it, had anger not been simmering at his core like chronic indigestion. Come to think of it, he hadn’t laughed once in the past three days. Not genuinely, at least. His laughter had become something dark and ugly. An unnerving sort of sound that tended to precede unpleasantries.

Perhaps that was why Tom Watson continued to watch him with such infuriating apprehension.

“Relax, Tommy.” Kane spat the order through teeth currently holding a clay pipe in place. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Ward’s former doorman shifted his weight. Rather than lending comfort, Kane’s words seemed to have the opposite effect. Red-haired with a smattering of freckles, Tom was pale at the best of times, but he looked positively wan as of late. Still, he’d been quick to accept Kane as Alexander Ward’s successor, which was more than could be said for some of the blokes who had worked for the kingpin before his untimely death.

Burned to death in a house fire was the story Kane had settled on that first night he’d addressed a group of Ward’s men. Went to make good on a threat to that Horseferry pawnshop owner, and the place went up with him inside it. Bad luck. Reckon he had a bit of drink in him at the time.

Kane didn’t know how believable it was, and he didn’t particularly care. Truth be told, he didn’t care about much these days. Killing Ward seemed to have shaken something loose within him. It was as if a wall had abruptly been erected between himself and his emotions. He hadn’t meant to put it there, and yet it dominated his mind nonetheless, a towering structure through which he could almost—almost—see how he ought to have felt. But the image was foggy, unattainable. Emptiness was easier.

He relied upon that emptiness now, crossing his arms as he watched Adam Cromwell and Elijah Atwood drag Russell Davies across the threshold.

They stood in the grand entryway of the manor Ward had been staying in prior to his death. It was an impressive building, occupying the better part of a city block near St. George’s Square by the wharf. The kingpin had moved around regularly, using threats or blackmail to clear out any former occupants. He always transferred the lodgings back in the end, though, alongside the promise of a favor. That was simply the way Ward had been—a gentleman. He took and he took, but he knew the power of providing something in return.

After all, he’d taken Kane’s life, but given him a new one.

“Davies!” Kane said pleasantly, reaching past his holster to put both hands in his pockets. “There you are.”

The large man glowered at him. His face was already bruised where it loomed between Adam’s and Elijah’s equally broad frames. In a way, it was fitting. The last time Kane had seen the man, it had been through eyes clouded by whiskey and vertigo, his head spinning as Davies delivered blow after blow to his face. Ward’s doing, of course. The man had been inextricably loyal to the kingpin. It was him Ward had brought to punish Kane after learning of Zaria’s involvement in the plan to steal the necklace.

“Durante.” Davies spat a glob of spittle and blood onto the floor. “You pathetic little fuck. Think you’re tough, do you, now that you’ve claimed the crown?”

“Not particularly,” Kane said, rocking back on his heels. “They’re fairly tough, though.” He inclined his head at Adam, who directed an uppercut to Davies’s chin. There was a grunt, then a stream of curses that rivaled even Kane’s vocabulary. Cromwell cut a threatening figure with his wide shoulders and closely shaved blond hair, but he was rarely violent unless ordered to be. It was fortunate that he’d been quick to transfer his loyalty from Ward to Kane, because the paradoxically soft-spoken boy wasn’t the kind of person you wanted as an adversary.

“You can muck me up all you like,” Davies snarled once he had caught his breath, “but the crew will never accept you as Ward’s replacement.”

This time it was Elijah who threw the punch. Really, it was him Kane had to thank for Adam’s allegiance. Where Elijah went, Adam tended to follow.

Kane watched impassively as Davies spat out a broken tooth, then grinned. “Seems some of them already have. I know you’ve been trying to turn the others against me. Spinning tales about how I don’t have the guts, the smarts, to do what Ward did. Telling them I’ll run this crew into the ground. That I need to be taken care of. And who do you reckon would step up then, Russell? You? Do you fancy yourself a king?”

Crimson dripped down the other man’s chin, lost in the coarse hair of his beard. “You don’t have what it takes, Durante. Do you know what you do with an animal that can’t hack the job it’s meant for? You put it out of its damned misery.”

“So you admit I’m meant for the job.”

At that, Elijah cracked a smile. With his dark curls, tall frame, and discerning gaze, he was one of the cleverer crew members. Among the crew there were two frames of thought: First, that the boy Ward had favored and protected was his natural successor, and as the kingpin’s assumed confidante, was the best chance of ensuring a smooth transition. Not to mention that Kane had cultivated a reputation over the years. One of a smooth-talking, untouchable con man who wouldn’t hesitate to pull a trigger. And pull the trigger he had—more than once, Ward had used Kane to punish those who proved a disappointment.

Davies, though, thought differently. He was one of few people Ward had relied upon to punish Kane. And so he’d cultivated a small group who believed something else entirely: That Kane was a sorry, unworthy excuse for a kingpin. An overconfident little shit who’d stepped into a role he didn’t deserve.

Though it had only been three days, that opinion seemed to be spreading. Kane knew it was only a matter of time before Davies and his supporters mustered up enough brainpower to organize an attack. He needed to do something, and fast.

“Tommy!” Kane barked suddenly, making the red-haired man start. “Get the door, would you?”

Indeed, the device Ward had once used to alert him of potential visitors had begun to crow, an infuriating, high-pitched sound emanating from what Kane could only assume were the pits of alchemological hell.

Tom obliged, yanking the door open to reveal Vernon Yardley escorted by Raphael Aubert, Edward O’Reilly escorted by Anton Becker, and Gilbert Dale escorted by Liu Cheng. Three men sympathetic to Davies’s cause, and three men loyal to Kane. A number of others followed behind them, grimacing around clay pipes and looking either wary or confused. Still more men filtered in from where they’d been playing cards in the drawing room, then leaned against the stairwell or in one of the adjacent doorways. Kane couldn’t be certain of their loyalties; after Ward’s death, they’d continued on with whatever tasks he’d given them—or, alternatively, continued faffing around—as if nothing had happened. It was too much to hope that wouldn’t change soon.

Kane yanked his hands from his pockets and brought them together in a clap that echoed through the cavernous foyer. It was enough to command the attention of those who hadn’t yet quieted, and as all eyes landed on him he was reminded, yet again, of another day entirely. A day in which he’d been among those standing at the edge of the room, face bruised, attention trained on Ward. A different room. A different time.

We know to reach out and take what we can, Ward had told him once. Because if we don’t, someone else is going to do it.

Well. That much was obvious. It was time for Kane to make his command clear.

He looked around at the gathered men, letting his gaze linger on those who dared meet it. The action reminded him, absurdly, of something he’d heard about wolves: That prolonged eye contact was considered a threat. That if you wanted to avoid a fight, the best thing to do was lower your gaze and back away. Kane, however, did not intend to do anything of the sort.

“I appreciate you all being here,” he began, “whether willingly or otherwise. Now, I know Ward wasn’t one for group meetings unless absolutely necessary. I tend to be the same. But I also know the last few days have left you with quite a few questions, so I thought it prudent to offer some answers.” A hand lifted in his periphery, and Kane waved it down with an impatient slide of his arm. “This isn’t an open forum, Solomon. I’m well aware of what the questions are.”

The young Harvey Solomon let his hand snap back to his side, chastened.

“Whatever you expected from Ward, you can now expect from me.” Kane commenced a slow walk from one side of the room to the other. “That means no interruptions. It’ll be a bit disorganized while we find our bearings, but that does not constitute an opening for you to act out. If you wouldn’t say it to Ward, don’t say it to me. Do I make myself clear?”

“Don’t sell us a dog,” a wiry, red-nosed man guffawed, clutching a pewter cup as he leaned against the wall. “You might have some of ’em scared, but most of us have been around here longer than you. We’ve let you play at kingpin this weekend, but surely you can’t expect to replace Ward.”

Kane withdrew his dark market revolver in one swift motion, mind going blank as he pulled the trigger. Light streaked through the room, too fast to behold, as a guttural cry tore from the man’s throat.

“Thank you for your input, Cleland,” Kane said loudly, speaking over the commotion that erupted. Cleland’s cry became a bellow; the alchemological bullet had passed through both his hand and the pewter cup, sending a mixture of blood and alcohol dripping to the floor at his feet. It could not have been clearer that a brawl was dangerously close to breaking out as a few of Kane’s supporters moved to hold back the dissenters. He fired a second shot into the ceiling and snarled, “QUIET!”

It worked. Of the kingpin’s men, very few had been given alchemological firearms, and now Kane had access to Ward’s entire collection. The crew’s fear was warranted. Magic was the most lethal thing you could fire from a gun. It ripped through flesh and bone with ease, as evidenced by Cleland’s destroyed hand.

Kane dragged agitated fingers through his hair, cognizant that it was a bit of a mess. He hadn’t bothered with his usual slick appearance these past few days. “You all know exactly what kind of work I did for Ward,” he hissed. “Of everyone here, I know the most of his contacts. I’m familiar with his suppliers, and I’m aware of the plans he’d set into motion. If you want things to continue as they were—if you want to keep your jobs, that is—I’m the only option. Not your best option, your only one.” He shrugged. “Or you can throw your support behind someone like Davies and see if you make it to the end of the month. You should know full well there are always people rallying to take a kingpin’s place.”

It was only a partial bluff. Ward hadn’t told Kane much of anything where his strategies and contacts were concerned. That said, he’d left plenty of information behind. Ledgers, lists of names, notes that hinted at future assignments… It wasn’t everything, and some of the documents were barely comprehensible, but it was more than anyone else had. Kane had spent hours compiling his findings and mapping out a mental plan. News of Ward’s death would spread quickly—hell, it was probably common knowledge already—and any indication of weakness would indeed have the kingpin’s former rivals flocking to Devil’s Acre.

Kane’s rivals now, he supposed. The realization should have been sobering. Instead, he was possessed by the overwhelming urge to laugh.

“Davies would still be a better option than you,” Yardley spat. “You were nothing more than Ward’s little bitch. You think everyone doesn’t know how he got us to rough you up whenever you disappointed him? Best part of my week, it was, watchi