This book is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Enemy of My Enemy
There was a time when being related to Lucifer was enough to keep the wolves from the door. Judging by the snarling bastard who stood over me, his meaty fist dotted with my blood, those days were gone.
“Well, good morning to you too,” I mumbled, looking up through watering eyes. My nose throbbed something awful.
The big bruiser—Marcus D’anatello—just smiled. While a pretty big guy myself, certainly not lacking in the muscle department, I had nothing on Marcus. Built like a silverback gorilla on steroids, he hovered over me enjoying the moment. His Armani-suited bulk blocked out what light filtered between the buildings. Fortunately for me, his bald head and pearly white teeth provided enough to see by. I didn’t like what I saw.
He gestured for me to get up, taking a short step back to give me room. I did so, hesitantly, expecting to be hit again. He surprised me.
Marcus and I had a history. It wasn’t so long ago I took a 2x4 to that gleaming dome of his. I dented it up pretty damn good. Turns out, he’s not the most forgiving of fellows.