The Man in Shadow Read online

  The Man In Shadow

  Fall of the Coward, Book Three

  Taylor O’Connell

  Taylor O’Connell Books

  THE MAN IN SHADOW

  FALL OF THE COWARD, BOOK THREE

  TAYLOR O’CONNELL

  Copyright © 2019 by Taylor O’Connell. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locals, or events is purely coincidental. Reproduction of this publication, whole or part, without express written consent is strictly prohibited. The author and all those involved in the reproduction of this work greatly appreciate you placing your time in our gentle hands.

  Please consider leaving a review wherever you purchased the book. Thank you for your support.

  To my first true fan,

  Alan, this one is for you.

  You are the man in shadow.

  Contents

  I. The Connection

  Prologue

  1. Vendetta

  2. Five For Death

  3. The Underway

  4. Vincenzo

  5. The Wax Seal

  6. Summoned

  7. Head Of The Snake

  8. The Fence

  9. Promised

  10. Job Offer

  II. The Shadow

  11. The Norsic Problem

  12. The Other Man

  13. Audition For A Date

  14. Seven Suits

  15. The Thumb And The Eye

  16. A Red Dress

  17. That Which Makes A Man

  18. Another Context

  19. Follow Through

  20. Guest Of Honor

  21. The Answer

  III. The Betrayal

  22. The Murder Of A Don

  23. Ring Of The Falcon

  24. The First Repercussion

  25. Exposed

  26. Dead Fish

  27. A Fitting Punishment

  28. The Rescue

  29. The Pit

  30. The Shadow Guild

  31. A Promise Of War

  Free Book

  About the Author

  I

  The Connection

  Life is suffering, pain merely provides a respite.

  —Li Xiu

  The real problem with the world is all the good. Weren’t no bloody good, nobody’d care if something weren’t.

  —Odie

  Prologue

  THE DON

  Kael Dvorak looked out on the black basalt estate with distaste. Black stone, black iron, and windows like the fucking slits between cage bars. Kael could hardly believe the audacity of the bastard. Every time he was forced to look on the black eyesore, he couldn't help but think of the Magistrate's Compound.

  Why a man would want his home to look like that fucking shithole of a dungeon Kael could hardly imagine.

  How Scarvini had afforded to build the thing—off of the coin he was pulling in from the Outers—was a fucking quandary all its own. They always said Giotto was an earner, but how in Sacrull’s hell he’d done it Kael couldn’t figure.

  The fucking Outers. Kael shook his head. It just didn’t seem possible. How had Giotto Scarvini put together that kind of coin?

  Don Kael Dvorak claimed patronage for everything north of Beggar's Lane and west of the Tamber. It wasn't High Town, but it was something respectable—the upper crust of Low Town—the third rung of the Commission ladder as far as Kael was concerned, yet he didn’t have two fucking krom to rub together.

  He set his jaw as he looked up at the black monstrosity towering before him. How was Scarvini doing it?

  Kael took a deep breath, slicked back his hair, straightened his lapel with two fists, and took a step out from the cabin. As the carriage step creaked ominously underfoot, Kael cursed.

  “When we get back I want you to reem that fucking boy that was supposed to fix this step,” Kael said, exhaling to calm himself. When his feet hit the paved stone drive, he turned on the step and stomped on the thing until it snapped.

  He cursed under his breath, slicked back his hair, and refaced the black abomination that Scarvini called home.

  “And when your done reaming the little bastard, I want this fucking step fixed.”

  Kael didn’t bother to look back. The three of them would be bickering over who was responsible the moment they thought Kael was out of earshot.

  He knew he shouldn’t lose his temper, but the coming fight had his nerves in a fray, and he found his anger coming out in unexpected ways.

  Suddenly he noticed how many armed men Scarvini had posted at the door guard.

  Had The Shark’s death put the man so far on edge?

  “Dvorak,” said a familiar voice, as one of the hens split from the brood.

  Dasembrae Scarvini approached with the hint of a stupid grin on his ugly mug.

  Despite the tattoo on his face that made him look something like a fool’s wanton bastard, Dasem was one Scarvini that Kael could stomach. Far as Kael was concerned, Dasem was the only Scarvini with enough balls to be called a made man.

  “I swear you’re getting fatter every time I see you,” Dasem said.

  Kael merely grunted in return, but couldn’t keep the smile down.

  He’d always liked Dasem. The man was dry, a good bit sarcastic, and best of all, irreverent. Moreover, unlike the rest of the groveling cocksuckers who'd climbed the ladder of late, Dasem had done it the old way.

  He was a fighter, not some fucking earner.

  Dasem jerked his head toward the door, and Kael joined him as he trekked back up the stairs.

  “What’s with all the girls? Your uncle starting another whorehouse?” Kael said, nodding to the armed men outside the front doors.

  Dasem scoffed. “You’d have your small cloth in a bunch too if you’d seen what they did at that warehouse.”

  Kael laughed and clapped the little bastard on the back.

  He'd never once in his life tucked tail and ran. Kael Dvorak was no Giotto Scarvini. Kael hadn't earned his way up the ladder as Dasem's uncle had. Kael had climbed his rungs the old way—the true way.

  The first time he'd been hit in the nose, Kael had given the other boy a taste of his forehead—dropped the little fucker to the cobbles—he had. And in a way, that’s how Kael had handled every conflict since.

  “This gaggle don’t look much of a door guard, even for a lot of pretty whores,” Kael said, loud enough that the Scarvini soldiers could hear him to a man.

  But not one of them had the stones to face Kael and look him in the eyes. They kept their heads down, sullen as chided maids.

  Dasem laughed. “I didn’t know better I’d think you were trying to start a fight with the help.”

  “Not looking for a fight. Just want to see which of these whores wants to get fucked.”

  Dasem laughed. “It’s good to have a touch of humor around here. Been a grim scene since. . .”

  “Giotto’s always been a grim bastard. Still, I can’t hardly imagine what he saw that’s got him pissing his breeches. I hear there wasn’t nothing left at that warehouse but red puddles and a fresh coat of paint on the walls.”

  Dasem stopped short before the doors. He turned to face Kael. Dasem's tattooed eyelid twitched as the apple in his throat bobbed. His mouth opened as though he was going to say something, but it seemed even he didn’t have the balls.

  “The Shark,” Kael said flatly. “Probably, we should just call him The Smear, eh?”

  The smile was gone from Dasem’s tattooed face; there was something like hatred in his eyes.

  Fuck if Kael gave one shit, anyhow. He’d take his laughs where they came, just as he took everything that came his way. Giuseppe Scarvini had been an entitled little shit from the day he could
talk until the day he began strutting around in his daddy's shadow calling himself The Shark.

  “Fuck do you care?” Kael asked, taking the lead and pushing through the doors. “You’ve got more cousins than any man could want.”

  Kael stopped short as he came face to face with another gaggle of Scarvini men just beyond the threshold.

  The humor went stillborn, as the group in the foyer froze to a man. Every eye that met Kael’s flitted away faster than a minnow in a slipstream.

  A pregnant silence born of palpable tension hung between Kael and the eight other men.

  A vein in Kael's neck throbbed, his fist aching to hit someone—or something—the first thing to make a move.

  He could feel the anger coming on, fast and hot, until Dasem brushed past him and into the foyer, the evidence of Kael’s prior transgression wiped from his mug.

  “Back to it boys,” Dasem said, clapping one of the men on the shoulder, and leading Kael into the sitting room.

  Kael nearly stopped short a second time as he saw no less than twenty men strewn about the estate sitting room.

  Dasem Scarvini flashed Kael a knowing look, but Kael returned it with a dismissive sneer.

  Still, he wondered if Giotto had gone craven. Was this all about what had happened at that warehouse? Had the death of his son struck such fear into the bastard? Or was he arming-up for something else? By the look of things, Giotto Scarvini was building a fucking army.

  What would Scarvini be building an army for?

  The fuck else but war? Kael grew more unsettled as they crossed through the sitting room.

  “Who else is here?”

  “Moretti showed up just before you did.”

  Moretti. The stubby lord of the slums had crawled out from his hole to grace them with his presence. What a joy it would be to see his fat frowning face.

  Scarvini would be there as well, of course. Which meant, they were waiting on two more—and Lorenzo. Old Stefano was bound to stick his fucking nose into the night's meeting; it seemed nothing happened without that man knowing.

  “They’d better show the fuck up soon,” said Kael, snorting and swallowing. “I won’t be waiting all fucking night.”

  “The fight?” Dasem asked.

  Kael nodded.

  He wouldn’t be missing the fight—he couldn't afford to—not with his last coin riding on the outcome.

  “I’ve heard my cousin challenged you. A touch of rare courage from that one.”

  Kael forced a laugh. “That fuck-stick you call cousin never showed a lick of courage in his worthless life. It was his empty skull that got him into this one. That, and overconfidence in his white bitch.”

  Dasem smiled. “Garibaldi’s right proud of that albino. With them red eyes, she's a mean-looking beast.”

  “My hound will rip the bitch to ribbons. Been feeding him a horse a day neigh on half a year. Big as that bloody divan, he is.”

  “Aye, well, I s’pose we’ll know come evenfall. Still, that albino is something else.”

  “Too bad the bitch’s handler is a shifty-eyed sodder, eh?” Kael said, hardly able to help himself. “Imagine it rankles your uncle right off to know that one will inherit the estate now that his wee Sharkey’s gone tits up.”

  Dasem ignored the dig and led the way up the stairs. They went up three flights and down a long hall. Another five armed men stood about outside the drawing room door—five men, and not one among them was willing to meet Kael's eyes.

  The twats parted to either side of the hall, heads lowered, eyes down, as Kael and Dasem walked through their grouping.

  “Here we are then,” said Dasem. “Have fun inside.”

  “No one ever had fun with this lot of grim fucks,” Kael said. “Though soon enough, I'll be running things, and then the grim will be fuck-all. We'll bring back the droll of the old ways, we will.”

  Dasem grinned, an ugly thing to look at with that fucking tattoo on his face. “I look forward to the day.”

  Kael Dvorak grunted and pushed through the doors.

  He entered into a dimly lit room. Shadows crept along the black basalt walls; the scant few wall hangings provided some color, yet it was a grim fucking place if ever there was one. Kael wanted to be out of there, quick as he could be.

  A pair of sallow bastards were seated at the table: Moretti and Scarvini—the black cross and the reaper's sickle—never before had a pair of such insignificant cocksuckers climbed so high up the Commission ladder.

  Renaldo Moretti had his gambling dens in the narrows, but more often than not the stumpy fucker was sitting his fat ass on his little throne; a throne that he kept at the bottom of a crypt, of all places.

  And Giotto, he had his whorehouse and the Pit; apart from those the Outers was worth fuck-all—and everyone knew it—which was why Kael couldn't figure how the man seemed to be swimming in coin.

  My Lords,” Kael said, nodding to the bastards. He wanted to wipe the frown off Moretti's fat mug with a fist, and jab a blade right into Scarvini's sneer.

  Giotto Scarvini had always acted the part, but he still squirmed whenever Kael looked his way. He was nothing more than a glorified coin-counter—had those cold eyes on the numbers—always the fucking numbers.

  Giotto looked at Kael with eyes full of hate and calculated deceit. Kael wondered what it would be like to stick a fork in one of those eyes if only to watch the twat squirm. Might be he’d have to give it a go when he made his move on the bastards.

  Should this thing come to war, Kael might do best to start it here in this room. He could end the Five Families, altogether, here and now. He could consolidate the entire Commission into one family.

  No more five dons—one boss and one family—the Dvorak Commission.

  Giotto didn’t speak a word as he stared into Kael’s eyes, the tension between them building, anger burning in Kael’s chest.

  Scarvini had always been a grim fuck, never a smile to come from the bastard. Giotto Scarvini looked more grim than ever, shut up in a prison of his own making like the craven-shit he was.

  He glared; it seemed the hate in those eyes had only grown colder since the death of his whelp.

  The Smear, Kael thought, barely able to suppress the smile twitching at the corner of his mouth as he took a seat across from the silent pair.

  Scarvini rolled something in his palm: a glass ball or crystal orb of some sort. It was full of a glowing pearlescent liquid; the faint light emanating from the orb drew Kael’s attention momentarily before he turned his sights on Don Moretti.

  It was strange to see Moretti sitting silent. The bastard was nearly always pissing and moaning about something: how nothing ever went his way, and his father never told him he was pretty, and whatever else that fucking gripe-monger had conjured up in the past.

  There were more times than Kael could count when the whiny fuck had opened his big mouth that Kael wanted nothing more than to strangle the fat bastard.

  Kael smiled at the thought of those stubby little fingers pawing away at his hand as his grip tightened about Moretti's throat—fingers sinking into the soft flesh of the fucker's fat neck.

  “What’s on the list? I ain’t got all fucking night.”

  “A most picturesque evening is it not?” said someone at the other end of the room.

  When Kael had first entered, he hadn't seen the man standing there—the grinning bastard—he smiled as often as his boss frowned.

  “Amato,” Kael said, projecting the word as more curse than name. “The fuck is, Pizzaro?”

  Of late, Kael had seen little of Moretti’s fat second and more of this skinny fop Alonzo Amato.

  “Pizzaro finds himself indisposed for the present,” said Amato. He looked to have been examining the wall hangings in the darkened corner of the room, but as he spoke, he sauntered over to the table and placed a hand on Don Moretti’s shoulder.

  Kael hated Alonzo Amato. Half the time, Kael couldn't understand what the fop was saying.

  Kael
pulled out a chair and faced Scarvini as he sat.

  “My condolences for the death of your son,” Kael said, not bothering to seem the least bit genuine.

  Giotto Scarvini looked like the broken husk of a man. Yet there was still something of his former defiance in those cold, blue eyes as his stare bore into Kael. He seemed disinclined to accept Kael’s hollow words.

  Fuck if Kael cared, anyhow.

  “The fuck is happening at that abbey? Last I was told—we had one little monk pinching some of our supply. Next I heard, they took the head right off your monk king.”

  Scarvini’s nose wrinkled, his top lip curling.

  “The abbot was murdered in his home the very same night the prior was found dead in his own bed,” said Moretti.

  “And the fuck has he had to say about this?”

  Moretti and Scarvini shared a look.

  Then Moretti shrugged his round shoulders. “When did I don his yolk?”

  The day you took his coin, you fat-faced fucker. Kael smiled at the little man, letting him see his teeth. “Seems to me his eyes are everywhere in this fucking city. I wouldn’t doubt if he already knows just who the bastard was and why in the god’s fucking name he’s killing monks.” Kael turned to Scarvini. “Is there a connection to the warehouse?”

  Giotto Scarvini merely glared.

  “The fuck’s become of the supply?” Kael said, growing impatient with the man’s silence.

  Giotto slammed the table. “My son is dead!”