Fallen For The Dark Kings

It is believed that the Damned devour their victims, consuming both flesh and spirit, claiming what they think is rightfully theirs.

No boundaries.

No pause.

They follow no moral compass, show no respect for human life—driven only by raw instinct.

And their hunger is insatiable.

Déjà vu: the sensation of having experienced something before.

Clinton

Storms.

I’ve always been drawn to their raw, violent power. It’s as if God Himself is unleashing His fury, ready to tear the world apart. And honestly, maybe He should. Humanity? Weak, clueless—most people have no idea how fragile their lives really are. They deserve to be crushed. I wanted to be the one to do it, to be God’s hand, delivering judgment to those foolish enough to stand in my way.

My father encouraged the darkness festering inside me, pride lighting up his face every time he slapped my back. My mother, though? She was different. She fought to save my soul, trying to drive the demons out before they swallowed me whole. I never understood why she bothered. I was the second-born son of the Devil himself—the most feared mafia lord in the Midwest.

Violence was in our blood. My father made sure of that. From a young age, he molded me into a weapon. Still, my mother clung to her hope that we wouldn’t become like him, that her two sons would break the cycle. But hope is for the naive.

A smirk crossed my face as a jagged bolt of lightning split the sky, the electric energy sparking through me. Soon, I’d be old enough to take on more power. Not long after, I’d command my own unit of men—men capable of unspeakable destruction. I’d be invincible, like my brother, Donavan. Sure, he’d inherit the family empire one day, but I would be the one enforcing it, dishing out brutal payback whenever it was needed. The idea was intoxicating.

My father was a cruel man, not just to his enemies but to us, his sons. Nothing less than perfection was acceptable. He barely acknowledged our existence unless we messed up. I gave him the respect I had to, but deep down, I despised him. His reeking cigars. His smug arrogance. His pathetic weakness for women. I’d be stronger. I’d be better.

I’d be a king.

As the storm raged outside, I ignored the throbbing bruises on my body. Pain didn’t bother me anymore. Weakness wasn’t an option. I sensed someone behind me and tensed, but then reminded myself where I was. My brother’s house. I was safe here, at least as safe as anyone could be with monsters lurking in their head.

“Get some sleep,” Donavan’s voice broke through the storm. “You need it.”

I turned my head toward the door, frowning at his words. He might be eight years older, but this was the first time he acted like I had to follow his rules. Maybe because I was staying with him—our parents hadn’t trusted me alone while they took off for Italy.

“Whatever,” I muttered, rolling over. Sleep wasn’t something I chased. The nightmares made sure of that. I learned long ago the real monsters came when my eyes were closed.

I caught the reflection of lightning in the window, his eyes still on me.

“You don’t have to worry about Pops here, Clinton. He’s never going to hurt you or Mom again. I’ve made sure of it. This is your home now.”

His words stirred something inside me. Memories I didn’t want to relive.

“Don’t you dare cry, you worthless sack of flesh. You’re a Cross. Act like it.”

“But, Papa—”

Wham! “Don’t talk back.”

How many times had he spit those same words at me after a beating? At least he’d taught me how to endure. Home. The word tasted bitter. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Donavan stepped closer, pulling the blanket over my shoulder. “Don’t ask questions you’re not ready to hear the answers to.”

Great. Whatever.

When I stayed silent, Donavan let out a bitter laugh. "I do care about you, brother."

"Love is for fools who haven’t felt life’s true wrath."

"What the hell did he do to you? Families are supposed to be about love."

"Just leave, Donavan." Anger surged through me as my voice cracked. I was twelve—too old to sound like a scared kid.

He sighed, and after a moment, I heard the door softly click shut.

I clenched my fists, shutting my eyes tight. I rolled over, burying my face in the pillow. No one could ever hear me cry. Crying wasn’t allowed.

Damn it. No. No...

A few seconds later, my stomach lurched, and I started to dry heave.

I curled into a ball, pulling my knees to my chest, trying to steady my breath.

Get it together. Breathe. You’re stronger than this.

Pain ripped through me, but this time it wasn’t the usual physical torment I’d grown used to. The adrenaline, the agony—it came from knowing the life I wanted was out of reach.

After a few moments, I started to feel in control again. Maybe one day I’d find a way out of this. At least I had Donavan. He cared.

Thud!

A single noise made my heart race. I froze, listening. It had to be just a branch scraping against the side of the house. I took a deep breath and rested my head back on the pillow.

Then I heard it again.

Fear shot through me, and I jumped out of bed, fumbling on the nightstand for a weapon. Then I remembered—Donavan wouldn’t let me have a gun in his house. I crept to the door, cracked it open, and listened.

A muffled cry, filled with pain. I sprinted down the hallway, throwing open Donavan’s door. A flash of lightning lit up the room, and the sight before me made my blood run cold.

A man stood over my brother, a hatchet in his hand. I saw the life drain from Donavan’s bloodied face as I lunged forward.

"No!"

The intruder swung his arm, sending me flying across the room, crashing against the wall. Dazed and disoriented, I struggled to stand. But by the time I got to my feet, he was gone—vanished out the window.

"Donavan! Donavan!" I stumbled to his side, collapsing by the bed. Even in the darkness, I could see the pools of blood, his broken body torn apart.

Though the killer had been cloaked in shadows, I’d caught a glimpse of a scar on his hand. It burned itself into my memory, a mark I’d never forget.

I stood, glaring out the window as every shred of emotion drained from me, leaving behind only a cold, dark void.

In that moment, a real monster was born. One who lived for revenge.

I would find the one responsible. And when I did, I’d unleash a level of torture no man could endure.

And I’d savor every brutal, bloody second of it.