by Vic Tyler
VENGEANCE
DAMIEN’S PROMISE
VIC TYLER
Copyright © 2019 Vic Tyler
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means (including but not limited to any electronic or mechanical means, such as information storage and retrieval systems, photocopying, recording, etc.) without written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in articles, reviews, or promotions only.
This book may not be re–sold or given away to other people. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting and supporting the author’s work.
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Disclaimer: The following story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events, locales, private or commercial bodies, etc. is coincidental.
Please note that this work is intended only for adults over the age of 18.
This work contains strong language and adult content that may not be appropriate for underage persons.
Dedicated to those who hate
black, soulless doors and hard things that leak.
I love ’em just ’cause you hate ’em.
Get free stories, deleted scenes, and teasers when you
(Disclaimer: lots of sexy material and absolutely no spamming. What's not to love?)
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Author's Note
Exposé
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Epilogue
Fun Extras
From the Author
More Books by Vic Tyler
Excerpt from Adoring You
Excerpt from Redeeming You
Excerpt from Unchaining You
Trigger Warnings for Damien’s Promise
author’s note
This book contains adult content intended for mature readers.
All participants in the sexual scenes described in this book are consenting and of legal age.
Certain scenarios and material may be triggering.
You can view a list of potential triggers here.
[ Web | Offline ]
You have been warned.
A grim exposé detailing a witness account of crime syndicate, Venti
Dictated by Anonymous
Transcribed and Written by Kyle Gingham
Due to the recent popularization in the vast corners of the internet, the criminal organization Venti is touted as a romanticized mafia story. It’s become a treasure trove for conspiracy theorists and fodder for Hollywood movies.
When it comes to translating fiction into reality, obsessive fans and divulgent sources (of the tinfoil–hat variety) have varying and conflicting details on the crime syndicate.
The myths stand larger than life to the point they become ridiculous — a joke to laugh at and a tease to threaten.
Many dismiss Venti as a gang of hooligans, and others scoff at the idea that it is real in any capacity.
Ignorance is indeed bliss.
Best described as a body of mercenary criminal consultants, Venti operates solely amongst the upper echelon of the crooked and corrupt. Their clients consist of anyone whose morality is as deficient as their wallets are bountiful or their power unparalleled.
If the world was scandalized by the Panama papers, it is not ready to learn the extensive clientele in Venti’s ledgers.
No event in history has gone untouched by the organization. Every miracle, every tragedy, every cover–up and boring, uneventful moment of peace had a price, whether it was with money or the condemnation of innocent lives.
Compromising the main workforce of Venti are those we refer to as ‘deviants.’
Men and women from all walks of life who are incapable of living normal civilian lives, whether they are criminals, con artists, murderers, ex–military, or so on.
Deviants are given free reign over their vices, so long as they serve the organization unconditionally. Thus, each member is stripped of any lasting identity to become one nameless soldier amongst many.
It is only as a member of the Twelve, the highest rank in the organization, that one is adopted by the organization and ‘inherits’ a name:
Boreas for the northern faction, Eurus for the eastern, Notus for the southern, and Zephyrus for the western faction.
Only the cruelest and most depraved join the Twelve, and it is almost exclusively filled by those who survive the Blood Trials — a dehumanizing program that takes lost children and disciplines them in an education of carnage and survival.
Venti’s very own child soldiers.
Because of their early exposure to violence and brutality, the survivors of the Blood Trials attach little value to life. Which is why they succeed in advancing within the organization, where every position is earned by merit of blood.
Our bylaws state that ending another deviant’s life allows one to inherit their position once an Assassination has been invoked.
Akin to a gladiatorial fight, an Assassination is a celebrated duel, usually to the death. It’s the only time that an upset of the balance is allowed.
Outside of this sanctioned battle, killing another deviant is not only frowned upon but also, more often than not, a death warrant.
After all, there must be order to the chaos. There is no point if we turn on each other.
We are comrades who encourage death — but solely on our own terms.
And executing the affairs of the factions, the underworld, and society itself are the four Cardinals of Venti.
Northridge of the northern faction.
Eastwood of the eastern faction.
Southwick of the southern faction.
Westlake of the western faction.
Little is known about the Cardinals because their individualities are forfeited. Their names are also inherited from their overthrown predecessors.
Although the average life expectancy of a deviant is not high, the Cardinals usually retain strenuous longevity of their terms. And thus, the details of their past disappear with the lost lives of their peers until they themselves become living myths.
It is the closest that a man — in the bare sense of the word — can achieve immortality.
But immortality is fragile. Eternity is not guaranteed. Even gods have weaknesses, and demon
s are no different.
Emotions. Sentiments. Bonds. Attachments.
They’re the very things that make us human and tether a life to something beyond simple existence — some call the culmination of all that a ‘soul.’
But to us, it is an errant flaw.
That is the reason why we live and die by our unofficial motto:
Weakness is fatal.
Those words are more than a warning.
They are a threat.
They are law.
It is not simply a warning that enemies will exploit your deficiencies — it is a promise of your disposal.
You’ve become the wolf with the broken leg. The threat to the pride. The runt of the pack.
We do not leave to nature what we can accomplish with our own hands.
The world is a cruel place, so we must be crueler.
We do not abide by ‘the survival of the fittest.’
We believe in ‘the survival of the merciless.’
prologue
The radio zips and crackles, randomly switching to another channel and interrupting the podcast that had been playing just seconds before.
“— Authorities have concluded their report on Kyle Gingham’s untimely death as suicide. The investigative journalist’s lifelong battle with bipolar disorder ended when he jumped off his apartment building last week —”
As the sound chokes on the radio waves, I gaze over the scenery of jagged rooftops clawing into the cloudless blue sky.
My seat on the roof wall of the Windrose provides a devastatingly clear view of everything.
To one side, multi–million–dollar villas mounted onto green Californian hills, staking their claim to their self–made altars. To the other, grimy ghettos littering the dirty corners, spread like an urban infection. And in the vast space between, rows of buildings lining the walls of this concrete rat maze of a city.
The aerial view reminds me that I’m trapped.
North.
East.
South.
West.
Filth in every direction, as far as the eye can see.
And in the distance, what lies in that innocuous ivory mansion on its own mountainous hill, is the worst filth to stain this city.
Westlake Manor ominously watches over everything from its pedestal.
It’s a scar upon the landscape. Cancer posing as a keloid. An endeavor to slice cleanly off this diseased plane of existence.
And yet, it still stands because that’s what it is.
Cancer.
Its master always comes back, renewed and replaced in a never–ending cycle.
“Careful,” a sultry voice purrs. “You’re leaking murderous intentions.”
Closing off any expression in my face, I don’t look to my intruder.
“What a pretty view.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Kitty toss her head back over the roof wall, stretching dangerously over the ledge. Her long, blonde hair billows in graceful wisps.
“But noisy.”
The staticky crackling of the radio suddenly zips distantly before it silences with a loud crash onto the pavement below.
“That’s better.” The wind carries her giggle like she’s right next to me.
I roll my eyes and don’t respond.
“Aw, are you mad?” she coos. “Want me to buy you a new one?”
“No,” I say flatly.
I planned on returning the radio to the porch I found it on, but I guess the owner will have to chalk its disappearance up to simple theft.
“Who knew there was such a perfect spot here?” Kitty stretches so far over the edge that I can’t help glancing at her. “You know — to watch the mansion blow up.”
I barely contain the twitch in my facial muscles as irritation flashes through me.
Idiot.
Speaking carelessly as always.
For as long as I’ve been in Venti, no one hesitates to tell me I’ve got no sense of humor.
I doubt telling them I don’t find the funny in senseless violence would get the point across. Especially when I can never be sure if they’re serious or not.
Particularly when it comes to the demented ‘humor’ of the Twelve, who take their opportunity — or is it duty? — to Assassinate West as a God–decreed commandment.
Whether that’s a commandment from a prophet or a schizophrenic crackhead depends on their mood for any given day.
When I don’t respond, explosive noises blast out of Kitty’s mouth as she detonates her dainty little hands in bursts over the sight of West’s mansion.
Fucking lunatic.
But her imagination is contagious, tugging mine to drift along with hers.
Except I’m envisioning a French Colonial house consumed by flames.
The place I once called ‘home’ burning to cinders with my parents’ corpses unwittingly being cremated inside.
It’s the last vivid memory I have of my past.
At least, of everything before Elena’s trickling life was squeezed out of her in that dark, damp, and moldy cell.
A trained photographic memory honed to near–perfection, and yet, the past eludes me in the same way my hands can’t hold onto the wind.
But now’s not the time for this.
I shove these thoughts back into the locked room that the boy I used to be — the boy who died five years ago with my sister — haunts.
Not because I deserve peace — no, I still sit with Elena’s ghost staring unblinkingly at me, wordlessly asking how I dare breathe these stolen breaths — but because these fucking vultures will eat me alive if they detect any whiff of my self–inflicted torture.
Weakness is fatal.
And I don’t plan on dying when I’ve just gotten one step closer to exacting my revenge.
“Do you think West’s office is bomb–proofed?” Kitty ponders aloud, breaking me out of my reverie. “Probably. But that won’t matter if we leave the bomb inside.”
My face twists into a scowl because she’s an idiot, and I can’t help the little twinge of concern at her recklessness. “Stop it, Kitty.”
If I weren’t already accustomed to her oddities, the sudden high–pitched shriek erupting from her would’ve alarmed me.
The scream slips into a manic chiming giggle that’s as pleasing to hear as it is unnerving.
How Kitty manages to make that work is a goddamn gift from the devil.
Which is also probably why she’s a batshit–crazy bitch.
Her laughter cuts off abruptly as she flashes her emerald gaze to me, zeroing in like a cat with a laser.
A mischievous grin tugs at her ruby–red lips as she dangles perilously over the roof wall. “Don’t tell me you’d feel bad if the complex blew up.”
“Hardly.” The idea doesn’t elicit any emotional or physiological response from me. Westlake Manor is headquarters. A living space. Shelter. “Your rambling is annoying.”
“How sweet,” she purrs. “You’re worried.”
Even though I’m not looking at her, she knows I’m watching through my periphery, and her hands travel up to squeeze her breasts. “I’m touched.”
Ignoring her, I swing off my perch on the ledge and brush the dust off my pants. “Who’s looking for me?”
Her silvery blonde hair looks like a halo of sunlight as Kitty flips upright. She slinks over, sensuously gliding her hands up my chest.
Gripping my black hair painfully tight in her fists, she brushes her lips against mine. “Why can’t I come see you because I want to?”
Irritated and impatient, I repeat, “Who?”
Her tongue flicks against my bottom lip. “West.”
I yank her off me, scowling as I stalk towards the door. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?”
She giggles and bounces along next to me, her steps light and nimble. “He just wants to congratulate you.”
Kitty twirls and leaps ahead as she dances to the door. She looks like a mischievous little fairy who got lost,
looking out of place with the dull concrete all around us.
No matter how immune I am to her regular charm, it’s hard to look away from her. The way she mesmerizes the human eye is her gift.
And her weapon.
“Everyone else is looking for you too.” She spins around, sidling back up to me. I slow my steps but don’t stop. “Mach said you deserve a proper hazing.” Her fingers walk down my chest, inching farther and farther down. “But I have better ideas for a celebration.”
Her clear eyes peer seductively through her hooded lids, deceptively amorous.
A part of me wants to believe there’s something deeper about her feelings for me in those green orbs. Another part of me fortifies my wall with heavy caution.
And the rest of me doesn’t really care either way.
She gasps when I fist her hair and yank it back.
I skim my lips over hers, watching her pupils dilate. The cool autumn air disappears between us when her breath hitches, indicating how much I affect her.
“Is that so?” I murmur.
She pushes her hips against mine, wiggling against the swelling evidence of how much she affects me.
“I’ll congratulate you after the ceremony,” she purrs, palming me over my pants. “Tonight. My room.”
Her tongue flicks over my lips, and I catch it between my teeth, nipping enough to give her a sting.
She immediately retaliates by ferociously biting down on my bottom lip, and a growl rips from my throat. I instinctively lick at the wound, and the taste of iron lingers on my tongue.
Mercilessly tightening my grip on her hair, I force her down to her knees. She clenches her teeth at the pain before grinning maniacally, her pupils rapidly devouring those glittering green irises.
Looking at me seductively, she wraps her lips around the erection straining out of my pants, and it takes all my restraint to keep from whipping it out and driving it down her throat.
But there’ll be time for that later.
With some reluctance, I pinch her chin between my fingers as I lock my gaze onto hers. “Make sure you’re ready to take me wherever I want to fuck you.”
