FGI: The Siren Prisoner

Book Seven: The Siren Prisoner

Twenty years ago

“Jensen, did you pay attention?” my mother whispers in my ear as I watch my father interrogate my Uncle Tony from the balcony above in their underground warehouse.

A bright light illuminates him as my father’s men start to roll up their sleeves for the beating I know is to come.

I swallow, nodding my head.

“What do you see?” Bruna Di King, my psychologist mother, asks me. “Tell me the first thing you notice.”

My throat is dry, seeing my Uncle Tony’s foot tapping under the table. Then my eyes go to his hand on the desk as his pinky finger bears down into the metal—almost undetectably, but I notice.

He cocks his head to one side, then to the other as my gaze homes in on him. “He’s nervous.”

“Yes, Jensen,” she whispers, and I can feel the smile in her tone. “But is it guilt? Or just nerves?”

I take a steady breath as I watch my father ask him questions. “I don’t know.”

But I do. My mother has been training me since I could tie my shoes, and now that I’m twelve, I know more than most twice my age.

I like my Uncle Tony. He’s a hothead and impulsive—or so I heard my father say many times. But I know he’s a good guy.

Tony has always treated me like family, bringing me ice cream on a hot day and ruffling up my hair when no one else did.

Sure, he hangs around with people my dad hates, but that does not make him a bad guy.

One day, he even let me look at his naked magazines, pointing out all things to look for in a woman and letting me have a cigarette afterward.

He said a woman like this would make a man out of me one day, and I believed him.

Though I’ll never tell anyone, I stole a few when he was busy smoking a joint with his buddies in the kitchen. They’re under my mattress, and I circled my favorites with a bright red marker.

The women were beautiful.

I was enthralled.

I liked those who were not smiling at the camera—the more serious women who had angry expressions.

Maybe it’s the training my mother has put me through all these years, but I liked the mystery, the secrets. I want to know what they are thinking and who they are—the urge to dig deep is consuming.

Their eyes captivate me—I would stare at them for longer than I should.

Yeah, I like Tony. He treats me like a human, like a friend—not a kid, but one of the guys. But don’t get me wrong, I have other connections.

My mother is caring but very professional to a point where I think I’m not her child but her project. On a personal level, there is this distance that she never crosses, or maybe she mentally can’t.

Bruna does her best, I can tell.

I do not call her Mother—she insists I call her by her name, and that’s all I’ve known.

By observing her and analyzing her with the same skills she has taught me, I have realized that she is not maternal. So letting me into her world, training me, is her way of connecting with me.

Bruna points. “Ah, not enough to make a confident decision. Look for more, Jensen. What else do you see?”

I feel a trickle of sweat at the nape of my neck and say nothing.

The disapproval in her tone is clear, and I hate to disappoint her. “Jensen, you’re breaking the first rule. What is the first rule?”

I don’t like this.

I don’t want to get Tony in trouble.

“Jensen,” she says firmly.

“Do not let emotions cloud your judgment,” I whisper, feeling sick.

“What else do you see?”

“I don’t want to do this, Bruna,” I plead, not liking this, wanting to leave.

“What. Do. You. See?”

I grit my teeth as I look deeper.

“How many times did he use the word um?”

“Six.”

“His voice?”

“Loud and defensive—too high.”

“What of his eyes, Jensen?”

“He can’t keep contact.”

“What else?”

“His lips—he licks them too much.”

“Why is that?”

I take a moment, trying to be like Bruna and leave out emotions, my jaw clenching. “The nervous system.”

“Ah yes, and what else does the nervous system cause in the guilty party?”

“Sweat.”

“Where?”

I close my eyes, then open them, watching Tony intently. After a few minutes, I whisper, “The upper lip.” I see a slight sheen catching the light when he turns his head to the right.

I release a breath as my father turns toward us, his imposing form dwarfing most, and he walks in our direction, looking up at us. “Bruna. What do you say about our Tony?”

He relies on Bruna for all decision-making.

She is the true Puppet Master, being the brain and my dad the brawn.

My heart beats wildly as Tony’s petrified gaze collides with mine, and my heart takes a massive hit. Why does he have to be a moron?! Why does my Uncle Tony have to get into trouble with the enemy?

Why, why, why, why . . .

“Jensen will make the decision,” my mother commands beside me, gripping my neck, holding me in place.

What?

I look up at her, knowing she can’t be serious. “No,” I barely whisper, my cheeks reddening in embarrassment and shock.

“Jensen,” she says with a stern tone, her gray gaze like a steel blade as it shifts to me. “This is your place—you will be taking over my position one day soon. You must.”

I feel every stare on me, and I know I can’t lie. Bruna will know. My dad’s men smirk and snicker as they watch little Jensen King, heir to my dad’s casino kingdom, acting like a little bitch.

I feel every ragged breath, cursing my uncle for putting me in this spot.

***

Present

That day I never forgot, for it traumatized me profoundly. Tony’s screams as they beat him to a pulp still haunt me from time to time.

Bruna made me watch, and when the spray of blood hit half my face and shirt from the baseball bat, I knew my heart had hardened.

The visions of Tony mostly come when I’m alone and drunk, when my mind unlocks buried memories without my consent.

Now, twenty years later, I have honed and perfected my talents thanks to my dear sweet Bruna.

I have taken over Rau King’s Las Vegas empire by being as cunning as a fox, excelling to the top by being Bruna’s spawn.

Tony’s distant screams are now only a mere scratch, a ripple in time.

Means nothing now.

I take a hard pull on my cigar, leaning back in my chair, looking around the dimly lit poker table at the Palms Casino in my private lounge.

Half the people are scared shitless with their noticeable shifty eyes, and the other half have a mind to wear fucking sunglasses.

They don’t trust me. Sometimes I don’t trust myself, and I’m fine with that.

1, 2, 3, 4,

The lights flicker above my head as I watch these goons sweat over the thousands of dollars they will lose to me.

I smile, looking at each and every one of them, my eyes squinting as I blow out smoke, knowing I don’t have shit. But they all think I do, which is why I thrive at this.

Or they’re too scared to call my bluff.

I have a pair of fives.

I hold back a chuckle because no one can read my crazy, and this is what I do to blow off anger and stress. I love watching these morons shit themselves.

I’m not known to have all the screws in, which is why I can act any way I want while mind-fucking them in the process.

Bruna’s voice always echoes in my head on the rare occasions I let my emotions out.

“Jensen, never let your walls down and expose your weakness. You must not let emotion show on your face.”

The ironic thing is that she created my crazy—my unhinged emotions.

I spent years as her test bunny, training me with trauma-based experiments. Bruna firmly believed that the mind becomes invincible when it’s desensitized.

I remember her showing me a puppy, then telling me it would die if I failed to read her victim’s body language correctly.

I was wrong, and I can’t tell you how many times I have seen innocent creatures die from my wrong decisions.

She wanted me just like her, and she fucking got it.

I don’t feel anymore, and I’m not sure if I am capable of any emotion other than some form of narcissistic, self-centered notions of what a human should feel.

I can diagnose myself easily—"borderline personality disorder” would be putting it nicely.

I hear a commotion, and the door to my lounge opens. I raise my brows as a man I have never seen before walks in, escorted by my security.

A new player?

Who the fuck? I ask Billy, my cousin, with my eyes.

“King, this man says he has a meeting with you?” Billy pulls out his gun, making everyone stiffen.

Well, this is interesting.

“A meeting?” I ask, putting out my cigar, and then I nod to everyone at the table. It was a get the fuck out nod to everyone, and the room cleared quickly without anyone asking questions.

My instincts are immediately on high alert even though I remain outwardly calm, leaning back in my chair to address the situation. The hairs on my neck raise, and I tense.

I can feel the guns I have on me, in my shoulder straps, reminding me to relax.

My eyes gather data quickly.

This man looks to be very well put-together—almost to the point that it didn’t seem realistic for this club night scene loaded with gangsters and swindlers.

I can even smell the scent of his cologne, and it gives me vibes of someone regal, thought I can’t place it.

Now I’m curious.

I never get goosebumps, and I have them.

His energy is potent.

I sit up in my chair as my gaze focuses on his blond hair, which is styled attractively. It’s not too long and short enough to where he must have just gotten it trimmed.

Not one hair seems to be out of place, impressing me. Most men and women go overboard to show their importance and wealth.

His hair is not overly gelled but just enough to give the impression of perfection and elegance.

His suit? I quickly take in the cut and quality as he stands before me.

Gucci? No, but I can tell it’s not a knockoff.

It looks Italian or some expensive shit that costs more than all the chips on this table. The fit is perfectly tailored to this man’s body, which takes lots of cash and precision.

He has my attention.

“Who the fuck are you?” I ask casually, meeting his vivid blue gaze, bracing myself.

The man smiles and glances at my men, then back to me. “Surely you received my letter yesterday?”

I frown, taking a moment. “Letter?” I say, and study him, my body ready to react if he tries something. I address Billy but keep my eyes on the intruder. “What is he talking about?”

I can hear the embarrassment in Billy’s voice. “Uh—the only letter we received was something not worth your time.”

I look at Billy’s flushed features and smile—a look I’ve been told could freeze water.

“Not worth my fucking time?” I hold my hand up. “Clearly, this man here would disagree.” I glance at him. “You have a name?”

He looks like he is enjoying himself, baffling me. “You can call me Pierce.”

“Pierce?”

“That’s right.”

“Last name?” I get out, remembering to remain calm.

“Charming,” he answers lightly, keeping my stare as a smile flirts with his mouth.

“What do you see, Jensen?” I hear Bruna’s voice.

His eye contact is firm and steady.

He has not itched or scratched anywhere on his body.

His posture is relaxed but firm.

The muscles in his face are not pulled taught, giving me signs of possible tension or bad motives.

His voice is even and laced with relaxed humor.

Fuck.

This man is not nervous in the least.

“What do you want?” My voice is low and deadly, a voice I only use when I’m about to kill someone.

“Do you mind if we talk in private?” Pierce glances at the men standing around him. “No offense,” he apologizes to the men.

“Boss—”

“Check him,” I order, wanting to see how brave this man is, “then fucking leave.” I can tell Pierce would not be stupid enough to try something.

Not in that suit.

They check him for weapons, and Mr. Fucking Mystery sits at the card table in front of me. I have no idea what he is about—whether he wants money, hookers, or to do business.

His accent sounds British, but different.

“All right,” I say calmly. “What brings you out here tonight to risk pissing me off? You have ten minutes.”

“I would hate to make you mad, Jensen. Are you?” he asks me, and takes the stack of cards, shuffling them, glancing up at me.

Am I mad?

This fucker called me Jensen.

My name is King.

No one calls me that anymore.

“Not yet,” I say, watching him, trying to see his aim. “What letter?” I keep my cool. He puts down the cards and pulls out a sparking letter from inside of his coat, making me tense.

“What the fuck?” I say, frowning. “What the fuck is that?!”

The damn thing is glowing.

I’m immediately on guard, wondering what chemical is on this to make it glow. My gaze bores into his, and I realize he is as calm as ever.

I’m the one losing it, not him.

“Relax,” Pierce says, “and read this. It is an offer—I’m requesting your services.”

“I’m not offering any fucking services. Do you know who the fuck I am?” I ask. A part of me is stunned by his boldness, and another part admires it.

Pierce reshuffles the deck of cards.

“Jensen King, son to Bruna and Rau King. Your mother still lives but suffers from dementia in a nursing home, and your father died from foul play.

“You have a gift for reading people, hypersensitive to detail. I’m here to make a deal with you.”

“So you have done research,” I say carefully, knowing it would not be hard to find this out with a little investigating. He clearly has the money to hire someone.

“A deal? And what would you have that I would want in return?”

Pierce leans forward and absently lays out the cards face up.

I look down at the cards then—then my eyes shoot to his, my pulse jumping. I’m two seconds from pulling my gun.

All of the cards are aces.

All of them.

How the fuck?

I was paying close attention, and I did not catch any quick hand movements to pull something like this off. “Give me the letter.”

Pierce hands me the letter, and I start to read, wondering what I’m dealing with here.

Jensen, you must look at all details before reacting emotionally.

I read over the letter twice, not believing what I’m seeing, my mind trying to make sense of this.

I slowly raise my gaze to him. “Now I see why this letter was not given to me.”

Pierce leans back in his chair. “Fate wants you, for whatever reason, and I take that very seriously. And . . . I think you are perfect for this. I always have a hunch.

“My hunches,” he pauses with a pointed look, “are rarely wrong.”

“You’re out of your fucking mind. How did you find out about Tony? You have five minutes to tell me how you know about that night.” I whisper the threat, my feel my vision wanting to tunnel.

“Fairy Godmother Inc?!”

The letter states that they’re sorry for my traumatic upbringing. A boy should never have their childhood stripped from them like that. What the fuck?!

The letter also said that Tony did not blame me for what happened. That crosses the line.

“Jensen,” Pierce leans forward. “Did you read the part about being an agent for us?”

“To find true love? And compete against other men?!” I yell, also leaning forward, smiling. “Do I look like a fucking moron? Traveling to a different world?”

This man is more insane than me.

“Well, to be clear, I know the aspect of love will not interest you. You’re not required to fall in love, Jensen,” Pierce says, his gaze steady and confident.

“But, for whatever reason, Fate wants you. Reality is stranger than fiction, and you’re about the get a crash course in it.”

I swallow.

My training says the man is not lying.

That’s impossible.

He continues. “My offer is this.” Pierce takes out a device, and immediately a virtual image is projected into the air.

My pulse jumps to life, never having seen technology like this. Something Russian, perhaps?

“Do you recognize this?” Pierce eyes me, his face like a sly fox.

My heart is pounding as I look at the image, then I frown. “That’s my . . . ” I pause, trying to get my thoughts in order. “That’s my vault at the Golden Lion.”

I glare at Pierce, knowing this is blackmail. “Tell me what the fuck is going on?!”

Pierce waves his hand, and a different image is displayed, and this scene makes my blood go from zero to a hundred. “What the fuck?!”

I see a group of people in all black, lowering down from the ceiling.

“They are robbing you, Jensen. Five hundred million, in fact,” Pierce says carefully. “And they will get away with it.”

I look at Pierce, seeing red, breathing hard. “You’re blackmailing me?!”

He sighs. “Never, just motivating you.”

“These are your men? You son of a bitch!” I’m about to reach for my gun.

“Definitely not.” Pierce chuckles, dusting something off his sleeve, as calm as ever.

“Earthly money does nothing for me where I’m from. This is not my doing—more you having some ambitious enemies.”

I’m at a boiling point, standing slowly. “I will kill you.”

“Jensen,” Pierce says calmly, looking up at me. “You work for me for three months, and I will ring the alarm right now and save your millions.”

I stare at him, trying to tamp down my anger.

“Jensen, never let your emotions rule you. That is when you make mistakes.” I hear Bruna in my mind.

“See,” Pierce waves his hands over the virtual pad, “my agents are ready to bust this heist whenever I give the word. It’s up to you.”

I see four really short people in black SWAT outfits that say FGI on their chests.

FGI?

I look at Pierce, studying him, not sure what to say or to think.

For once, I’m shocked.

“This is not real,” I whisper, watching the men in the virtual display trying to crack the combination with lots of equipment.

Then my eyes widen, recognizing one of them with her long blond hair coming out of her ski mask. On her neck, I can see the tattoo of a butterfly, and I fucking know.

Jenna.

No fucking way.

The girl I have been loosely dating for six months.

“I don’t make it a habit to prank dangerous men.” Pierce winks at me. “I have better and more fun things to do than to anger the famed Jensen King.”

I level him a hard stare. I can’t believe Jenna was playing me for six months—with her loser cousin, no doubt.

I knew the problem. I was too uninterested to pay her close attention, not caring enough to see the leech right in front of me.

Bruna would be very disappointed.

Then a smile spreads over my face. “Prove it.” I take a calming breath. “How do I know you’re not playing me too?”

Pierce takes a pen out of his suit coat. “Sigh the contract, and I will do more than that. I will change your life.”

I frown, wondering how this man will prove it.

And I’d lie if I said I’m not insanely curious, because he is not giving off the vibes of a lying little thief.

I look down at the letter. “Three months?”

I want to laugh at how absurd this is. I could just kill him and burn the contact if it turned out to be some sick swindle. But I honestly want to see what this loony will do.

“Make the call first.”

“You sign first.”

He’s confident. So intriguing—most people in my presence usually show signs of apprehension when disagreeing with me.

I look down at the glowing letter and back up to Pierce, then to the fuckers robbing me on the virtual display. “I will gut you if you try anything.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” he says, and I hear the amusement laced through the cool tones in his voice.

I’m too curious now.

I sign it, knowing I will end up burning it anyway. But an odd flash of nerves crashes over me as I look up at the man who has gotten me to do something I would never do normally.

Five hundred million dollars is motivating, I will give him that.

Pierce smiles and touches his ear, making me frown. “Ring the alarm, Chad—and tell Steven he didn’t have to knock out the crew in the van that hard.”

Pierce turns toward me and whispers, “My team has more of your enemies in the black SUVs three blocks from the casino.”

What the fuck? My pulse jumps as I watch him clearly talking to his people.

Pierce turns, rubbing between his eyes. “They will be high for days, making it hard for the police to interrogate them—just—I know, just tell Steve it’s a warning.

“Right. Tell Dion we are ready for extraction. Our last player is ready.” Pierce winks at me.

“The fuck?” I stand, pulling out my gun. “You were bugged?!”

My men searched him!

Pierce nods to the virtual screen. “Your friends are not going to be happy here in a second.”

I see those short little people climb on top of one another like it’s a damn circus, then kick one of the alarms, making the entire security system go off, and like magic, the little people disappear.

My heart pounds as I watch Jenna’s men freak out, wondering who did it, trying to abort their heist.

Everyone for themselves.

I look at Pierce. “You weren’t lying . . . ” I trail off, feeling my skin start to tingle. “How did you know they were going to do this?”

This . . . This can’t be happening.

The letter . . .

“Take a deep breath, Jensen,” Pierce says, as I look at him with wide eyes, my pulse hammering at the new sensations in my body.

“What’s happening?” I get out, before my vision starts to blacken.

Shit!

“Welcome, to Fairy Godmother Inc.”

Is the last thing I heard.