All Chapters of Scarred Roses, Burning Vengeance: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

DAMIAN BLACKWOOD At first, the world was mine. Then, and all of a sudden, it wasn't.It started with rumours of a plot against me, and from the ones I expected in the least, from the eldest of the three Black grandchildren Victor Black had left in my care when he died. I had allowed them to have the rights to their property piece by piece and as they advanced in age, and cared for them as I would have with my own siblings. Yet, the eldest of them, Wesley, had somehow nursed hatred and resentment for me all that time, even to the point of wanting to take me captive.Someone must have advised him against it, seeing that I would not be easily taken because I soon set a number of spies on him and the influx of information soon changed. He was no longer setting his eyes on me, deeming me too big for him to catch. Next, he set his sights on the one person he thought he could take to get at me. My wife, Eleanor.I prepared well for him, setting a few men to watch over Eleanor, and asking t

VINCENT MOREAULooking at Damian Blackwood as he told me about the problems that had arisen between himself and his wife, telling me the details just as he had from the very first instance of their saddening scenarios, I knew I would like him.Oh… do I need to introduce myself as Vincent Moreau, his friend?Maybe tell you a little about myself too…Paris is easily one of the most beautiful cities in the world, so they tell me, but it is hard to say it as a Frenchman myself, especially as one born in the densest slums of Paris, where the eyes refuse to see and the air stinks of rot and every shadow hides a blade. It was where I realised that watching my father, Édouard Moreau, was my first lesson, and it showed me how life chewed up hope between those rugged, closely packed houses we lived in. He had been a smuggler without much traction—a small-time criminal that always went chasing the next sourcd of his jobs—cigarettes, booze, fake watches, whatever he could move. For the longest t

VINCENT MOREAU The time then came when the Spider found the web he had cast over Paris a bit too small.Something about the Parisian Mafia felt minor and small scale. Nothing much except bank robberies here and there, and a few drugs being sold about. I thought that if I could play the same game somewhere else, I would be far bigger. So I gathered all that I could and moved to America. In Paris, my network had become intricate, but it was limited as well.It struck me that I wanted more power, and a delicate web spun across petty thieves, small gangs and their occasional rivals was nothing. As far as I was concerned, the city’s underworld had grown stale—or I had rather grown past it—and its opportunities had become too predictable. I wanted to be bigger and better. I wanted to be a legend.In America, with its bawling population and rising powers, I thought I was promised a larger river to cast my net over. The continent called to me like the gold rush—a haven of men with greed and

VINCENT MOREAU It would take years before I found another worthy catch. By then, my little circle and I had long gone apart, each deciding that it was time for them to do something worthwhile with what they had earned. I gave them all my blessings—did they not call me Father, anyway—and watched them build empires with what they owned.We paid good memory to Marco, a friend who was our favourite when he wasn't injecting himself with heroin. I never forgot that each time I looked at him, I saw nothing but a man who could have flown over the world but who found himself pulled down by his own weight. He could have escaped the night of Ricci's attack if he wasn't so laden with his addiction that he could do nothing to save himself. We knew it was why he truly died. It was why the words we put on his tombstone were clear:“A DEAR FRIEND WHO COULD NOT FIGHT HIS DEMONS.”We also gave half of his share of all our money to his mother and family. Of course it was more honourable to give her a

VINCENT MOREAU Damian Blackwood stared at me, his eyes narrowing.I knew he was coming to terms with as he processed my introduction. It was almost always daunting to my listeners when I told people I was the Spider, and I loved to watch them lose themselves to my spell and what I meant. The name hung in the air like smoke, curling around his thoughts, and he watched me with wariness lurking beneath his eyes. I only smiled.“You have to be French.” He observed.“I am.” I agreed. It was the hardest thing for me to deny, not with how often my accent gave me away, making it clear to everyone that English was not my first language. It did not matter to me either—as long as those who I had my eyes on were being affected by the poison of my words, I cared less for the accent.It was working on him, and I could see the battle between hesitation, caution, and need being waged in his mind, all three weighing the implications of partnering with a man like me who operated in shadows, who someh