The right hand of the dominant mob family, Raine Morgan is tasked with hunting down two miscreants messing with the bottom line. He finds them on the docks, but, in the confusion of the fight, accidentally kills their victim and lets them escape. Horrified at what he's done, Raine seeks redemption as well as revenge.
Things spiral out of control when a greedy middleman overthrows Raine's mob organization. It's only with the help of a friend inside the crumbling mob as well as a streetwise artist that Raine remains undetected as he searches for the men who started this all. Raine doesn’t realize, however, he has caught the attention of a disparate conclave of gods in the process.
As the pantheon returns to the city they'd abandoned, old conflicts re-emerge, causing divine civil war. Both sides try to pull Raine to their side, expecting to find a naive god for them to manipulate. Instead, they find a man stripped of everything, intent on playing both sides as they learn an awful reality - even gods can die.
Raine made a big production of inhaling deeply. Not bad actually, a familiar mixture of hard liquor and tobacco. His breath probably smelled similar at this point in the night. “You should really go see a doctor, Turrell.”
Raine drove the glass into Turrell's hand, twisted.
The room fell silent as his scream hit the air.
Raine pivoted back, planting his foot on Turrell's chest and shoving with all his might. Turrell's hand shredded as the glass ripped through the flesh. He hit the floor.
Jaiden swung with his left; Raine raised his arm, deflected the blow. He pressed forward as Jaiden attacked again. Raine ducked under, throwing his whole weight into Jaiden's body. Jaiden slipped past as Raine toppled over Turrell. A whimper accompanied the contact as Turrell cradled his hand.
Raine hit the ground, scrambled to his feet, rebounded off a table. He spun on his heel, avoided Jaiden's fist, returned with one of his own. It connected with his jaw. Jaiden crumpled.
Vents flushed and opened with a rush of steam. Hot enough to melt skin, the air sang to Marise, a beacon leading her home. She turned her head above to the tram line to the pipes and searched for her hole. As she approached her outpost, she slowed and scoped the scene. It was just about time for the dregs of society to pour out into the street. If she was found, well . . . she shuddered. The best outcome would be her being ousted by a city worker. Every other thought left her gripping the blade in her pocket, until her hand ached from the constant pressure.
She peered over her shoulder, found no one in sight. She shifted the bag's strap across her chest and began to climb. Moonlight caressed her as she climbed, hand after hand wrapped around the beams. Faint conversation hit her ears. She paused, wedged between two pipes. Flashing neon from local bars flashed in her periphery. She shot quick glances to each side but saw no one.
She shifted her grip, yelped. Withdrawing her hand, she saw the jagged remains of a twisted bolt. She cursed herself for not paying attention, thankful it was her non-dominant hand. She tried to inspect the wound in the exuberant neons. She fought through the pain, clenching her hand. Blood flowed through fist. She wiped it on her bag.