There was a time when being related to Lucifer was enough to keep the proverbial wolves from the door. Judging by the snarling bastard who stood over me, his meaty fist dotted with my blood, those days were gone.

“Well, good morning to you too,” I mumbled, looking up through watering eyes. My nose throbbed something awful.

The big bruiser-Marcus D’anatello-just smiled. While a pretty big guy myself, certainly not lacking in the muscle department, I had nothing on Marcus. Built like a silverback gorilla on steroids, he hovered over me enjoying the moment. His Armanisuited bulk blocked out what little light filtered between the buildings. Fortunately for me, his bald head and pearly white teeth provided enough to see by. I didn’t like what I saw.

He gestured for me to get up, taking a short step back to give me room. I did so, hesitantly, expecting to be hit again. He surprised me.

Marcus and I had a history. It wasn’t so long ago I took a 2x4 to that gleaming dome of his. I dented it up pretty damn good. Turns out, he’s not the most forgiving of fellows.

“What can I do for you, Marcus?” I asked, not really expecting an answer that didn’t involve his fists.

“It’s not what you can do for him, Mr. Trigg, but what you can do for Baalth,” a reserved, measured voice answered from behind Marcus.

I peered around D’anatello’s hulking shoulder to see an older man striding toward us. My stomach tightened into a hard knot as I recognized him; Alexander Poe, Baalth’s psychic enforcer. Dressed conservatively in an understated gray suit, a look of solemn determination etched into his face. I knew then it was business, not personal. Something was going down.

“Where’s the bitch?” Marcus asked, the smile gone, his eyes feral.