There’s beauty in chaos.
I noticed that eight years ago, during my first day in Chicago, learning the ropes from Dante and his men.
Beauty. In. Chaos.
Every brand of chaos if you pay enough attention.
Take tonight as an example: an evening in Bravo—loud music, drunk men, people dancing, shouting, talking…
At face value, it’s fucking chaotic. There’s no rhyme or rhythm to a thousand strangers locked under one roof.
But on my first night in Bravo’s sister club—Delta—I learned how beautiful chaos is if you look closely.
And I look. I watch.
There’s the easy-to-spot, obvious beauty in the throng of ripe female bodies moving in sync with the pumping beat. In the sweat glistening between the valleys of breasts crammed into tight crop tops. Exposed stomachs adorned with navel piercings or delicate waist chains. Short skirts, high heels, the drunken sway of hips.
Then there’s a less obvious beauty in people’s interactions. The male shoulder pats, female cheek kisses, skin against skin while dancing. Throats swallowing liquor, joyful smiles, glossy eyes… the excited hum of conversations drowned by a thumping bassline.
And there’s another beauty only connoisseurs appreciate.
My favorite kind…
Beauty in carnage. In the disorder of meaningless club brawls, scraped knuckles, toothless mouths, and broken bones.
There’s an even more sinister beauty in thick, crimson blood seeping from deep wounds carved into some fucker’s skin. The cacophony of screams, pleas, tears…
But that’s another story.
Tonight, I bask in beautiful carnage.
“No Baila” by Ondreaz thumps from the speakers, sound-tracking the brawl before me. Saturdays around here are Latino rhythms. Not my favorite music, but Latin melodies get those female hips swinging, so I don’t complain.
Fists cut the air, some women scream, cry, and flee, others join in, shattering glasses against male heads. My dick hardens when a petite blonde, arms akimbo, shoves her pointy heel into a tall-as-a-tree steroid-packed asshole’s junk.
No kids for him.
And she’s coming home with me.
What started this anarchy is anyone’s guess. The fight was already in full swing when I came out from the back office. There’s a universal reason behind ninety percent of Bravo’s bloody evenings: honor. More specifically, some unfledged smooth operator defending his girl’s honor.
I approve the defending part—your girl, your priority. What I don’t approve is the mess they make in the club I’ve been entrusted to run for the past four years.
With my back propped against the bar, I lift a glass of whiskey on the rocks to my lips, swallowing a small sip. There’s already a mess so I might as well enjoy the show. Who knows? One of those fuckers might take a shot at me.
It’s been a while since I disemboweled anyone. I might get lucky tonight.
“How much longer?” Broadway asks, his elbow resting on the wooden counter, a crystal glass of neat whiskey beside him.
He doesn’t water his alcohol down.
“Not long now.”
He nods, impatient eyes skimming over the crowd. Broadway’s my so-called right-hand man. He’s ruthless, loyal to a fault, and—what I appreciate most—not afraid to question me.
I’m not the boss in Chicago, that’s Dante Carrow, a man I consider a mentor and friend. I’m his right-hand man, which earned me a small, trusted crew of my own.
Broadway’s a part of it. My right-hand man, vetted by Dante but answering to me. As his catchy nickname suggests, he aspired for the stage, honing his craft for years…
Until one sunny day three years ago when he fucked the wrong girl and got his knees broken with a baseball bat. Long story short, he single-handedly exercised revenge, wheelchair-binding four men for the rest of their miserable lives. Coincidentally, those four fuckers had been giving Dante headaches, so Broadway’s stunt earned him a spot on my team.
He pops a peanut into his mouth, watching a bodybuilder lift a teenage-looking guy over his head, ready to toss him into the crowd.
“How about now?” Broadway asks. His fingers hover and flex over the bowl like he wants to make peanut butter with his fist.
“Almost,” I muse when the kid goes airborne.
He doesn’t fly far…
Three of his friends reach to catch him but go down like bowling pins when he plows into them. An empty glass smacks the back of the bodybuilder’s head, making him spin on the sole of his heavy combat boot. He glares at the feisty blonde from earlier, his eyes narrowed, murder on his mind.
She doesn’t bat an eyelash, unfazed by the raging slab of muscles, her hand raised, another glass at the ready.
Fuck, we will not get home fast enough if she keeps this up. I’ll fuck her on the elevator ride to the underground parking lot.
Holding his gaze, she winds her elbow back and throws…
The glass bounces off the guy’s buzzed scalp, leaving a visible dent. The fury simmering in his gaze tells me he doesn’t care she’s a four-foot-eight woman in heels while he’s a seven-foot chunk of beef. He’ll smack her about no questions asked.
Now that’s a sin I can’t overlook.
“Carter,” Broadway urges, shoulders squared and hands in tight fists. “Give me the green light.”
“Yeah, go.” I push away from the bar and signal the other two thirds of my team—Koby and Ryder—with a flick of my wrist. They’re chatting up two gorgeous babes at the far end of the sleek bar, not as interested in the brawl as Broadway and I.
Not half as impatient to throw their fists either.
Any other day, they’re up there with Broadway, but tonight is Saturday. The one day during an otherwise busy week when we unwind.
Whoever started the fight violated that sacred, unwritten rule. The annoyance droning around Koby clearly states he’s not pleased about being interrupted… and pissing him off is a bad idea.
All three of my men jump straight into the action. It’s impossible to count how many other people are moving, dodging, and flinging punches, but twenty is a reasonable guess.
Broadway’s there first and knocks out four within seconds. His fists are the size of Thor’s hammer, and he slings them around as if they’re not fucking deadly.
Ryder’s more brain than fists, so he grabs the tiny blonde by the waist, dragging her away from the brawl. Now he’s got his hands around her, she’s under his protection and God forbid the bodybuilder hurts a hair on her head. It’d send a normally composed Ryder flying off the handle.
And Koby… in a lazy ass tempo: elbow, fist, kick, elbow and three men down. He’s a force of nature. Fucking hailstorm if the hail’s the size of golf balls. Texas born and raised, he doesn’t play games and his temper snaps as easily as a dry twig.
Me? I’m not as easy to throw off balance. Not a hothead anymore. I’ve seen it all by now, but in the rare cases when my temper skyrockets, I’m wrath personified.
With both sleeves of my white shirt rolled halfway up my forearms, exposing the serpents and skulls inked into my skin, I move, aiming for the seven-foot of artificially gained muscles.
I’m a foot shorter and his bicep is the size of my thigh. He could crack my skull open without breaking a sweat but…
This isn’t a fucking street fight.
Like Koby, I don’t play games. I don’t position myself in the losing spot for any reason, so instead of throwing my fists, I pull my Glock from a holster tucked against the small of my back and I flick the safety.
The music changes to the Alesso remix of J. Balvin’s “Mi Gente”, the bass shaking the floor, but even in the deafening noise, the distinct click summons attention.
I doubt anyone heard, but they saw.
One elbow nudges another, then another, and curious heads whip toward me. Eyes bulge out of their sockets, trained on the barrel aimed at the back of the bodybuilder’s head.
A gun in the heart of the dance floor isn’t that unusual but my gun isn’t a regular occurrence. I don’t execute for the sake of executing: a trait I didn’t inherit from my father.
Pointless bloodshed is just that—pointless.
I didn’t pull the gun out intending to shoot. It’s simply the fastest way to break up a brawl when it’s no longer entertaining.
People notice. More heads whip around, focusing on the glinting metal in my palm.
The sudden stillness makes the bodybuilder turn, coming face to face with the gun, yet he doesn’t falter. He doesn’t even blink. Most civilians would shit their pants standing in this guy’s shoes. Not him, though. He stares into the barrel, not a care in the world, which tells me he’s not a civilian.
He’s either a wannabe soldier looking for a way into Dante’s crew, or a bottom-ranking soldier dumb enough to think challenging me will fast-track his promotion.
He wouldn’t be the first to hope that piercing holes in my armor could earn him my place.
The corner of his mouth curls into a cocky, condescending smirk. “Chicken,” he mouths, flexing his veiny muscles. “Can’t take me on without a gun?!” Now he yells. Loud enough for everyone in the vicinity to hear his desperation. “Fucking CHICKEN! You call yourself a gangster?!”
Not even once.
“You thought this would be a fist fight? Think again.”
He raises both hands, making a show as he twirls. “This is the guy you’re all afraid of?! He’s a fucking pussy! Look at him!”
I pull the trigger.
The bullet shatters his kneecap. The silencer muffles the worst of the bang from the club but the soft whoosh sure frightens those standing nearby.
The fighting ceased the moment my finger slid onto the trigger and now everyone’s gathered in a circle, watching the walking tree fall to his uninjured knee. He doesn’t cry out, which is pretty fucking impressive.
A bullet to the knee hurts like a bitch. If he wasn’t a tool, he’d be considered for Dante’s newly formed Team Muscle.
“This isn’t a fair fight,” he grinds out, marshaling his expression to mask the pain of torn tendons and shattered bones. “This is how we’re gonna play? Fine by me, chicken. Give me a fucking gun and let’s go!”
I cock an amused brow. “Fair? What delusional reality do you live in? Life isn’t fair. You come into my club, raise a hand at a woman and you expect fair?”
My phone vibrates in my pocket. One glance at my smartwatch has this little shitshow coming to a premature end. I would’ve enjoyed dragging this out. I would’ve enjoyed dragging him out to have more fun in private, but my father rarely calls. And never with good news so I release another bullet, shattering the guy’s other kneecap.
This time, he does cry out. No wonder: he just ran out of knees. He falls clumsily to his side, blood oozing onto the stark white, illuminated floor.
I come closer, crouching beside him. “There’s plenty more where those two came from. If I ever see you again, one will end up in your fucking skull.”
Flipping the safety back on, I turn, rise and nod at Koby and Ryder, simultaneously shoving the gun back in its holster.
My phone doesn’t stop ringing.
Rhett Willard knows this game better than I do. He’s had thirty years more than me to learn the ropes, thirty years more to live through every scenario imaginable. He knows I might be in the middle of a meeting, invasion, or torture session, so he patiently waits until I wrap up.
I motion at the bartender, signaling that I want a drink delivered to my office, then press my palm to a biometric scanner and enter a narrow, dark corridor.
I don’t answer the call until I pinch a cigarette between my lips, filling my lungs with smoke. “Rhett.”
