Around me, the VIP section bristles with Capos and Underbosses—some born to blood, some baptized by loyalty, all call meBoss.
Half-naked women share cigarettes and laughter; gold-necked men in suits nod approvingly. The Sicilians in our corner shout instructions to Max, but he doesn’t take orders from anyone. He dominates. A lazy left fist for bait, then that hammer of a right.
I rest my ankle on my knee.
“Clay, you listening, old boy? How’s your hearing these days?” Bronson mocks. He’s worked through half the bar, slumped in a tailored suit, tattoos flashing from his open collar, hand anchoredon my arm affectionately.
He squeezes.
I turn to look at him properly. His pupils are like hungry black holes, his smile stretched too wide, a jaw tic warning of mischief.
Of insanity.
Beside him sits his wife, Shoshanna—perfect posture, long dark hair, that tanned Egyptian skin, cradling a glass of water with two lime wedges, her eyes split between Bronson and the ring. She’s navigated our world longer than most, practically grew up with my brothers.
Bronson leans closer to me. “Anything you want me to handle before the wedding? Perhaps kill some bikers?”
I consider my whiskey glass for a moment, then study Bronson’s chipped front tooth. He has already been knuckles deep in the Stockyard Bikers twice this month over a pharmaceutical shipment.
Yet, that fractured tooth is from when he found a road train filled with underage girls smuggled from Indonesia. Docked in Darwin, driven south to The District. The men who met that delivery didn’t see morning.
Bikers.
Fuckers.
Since we took out their Sergeant at Arms more than a year ago, they have been poking around our dealings, presuming—assuming—we’ve grown soft. ‘The Butchers are domesticated,’ they have whispered into the wrong ears. ‘With the home renovations, wives, cribs, and wedding announcements, they’re going soft.’
We aren’t softening at all.
We’re evolving—refining our operation into something Jimmy Storm couldn’t even comprehend. More disciplined. More lethal. More patient.
My District.
My fucking empire.
A legacy for my sons.
My eyes flick to Max, who is now whispering to his battered opponent. No threats, just facts. The Tuscan nods, alive but changed, and limps away.
Another lesson taught.
I’ll see he’s paid well for his time. There’s a euphoria in the pain and the money. Most never admit it. Blood, endorphins, pain, and the exchange of cash.
He took his beating well. I approve. If he shows his loyalties on the District streets, I’ll have him take his vows. I don’t know what saint is suitable yet; he’ll have to show his colours first.
“I’m not worried about the bikers,” I say. “Let them be menaces. It only allows us to clean up, to be gentlemen. We need the cops in our pocket for when the Family arrives,se?We need them prepared to lie to the Feds.” I hear so much of my old Don in my voice.
“Alceu and the other fuckers are coming then?”
“I may have shamed them with the divorce, but they will come. It would be a great insult to me and to my bride if they did not. I will assume their presence.”
“Fuck ‘em, beautiful brother.”
Yes, I may have once felt that way—fuck ‘em. But not anymore. Not since I signed the divorce papers, not since I held my sons, and realised thatIcommand respect.
I have the sons.
I have the blood.
