1
Carter
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 inBravo—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 inBravo’s sister club—Delta—I learned how beautiful chaos is if you look closely.
And I look. Iwatch.
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 piercingsor 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 ofBravo’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.
