I’m not the boss in Chicago, that’s Dante Carrow, a man I consider a mentor and friend. I’mhisright-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 willnotget 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 notpleased about being interrupted... and pissing him off is abadidea.
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 distinctclicksummons attention.
I doubt anyone heard, but theysaw.
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.
