A gun in the heart of the dance floor isn’t that unusual butmygun 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’snota 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. “FuckingCHICKEN!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 thebangfrom 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 intomyclub, raise a hand at a woman and you expectfair?”
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 dragginghimout 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 moreto 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.”
2
Hailey
Isquint against the fluorescent lights, groaning when stabbing pain pierces my skull. I move to shield my eyes, but my fingers barely twitch, my arm heavy and numb.
Each breath feels like inhaling glass shards. The sterile smell of antiseptic irritates my nose, sending a spine-tingling chill down my back. The rhythmic beeping and the soft hum of air conditioning sounds like a haunted melody played on a dissonant violin.
My mind’s heavy, hazy, so disoriented it’s as if I’m still asleep, or waking from a long, exhausting dream.
