Hell, I wouldn’t even bury him. I’d leave his body in the open and let the animals pick him apart.
We’d swear allegiance to the Sons, but we weren’t the kind of men who’d crawl on our knees to become one.
Men who begged for power looked weak.
And weakness had no place in the Night Sons.
Societies where superiors degraded others reminded me of frat houses, and no fucking thank you on that.
But this Initiation was far riskier than any humiliation ritual. If you failed, they killed you at the end.
The tiers above me slowly illuminated, masks emerging from the darkness. Each mask had glowing neonX’s where their eyes should’ve been. A thin, horizontal slash marked each mouth.
It was showtime for the Night Sons.
Both Current Sons and the Elders.
More masks came to life on the chamber floor. These were the Current Sons, the ones I’d work beside and stand with.
Fuck the old bastards in the tiers. These men were the only brotherhood that mattered to me.
I stood alone at the center of the chamber, barefaced and unhidden, unlike them, as I felt each stare on me.
I popped my knuckles. Not one for patience, I threw my arms out in awhat’s nextgesture. They had come here for a show, and I was going to fucking give them one.
I’d give them the best, bloodiest fucking Initiation they’d ever seen.
I was a Marchetti, and we were the kings of violence.
A spotlight came on overhead, flooding the centerof the chamber with harsh light. It illuminated what looked like a boxing ring, stripped to the bones, with no ropes or padding. Just a wide square of concrete.
The chamber door opened again, and a masked Night Son stepped inside, moving toward the ring with long strides.
Tape was wrapped around his knuckles, and he cracked his neck the same way I had minutes ago.
I knew the next step without needing any explanation.
Music suddenly blasted, an old Obie Trice song playing, flowing from hidden speakers above in the soundproof room as I strode toward the ring.
The masked Son ripped off his mask and tossed it aside. Him wearing a mask would’ve been a severe disadvantage for me, making it harder for me to bash his face in.
Paul’s eyes met mine from across the ring. He was chosen to lead the society that year. He was also the Son who’d brought me in and the realest dude I knew.
This was his final year before he became an Elder and moved back to the UK to resume his normal life.
Neither of us waited for a signal. We moved fast, closing the distance as we collided. Paul swung first, his fist cutting through the air toward my jaw. I twisted to the side, sidestepping his strike, and immediately swung back. My fist slammed into his face, and I grinned at the sound of bones cracking.
Pain shot through my knuckles as I shook out my hand, unsure whether the cracks belonged to my bones or his face. Probably both.
I wouldn’t know until later. The adrenaline canceled out any discomfort.
His next hit made contact, landing on the right side of my face. My head flung to the side at the blow. Before I could fully recover, his fist drove into my face again. My teeth clacked together. I groaned, driving my head forward and slamming my forehead into his. Paul staggered back but caught himself before he lost his balance.
We bounced on our toes as we fought, hitting each other, one strike after another. Paul was as violent as I was, so I wasn’t dealing with an amateur.
Our fists flew through the air, delivering blow after blow.
Kick after kick.
