Page 1 of Craving Chaos

CHAPTER 1

SHAE

As far as I'm concerned, a ponytail might as well be a leash. People tend to think my short hair is some sort of edgy statement. I love fashion as much as the next girl, but my cut and style are all about strategy. I’m already at a size disadvantage to most anyone who would want to hurt me. Why make it any easier for them?

Judging by the number of young women with long hair, it’s clear that not everyone makes their fashion choices anticipating a fight. To each her own. With two older brothers and a family in organized crime, I put more thought into whether a blouse will prevent me from getting out of a headlock than how my cleavage looks.

That’s who I am. I wouldn’t know how to be anyone different.

In that vein, I’ve chosen to wear stilettos to my meeting at the docks with the Donatis. Or should I call them the Morettis? I’m never sure with the Italians. Their organization is the Moretti family, but none of them are actually Morettis. At the moment, the Donati family is sitting in leadership.

It makes no sense.

My family business, on the other hand, is exactly that. Blood. My father was one of the three original Byrne brothers who built the business from the ground up. They ensured our name was synonymous with respect, not confusion. Granted, the Italians have numbers on their side, but I’d rather be a Byrne any day of the week and twice on Sundays.

I never gave much thought in the past to the Italians aside from what sort of threat they posed. We’ve somewhat recently become allies with the Moretti family. In our line of work, allies is an amorphous concept. We do business together, but I don’t trust them for a second. Showing up to a meeting armed to the teeth, however, might look disrespectful. Therefore, I have to be creative in my weapon selection.

Cue the stilettos.

Guys love to see a woman in heels—all they see is sex. Fine by me. I can do as much damage with a five-inch Jimmy Choo as I can a knife.

See, fashion is all kinds of fun.

Aside from helping me arm myself, fashion is also a useful tool to disguise and mislead. A woman who puts energy into her appearance is often overlooked as nothing more than eye candy. I’ve worked my ass off to be seen as an equal by the men in my family, but I’ve found a strategic advantage in allowing a rival to underestimate me.

By the way Renzo Donati’s two men are eyeing me with salacious smirks, I know I’ve hit my mark.

“Shae Byrne,” I say by way of introduction. “We’re here with a truck to pick up our crates.” Crates full of guns. Lots of guns.

My cousin Oran had teamed up with the Donatis to take down a powerful man involved in sex trafficking. A part of the intricate plan involved moving a shipment of our guns through the ports controlled by the Moretti Mafia organization. Now that the operation is over, it’s time to get our guns back.

A lanky man with hair pulled back in a bun pats the crate beneath him. “Everything’s here, but the forklift isn’t cooperating. Doubt you want to move all of it by hand.”

A machine with more rust than paint sits motionless behind him. Ten crates of guns weighing hundreds of pounds apiece. Guns are a fuck-ton heavier than one might think. That is not what I wanted to do with my Friday night.

I look back at my three guys. “Any of you good with machines?”

“Won’t do you any good.” Renzo Donati appears from beneath the forklift, wiping his hands on a rag as he gets to his feet. “Looks like the fuel regulator is out. Closest working forklift is two piers over, which will take an hour to transport over at the pace these things travel.”

If I have learned anything in the past ten years of working in a predominantly male-run industry, it’s that men are masters at talking out of their asses. They will assert all kinds of shit as though it’s gospel even though there isn’t a shred of truth behind it, as if it’s better to take a stab in the dark than admit to uncertainty.

Heaven forbid they not know something.

I look back at my guys again, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Sammy lifts his chin. “I can take a look.” He rolls up his sleeves and walks to the forklift, ignoring Donati, who narrows his gaze at me.

“You don’t trust my judgment?”

“Never hurts to get a second opinion. It’s nothing personal.” As if a man like Donati can have his opinion questioned and not take it as a personal affront. Unfortunately, I’m not one to tiptoe around a man’s fragile ego. “The crates have been sitting here for a month. I’d rather not delay if we don’t have to.”

Donati prowls toward me, slow as a cat preparing to pounce. He’s tall. I’m five-four and wearing five-inch heels, and he’s still several inches taller than me. Where my blue eyes are mottled with flecks of gold, his are a pristine blue—crisp and clear as a sunny winter sky. He clearly knows how to use them to his advantage, staring menacingly in a way that might make a normal person need to fidget.

I meet every ounce of his stare head-on and smirk.

You want to play, big guy? Game on.

He doesn’t take his eyes off mine except for the briefest glance down at his phone when he places a call, stopping a mere two feet away from me. “Conner, hey. The forklift is acting up. I’d say we could load it up by hand, but your little cousin is here, and she’s not exactly dressed for hard labor.”

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