Page 5 of Craving Chaos

Fuck me, what now?

I turn off the car, discreetly slide my gun back in its holster, and get out. Both boys amble over to stand with me.

“Is there a problem?” I ask, my voice devoid of emotion.

“There is. Seems your Italian brats like to take other people’s property.”

“That so? You got proof?” I back my blood. Always will. But in my head, I’m strangling the two shitheads standing at my sides.

“Watched the cops take ’em out of Biba’s yellow lambo.”

Fucking Christ. I never thought to ask about the car. I figured they’d nabbed something random off the street. But no, these two idiots had to target the head of the Russian mob. I can’t imagine it’s a coincidence, and Biba won’t see it that way either. He’ll want recompense.

“I don’t suppose Biba will be satisfied knowing we’ll be doling out our own punishment for their recklessness.”

The one who’s done the talking slowly turns his head side to side.

Looks like the boys are going to have to learn their lesson the hard way. “Fair enough. Fists only. Three strikes. This is the one who owes you.” I nod to Sante. “The other only followed.”

“I didn’t have to get in that car,” Tommaso says flatly.

It takes everything I have not to grimace and scream at him. I’m trying to do him a fucking favor and protect him, but he doesn’t get it. He never does.

I give a nod and look over at Sante who rolls his eyes.

“Whatever. It’s not like I haven’t taken a punch before.” He swaggers over with liquid courage still coursing through his veins. Dumbass has no clue that these guys aren’t some drunken college punks at a bar. His hands outstretch to the sides. “Do your worst.”

The one who’s done all the talking pulls his hand from his jacket pocket and I see a flash of gold as his fist barrels into Sante’s ribs. Fuck, he’s used brass knuckles.

My gun is in my hand and trained on the asshole before I can blink. This is so fucking stupid. We’re going to end up starting a war, but I have to do something. Sante will have broken ribs if he’s lucky, a ruptured spleen if he’s not.

“I said fists only,” I growl at them.

He smirks and raises his hands innocently. “It is my fist.”

“You know damn well brass is a weapon. Sante, you’re done. Get back here.”

He stumbles back to me, still bent at the waist and wheezing.

“Tommaso, your turn, since you’re so keen to get one.” This time, I address the Russians. “One hit, no brass, and we’re done here, or I play target practice, and I don’t give a fuck who I piss off.”

The guy shrugs and steps back. Tommaso crosses to the other man, who has remained silent. Both stand and stare stoically at one another.

“Make better choices, gandon.” He seems totally unbothered, but when his fist collides with my brother’s face, it’s a savage blow as though he’d been saving up a week’s worth of frustration to vent into that one strike.

Tommaso whips around, blood spurting from his mouth, but he doesn’t go down. He spits, shakes his head, then slowly stands tall. He gives the man a single look as if to say we’re done here, then walks away. He doesn’t walk to me or wait for us to be done. He goes to the house and disappears inside as though heading in for dinner rather than escaping the grim reaper. I will never understand him.

“Give Biba my apologies. It won’t happen again.” I glower at his thugs, then escort my pissant cousin to the house. I acknowledge as I do that tonight was the last straw. If I don’t do something drastic, one or both of them is going to end up dead.

CHAPTER 3

SHAE

“Hey, come on in.” I give Mari a kiss and let her in, making sure not to touch anything with my right hand because it’s covered in egg. I’m cooking chicken piccata, a personal favorite, which I needed after the day I had.

I’m not working at the club tonight, so I decided to invite her over. Mari and I are friends with benefits—that’s the best way to describe it. We started hanging out six months ago. She’s sweet, and I enjoy being around her, but I don’t see any sort of actual relationship in our future. I work nights; she works days. That alone drastically limits the time we can spend together. Between that and needing to keep my work life private, it’s easier to keep things simple, which I’ve been up front about from the beginning.

“How was your day?” she asks, setting down her things and joining me in the kitchen.

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