Page 31 of Chaos
Zeus and Demon stand against the wall behind me, silent sentinels watching the room. Demon’s eyes constantly scan for threats, never settling in one place for long. Professional. Always professional.
“Arabo’s right." Antoine finally speaks, his voice tight. "We need more intel.”
I force myself to think strategically despite the rage clouding my vision. "We need someone on the inside who can feed us information about their operation without raising suspicion."
Antoine leans back, hands spread. "My people are too recognizable in those circles."
“As are mine," David agrees. "Their security would make any Chaldean immediately."
All eyes turn to me. The unspoken question passes between us.
"The Renegade Kings will handle it," I finally confirm, closing the folder. "We'll put someone in place by the end of the week. Regular customer with deep pockets. Someone who can blend in, gain their trust."
Plans are laid. By the time the meeting wraps up with handshakes, we have the beginnings of a strategy. Not the all-out assault my blood demands, but something smarter. Something that'll hit these fuckers where it really hurts.
As we leave, Fury pulls his phone from his pocket, frowning at the screen.
“Fuck.” His face pales as he reads whatever message he's received.
"What’s up?”
“It's Adriana—my stepsister. She's in the hospital." His voice cracks. “OD’d at a college party. She's in a coma." He looks up at me, pain in his eyes. “What do you want to bet it’s Raven?”
Fuck. This just became personal.
"Let's roll," I tell him, already heading for the door. “Demon, head back to the compound. And keep an eye on my ol’ lady for me."
The ride to Detroit Memorial is silent and fast, our bikes tearing through the near-empty streets. Fury's usually a careful rider, but tonight he pushes his Harley to the limit, weaving through traffic like it's standing still. I follow close, watching his back as I've done for fifteen years.
Henry Ford’s emergency entrance is lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree, ambulances coming and going. We park near the ambulance bay—no one questions Renegade Kings. They know better around here.
Inside, the antiseptic smell hits me like a bitch slap. I hate hospitals. Too many bad memories—sitting beside my mother, holding her hand as she slipped away. The beeping machines. The hushed voices. The fucking helplessness of it all.
Fury strides to the reception desk, demanding information about his stepsister. The nurse behind the desk eyes us warily but directs us to the third floor. In the elevator, Fury's knuckles turn white as he grips the rail.
"She's young and strong," I tell him, not knowing what else to say.
He just nods, jaw working. I've known him since we were teens—watched him patch in, earn his stripes, become my most trusted brother. I've seen him bust heads and broker dealswithout breaking a sweat. But this—his baby sister fighting for her life—I can see what this is doing to him.
On the third floor, a doctor meets us—a young guy with dark circles under his eyes who doesn't even blink at our appearance. He explains Adriana's condition in medical terms that neither of us fully understands, but the bottom line is clear: she might not wake up, and if she does, there could be permanent brain damage.
"Somebody slipped it in her drink," Fury says, his voice hollow. "She wouldn't take that shit willingly. Not Adi. She's pre-med, for fuck's sake."
The doctor doesn't argue. "She's in room 312. Only immediate family allowed, and one visitor at a time.”
I squeeze Fury's shoulder. "Go. I'll wait here."
He disappears down the hall, shoulders hunched like he's carrying the weight of the world. I find a waiting area with uncomfortable chairs and vending machines humming in the corner. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting everything in a sickly glow.
I check my phone. A text from Rowan.
Miss you.
My chest tightens, warmth spreading through me despite the circumstances. She's fucking adorable.
I text back.
Club business.
