Page 135 of Dukes of Peril

There’s a flurry of movement among the guys, pulling the bronze metal from pockets and wallets, plucking them from lapels and baseball caps and gym bags. It’d taken Remy three hours to hunt his own pin down, all of us rifling through his drawers and art supplies only to find it attached to a denim jacket he probably hasn’t worn since Freshman year.

Sy shoots Remy a disappointed look, gesturing to the crowd.

Remy casually extends a middle finger.

“If you want Saul to remain your King,” Sy continues, “keep them. No hard feelings. But if you want Nicky to do what it takes to gain leadership,” he nods to the spot in front of him on the table, “walk up here and give it to him. But understand,” he adds, jabbing his finger into the table, “that a vote for Nick Bruin is a vote for removing Saul Cartwright by any means necessary. Any questions?” When none arise, he takes a breath, dropping back into his seat. “Then let the voting begin.”

I reach out and rest my hand on Nick’s thigh, just so he remembers that whatever happens here, we’re going to be okay. But even though I’m not expecting a reaction, he gives me one, dropping his hand to rest it over mine, solid and sure, and I realize that I can’t see an ounce of nervousness in him. Just the determination that this is the right thing to do.

Slowly, the frat lines up at the edge of the mat, but for a confusing beat, no one takes the lead. There’s a hesitation, a quiet so thick my stomach twists anxiously, and some of the guys are shuffling their feet, looking antsy.

Finally Kaczinski pushes past the first two guys and climbs up into the ring, approaching the table. He stops in front of Nick, rolling his pin between his fingers.

He takes a deep breath and meets Nick’s gaze. “It’s nothing personal, man. I never bought that stuff about you playing us for North Side or any lack of loyalty. Truth be told, I’d be happy to call you my King.”

But he closes his fist around the pin, dropping his eyes.

On either side of me, I see Nick and Sy deflate, even though both remain perfectly composed.

“It’s just that he’s been here with us from the start,” Kaczinski continues. “I know he isn’t blood, but he knows how West End works–what we need to function. He’s good at this.” Gestures to the gym, and the guys behind him. “He makes us better.”

Nick gives him a nod, and despite having a million reasons to argue, he doesn’t. Jaw tight, he says, “It’s all good, Kaz.”

It’s a bad sign. Sy, I know, has been tight with Kaczinski for a while. He’s spent hours training him for his Fury, even when he was a mess after his girl broke up with him. If Kaz isn’t in, then there’s a good chance none of them are in.

Sy watches as Kaz continues down the mat on his way out of the ring. He stops abruptly in front of Sy, but even though I can see the displeasure in his eyes, Sy still assures him. “It’s okay, Kaz. It’s a big ask–”

Kaz extends his hand, saying, “To the victor, brother,” and places the pin in front of him.

Remy’s chair creaks as he peers around Nick. Our eyes meet for a quick moment before we both look back at Sy. His back is suddenly ramrod straight, his blue-eyed glower fixed to the bronze Bruin in front of him. “Wait, that’s not–I’m not a Bruin.” His words are spoken to Kaz’s back, since he’s already headed down the stairs and off the mat.

His vote has been cast.

Before I can process it, Grant passes Nick with a nod before stopping in front of Sy, setting his pin next to the first one.

“To the victor.”

After him comes Louie, his pin hitting the table with a tinny sound that reverberates. “To the victor.”

Sy pales, wide eyes flying to his brother. “Nicky, I didn’t–I don’t–I never evenimplied–”

But Nick is trying to hide how caught off guard he is, the shutters slamming over his expression as he watches another DKS drop a pin in front of his brother. One by one, they come. Some of them stop to say something to Nick, like Ballsack.

“I’m… uh… assuming you’re a bit of a package deal,” he asks, looking torn as he pivots toward Sy.

Nick’s lips part, but when no sound emerges, he clears his throat, voice gruff. “Of course we are.”

Ballsack looks satisfied, dropping his pin in front of Sy. “Then to the motherfucking victor.”

It goes a lot faster once they all realize they’re getting the three of them, in some capacity or another. The next ten minutes pass with all thirty-nine pins being placed in front of Simon Perilini.

When I catch Remy’s eye, he’s hiding a grin, even though his peek at Nick is lined with concern. As happy as I am to see the stunned disbelief on Sy’s face, with each guy that passes him, my chest aches in sympathy for Nick. He’s worked so hard to prepare for this–to make himself an attractive leader to this group of misfits.

Sy never had to work very hard at it.

Maybe that was a sign, and I missed it, so caught up in last names and Royal formalities that I roped him into feeling a responsibility he never even wanted.

Stomach roiling with guilt, I thread our fingers together on his knee, knowing exactly how it feels to have an older sibling chosen over oneself. But Nick just gives me a gentle squeeze back, not meeting my eyes.

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