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Chapter Thirteen

Cyrus

Iwatch Blair leave, her shoulders held back as anger flashes in her eyes. For some reason, I’m angry on her behalf. I might not get along with her or want her here, but that doesn’t mean she should be spoken to like a piece of shit by her own mother.

What’s with their relationship? What did she mean when she saidruined enough?

It’s none of our business, but I glare over at Meredith’s retreating back. I don’t like the cunt anyway; it’s clear she’s a gold digger like Blair says. Even the way she had flipped her hair over her shoulder and smiled at us cruelly before leaving annoyed me. I’ll remind her why she’s not welcome up here. This is our house, not hers.

She’s just a passing cunt for our lonely, gullible father who is obsessed with falling in love—it’s where Asher gets it from. Me? Not so fucking much. I know love doesn’t exist, and relationships are nothing but toxic bullshit. I spent too many years watching my own mother drink herself to death and viewing their fights and what his unrealistic standards of her did to him. I don’t blame him. No, she was an evil bitch, but he was too blind to see it.

I never will be.

Bray understands. He appreciates women for the passing fancy they are, and whereas I am cruel to them so they know what I think, he’s the opposite. He breaks their hearts and leaves with a smile—I think my way is nicer.

“It’s not our business,” I snap at them when I see Asher preparing to get involved. His hero complex means he wants to save everyone. Bray frowns, his usually happy eyes darkening. He’s undoubtedly reliving our own mother’s abuse.

I grab his head and force him to look at me to get rid of those demons. I might be the biggest and meanest Crew, but my brothers are more like me than most think. Bray might smile and act cheeky, but under it all is a hurt little boy who’s now grown into a scarred, angry man. He’s just slower to anger, but when he does... not even I would start with him.

Asher, well, let’s just say he’s an artist with a knife as well as a paintbrush.

“Let’s go. Those uptown fuckers have been on our turf again. I just got a tip off.”

Bray’s lips curve in a dark, dangerous grin. “Are we going to remind them why they shouldn’t?” he purrs.

I smirk too, already tasting the imminent violence as my cock hardens from the thought. “Too fucking right we are. Bring your knuckles.” I let go and grab my jacket. “Leave them to their business, it has nothing to do with us. Like she said, they will be gone soon. She’s nothing but a temporary complication, and she won’t get in the way of our life.”

* * *

We take our bikes, knowing we’ll need a quick getaway. We pull up to the back of the dive bar where the fights are, then we storm through the grounds, ignoring the calls and greetings. This is business, not pleasure. I even ignore Leigh, who’s vying for my attention when we step inside. She can be my punching bag later, taking all my anger as I fuck her—it’s the only thing she is good for. Hell, I might even gag her so she can’t run that annoying mouth about makeup, who kissed who, and bullshit gossip again.

The sound of fists hitting flesh is loud as the crowd cheers the fighters on. It stinks of cheap beer, hash, and sweaty bodies as we search the throng. Our height gives us an advantage, so I find them easily enough. The four skinny bastards, in their low-slung jeans, wife beaters, and beanies are hanging out in the corner. They wear cocky smirks and have girls on their knees, thinking they are safe.

They are wrong.

This is our city, not theirs.

It’s time to remind them of that.

The crowd parts for us, and even the fight stops. Everyone knows what’s going to happen as we stride up before them. The one in the middle notices us first, and he pales but continues to smirk, his eyes gleaming with fear even as he pretends to be tough. The others stand and flash their guns as I raise my eyebrows.

“It seems you have forgotten our agreement,” I snarl.

“What’s that, rich boy?” he questions as he laughs, stroking the cunt’s leg on his lap.

“You don’t cross over to our side, and we don’t kill you.” I grin at him as I crack my knuckles and lift my shirt, flashing my own gun.

He loses the smile and stands, pushing the bitch to the floor as he faces off with me. “Quit playing gangsters, rich boys, it’s going to get you killed.”

“The only one dying here will be you.” I jerk my head. “Let’s go.” With that, I turn, showing them my back as I head through the crowd. It’s silent, and then squeals and cheers go up as the crowd follows us outside. I rip off my jacket, and with a wink, I toss it to Leigh to hold. She acts like I’ve given her a fucking ring, when in reality, I just don’t want it dirty, but it keeps her happy and her pussy easy, so I let it be... for now.

Asher pulls his shirt off, showing his hard-won muscles, and palms his knife in his hand as Bray cheers with the crowd, donning his brass knuckles as he cracks his neck and looks to the four men stepping up. They wouldn’t dare use their guns with this many people, and we can’t either. Not even our money could wipe away a murder charge caught on camera. We don’t need them though.

We don’t posture or wait, instead I charge them first. Everyone thinks we got our name and reputation from our daddy’s money, and they always underestimate us until it’s too late. We show them that now; we show them why we are the fucking kings of this city. The pussy, money, drugs, and streets are ours.

I knock him out in one punch, and he goes down hard. I laugh as I step back. The next throws himself at me, but I block his flurry of punches. The blade he pulls slices across my arm, and I hiss, narrowing my eyes on him. He knows he’s fucked up. I grab his head and smash mine into his. When he stumbles back, I slam my fist into his face again and again, driving him to his knees and then to his back where I slam my boot into his face and ribs. I hear an audible crack as he screams, and when I smash my boot into his face, crunching his nose, blood spurts over the grass and he passes out.

I ache to carry on, my muscles burning with the effort of refraining. My anger blazes like a fire inside me, taunting me, telling me to kill him, to keep going until he’s a bloodied, unmoving pulp. I restrain myself though.

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