Chapter 2
Chaos
A roar vibrates through the crowd as Demon lands another bone-crushing blow to his opponent's ribs. Blood spatters across the cage floor, and I lean forward in my chair, watching our Sergeant at Arms work like the precise fighting machine he is.
"That's what I'm talking about!" Zeus bellows beside me, his fist pumping the air. "Fucking beautiful.”
The warehouse thrums with energy beneath the lights, the scent of beer, blood, and testosterone hanging in the air.
This place has been a goldmine for the past five years, pulling in more cash than most of our legitimate businesses combined.
The city's elite mix with street hustlers, all drawn to both the betting and the raw spectacle we provide.
Fiend balances three bottles of beer. He hands one to Zeus and offers me the other. I chug half of it in one long swallow. I don't usually drink during business hours, and fight night is always business, but tonight I could use something to take the edge off.
“Demon’s gonna finish him in the next round," Fiend says. "Look at that footwork."
I nod in agreement. He remains undefeated—twenty-seven straight wins in our underground ring. The Detroit Demon, they call him.
Fury, my VP, leans in, keeping his voice just loud enough for the four of us to hear. “Fucking Colombians are bad fucking news. They're pushing their shit into Eastside territory now. Heard three kids OD'd at Wayne State last week.”
“Motherfuckers don't give a goddamn if their shit kills people,” Zeus spits out.
My jaw clenches. The Los Cuervos cartel has been creeping closer to our turf for months, testing boundaries, seeing how much they can get away with.
Their new drug—Raven—is poison in powder form, but it's cheap and highly addictive.
Perfect for hooking college kids and desperate junkies who can't afford anything else.
We scared a couple of their dealers, low-level street thugs, off with a threat a few days ago.
The bell rings for round two, and Demon stalks his opponent like a predator.
The other guy is bigger, but size means nothing when you're facing a man with natural talent who was trained in the Marines and further hardened by years of underground cage fighting.
Demon fights with calculated brutality, every move planned three steps ahead.
"Fucking demolish him!" Zeus calls through cupped hands.
Kandi, one of the cut sluts, breaks away from the cluster of club girls pressed against the cage, their barely-there outfits and tits on full display.
Her eyes are trained on me like a laser beam as she heads my way on her six-inch stripper heels.
She winks, running her tongue across her bottom lip, a gesture she probably thinks is seductive.
The cut sluts serve their purpose—they keep the unmarried brothers happy and handle certain.
..entertainment duties when we host parties.
But they're also needy as hell, always angling for more attention, more status, more everything.
Kandi's been particularly pushy around me lately, making it clear she'd love to use me to upgrade her status from club whore to ol’ lady.
Not fucking happening.
I don’t fuck around with cut sluts and damn sure never touched Kandi. But maybe I should shut her shit down more forcefully. Yeah, I probably need to do that soon.
“Hey, Chaos, baby,” She juts out her silicone tits and twirls her bleach-blonde hair around her finger. “How ‘bout I show you a really good time tonight?”
Bitch stands right in front of me, blocking my view.
“Busy tonight.” I wave her away. "Find one of the other brothers to entertain you."
Kandi flashes an exaggerated pout. "But—"
“No.” I cut her off, nodding toward our club Road Captain. "Try Zeus. He likes blondes."
Zeus flips me off without taking his eyes off the fight. Kandi doesn’t even bother with him. She huffs something under her breath as she struts off toward easier prey.
Fiend laughs, clapping Zeus on the shoulder. "Prez is trying to get you laid, brother."
"I can find my own pussy, thank you very much,” Zeus says.
We’re all close. Any one of us would take a bullet for the other, but Fiend and Zeus are especially tight. The two have been inseparable since Zeus patched in eight years ago—brothers in every way except blood.
“Fuck.” Fiend’s phone screen draws his attention. His face is expressionless, but I catch the tension in his shoulders. "We got a problem, Prez. Tank and Biggy aren't responding to comms."
I suppress an eyeroll. Tank and Biggy are prospects—wannabe members working their asses off to earn their patches.
They're stationed outside tonight, keeping watch while we run the fights.
Both are hungry to prove themselves, especially Biggy.
That boy would take a bullet before he'd shirk his duties.
"How long?" I run a hand over the scruff on my jaw.
"Twenty minutes since their last check-in." Fiend pounds a fist into his palm. "I'm about to go out there and make them wish they'd never been born."
I give a head nod, but something cold settles in my gut—the same instinct that's kept me alive through fourteen years of running this club. Biggy's solid. He wouldn't fuck around, not tonight.
I force my focus back to the fight just as Demon delivers a devastating uppercut that lifts his opponent off his feet. The man crashes to the mat, unconscious before he hits the ground. The crowd explodes.
"Ladies and gentlemen, still undefeated—our own Detroit Demon!" the announcer's voice booms over the speaker system.
Demon circles the cage with his arms raised, his dark eyes scanning the room until they find mine. I give him a subtle thumbs up—good work, brother.
My phone buzzes with a text from Fiend.
outside NOW
No explanation. No details.
"With me," I tell Zeus and Fury, already elbowing through the crowd.
The night air hits us as we exit the back door into the alley behind the warehouse. The first thing I see is Fiend kneeling beside a body. Blood—too much of it—spreads across the concrete.
Tank lies face up, eyes vacant, chest carved open. Beside him, Biggy lies lifeless as well.
"Fuck," Zeus breathes behind me.
Then Biggy twitches. His body suddenly convulses as blood bubbles from his lips.
"Get Doc," I snap, and Zeus takes off running back inside.
I crouch beside Fiend, taking in the crude symbol carved into Tank's chest—a bird with spread wings. A fucking crow. Los Cuervos making their mark.
"He's gone," Fiend says of Tank. "Biggy's hanging on by a thread."
I press my fingers to Tank's neck anyway, finding nothing but cooling skin. Dammit. The kid couldn't have been more than twenty-two.
Doc bursts through the door, medical bag in hand. He's an older brother, gray beard and steady hands, a former military medic. He provides emergency care on fight nights and has patched us up more times than I can count.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters, kneeling beside Biggy. His hands move with practiced efficiency, checking vitals, applying pressure to wounds. "We need to get him to a hospital, Chaos. I don't have the equipment for this."
"Hospital?" Fury shakes his head. "Cops will be all over us."
“It’s his only chance, brother. He’s in a bad way,” Doc assures Fury.
I make the split-second decision. “Get a cage. Now."
Fury runs for his truck as Doc continues working on Biggy, preparing him for transport. I stand, scanning the alley, rage building in my chest. Two of my prospects attacked on my turf, right outside my fucking door.
"Spread out," I order. "Look for shell casings, footprints, anything."
My brothers move into action, searching the area with phone flashlights.
"They got the drop on them," Fiend says, voice tight. "Professional hit."
Los Cuervos sending a message. Testing our response. My blood boils as I look down at Tank's mutilated body.
"Zeus, get the security footage. I want to see everything." I point toward the warehouse. "Fiend, coordinate with the others for a body removal. Make sure to keep the spectators inside until we can get the area cleared. Don't want civilians out here panicking.”
Twelve minutes later, I'm staring at grainy security footage on Zeus's laptop, watching two figures in dark clothing approach our prospects.
The image quality is shit, but I can make out the general sequence of events—a brief conversation, then sudden violence.
Tank takes a bullet first, then Biggy attempts to fight back before he goes down too.
I watch it three times before I notice something else. At the edge of the frame, just for a few seconds, I catch a glimpse of movement. A shadow that doesn't belong. It quickly disappears behind the building.
"Stop." I point to the edge of the frame. "Back it up."
Zeus rewinds the footage, and I watch again. Same shadow, same quick movement. Someone else was there. Someone or something witnessed the slaughter.
My mind races through possibilities. For all I know, it could have been a stray dog, but there’s a gnawing in my gut that I’ve learned not to ignore.
"Enhance that," I say, leaning closer.
“I ain't CSI, prez,” Zeus mutters, but he zooms in anyway. The shadow is blurry, small.
My pulse quickens.
I stand abruptly and stride toward the door.
“Chaos? Where you going?" Zeus calls out.
I don't answer. Can't explain the compulsion driving me back outside, back to the scene of what’s possibly a double homicide—unless Biggy miraculously happens to pull through.
Without another word, I head back outside. The guys look up from where they're still processing the scene. Several patched brothers have already hauled away Tank’s body.
Mayhem is behind the wheel of Fury’s truck as it idles nearby with Biggy inside, ready to take off as Doc climbs in, holding pressure on Biggy’s wounds.
"Take him to Henry Ford Hospital,” I tell Mayhem. "Use the back entrance. Cash only. No club cuts."
I move past them to the spot where I saw the shadow on camera. Something pulls me there—instinct, maybe.
I don’t see a thing. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Except…
It’s a long shot, but in the interest of covering all bases, I stride over to the dumpster. With one quick motion, I fling the lid open fully, pointing both my phone light and my weapon inside.
At first, all I see is trash. Then movement—slight, almost imperceptible. I reach in, grabbing what feels like an arm, and pull.
A young woman emerges from the garbage, tear tracks streaking through the dirt on her face. Her huge hazel eyes blink up at me like a frightened animal.
Fuck me, she's tiny. And young. Probably barely out of her teens.
Her dark blonde hair is matted with god knows what, and she's shaking so hard I can hear her teeth chatter.
But it's her eyes that gut me—wide with terror, but also filled with an innocence that appears vastly out of place in this world of gang executions, underground fighting, and turf wars.
"What the fuck?" The words slip out before I can stop them.
My protective instincts roar to life when she flinches at my voice. She tries to fight free from my grasp, but I keep a tight hold on her.
As I stare at the fragile, terrified woman covered in filth—I don't know how or why, but every cell in my body screams the same message.
Protect. Claim. Own.