Chapter 14
Chaos
"The only good cartel member is a dead cartel member." Antoine slams his fist on the conference table, making the glass ashtrays jump.
I nod in agreement. “Those Los Cuervos fucks murdered two of our prospects, carved them up like fucking Halloween pumpkins."
We're at Vinny's Steakhouse in the private back room—neutral territory for this kind of meeting. The place closed an hour ago, but Vinny keeps it running for special clients like us. Thick cigar smoke hangs in the air, mixing with the lingering scent of grilled meat and top-shelf liquor.
Antoine Marshall of the Black Kings sits across from me, his massive frame looking almost too big for the chair he’s seated on.
His eyes, always calculating, watch me from behind designer glasses.
To my left, David Arabo of the Chaldeans strokes his salt-and-pepper beard.
He’s draped in a tailored suit that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. Gold rings flash on his fingers.
Between the three of us, we control most of Detroit's criminal underground.
The Black Kings have the east side drug trade locked down tight, running it with military precision.
The Chaldeans control liquor distribution throughout the city.
And Renegade Kings? We handle everything from protection rackets to underground fights, plus the gun trade across three states.
"Patience, Chaos." David's voice carries the slight accent of his roots, despite the fact that he’s lived here for almost thirty years. "These Colombians are not some little street gang you can stomp out with your big boot.”
Fury stands quietly behind me. My VP usually has plenty to say in these meetings, but tonight, I do all the talking. He's tense, jaw clenched tight.
One of David’s men pulls out a folder, hands it to him, and he slides it across the table. "What we know so far. They appear to be laundering money through their new establishment."
I flip the folder open. Inside are photos of a high-end gentlemen’s club called Midnights that opened downtown six months ago. It's upscale—valet parking, private rooms, champagne service. Not the kind of place you'd associate with a ruthless Colombian drug cartel at first glance.
"They're moving at least five million a month through that place," David says, clearly having done his homework. "Clean money coming out the other end."
"So what's the play?" Antoine asks, eyes sharp. "We go to war with these pieces of shit?”
“We need to send a clear message." I lean forward, turning pages, scanning the contents of David’s folder. "They’re killing on our turf. They’re moving product in our neighborhoods."
"They're recruiting locals. Offering serious cash to corner boys willing to push their product in new territories.” Antoine's massive shoulders shift as he adjusts his position.
"And their product is highly addictive. Similar to MDMA but with hallucinogenic properties.
They're cutting it with cheap shit, which is why we're seeing overdoses. "
David shakes his head, lighting another cigar. “I’m not denying the need to strike back and strike hard, but we need more information first. Know your enemy before engaging, yes?"
The meeting continues like this for another hour—me pushing for immediate action, David urging caution, and Antoine quietly contemplating.
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 deals without 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.
Miss you more.
Then smile and add one more.
Be home soon.
Twenty minutes pass. I pace the empty waiting room, thoughts churning. The cartel's tentacles are reaching into every corner of our world. Rowan. Fury's sister. Our territory.
"Excuse me?"
A woman's voice pulls me from my thoughts. I turn to find a nurse standing a few feet away, her arms wrapped around herself like she's cold despite the warmth of the hospital. She's young, maybe twenty, with dark hair pulled back and circles under her eyes that suggest too many night shifts.
"You're..." Her eyes flick over the patches on my cut. “Chaos? I mean, is that your name? Is your name Chaos?"
My road name is displayed on my cut, and I’m pretty sure that’s the patch she was just staring at.
A part of me wants to shoot her down—harshly.
I’m used to patch chasers hitting on me.
We all are. Something about bikers makes some chicks cream their panties, but that’s not the vibe I’m getting from this one. If anything, she looks scared.
Still, I narrow my eyes in a harsh glare just in case I’m wrong about her. "Who's asking?"
She glances over her shoulder at the empty hallway, then steps closer. "My name is Sarah. I need to talk to you." Her voice drops to just above a whisper. "I have information. About your friend."
My hand instinctively moves toward the knife at my hip. "What friend?"
"The one who was brought in last week. Gunshot wound to the abdomen." Her hands twist together nervously. "They called him Biggy."
Everything in me goes still. "What about him?" I keep my voice calm, but my mind's racing.
“He told me something. It didn’t make any sense, so I kinda… I, um, ignored it. I thought he was delusional. You have to understand, he was near death when he was brought in…”
Tears fill her eyes. “I made the mistake of telling my supervisor about his deathbed confession.” She looks over her shoulder again and, despite her apparent fear of me, steps closer.
“And now I’m being followed. By scary-looking men—they look like gang members.
” A sob escapes her. “Outside my apartment.
At the grocery store. I think they know I heard something.
But I don't know what it means, I swear. "
I guide her to a secluded corner and use my large frame to block her, hoping she will feel protected rather than trapped. "Start from the beginning. What did you hear?"
She wipes her eyes, leaving smudges of mascara on her smooth, brown cheeks. "I was his nurse in the trauma unit. Before they took him to surgery. He was in and out of consciousness, but when I was checking his vitals, he grabbed my arm. So strong for someone losing that much blood."
I nod, encouraging her to continue.
"He made me promise to tell his brothers something. When his mother came in later and said he was an only child, I assumed he was delirious.” Sarah swallows hard. "But tonight, when I saw your leather vest.”
“Cut,” I tell her gently. “They’re called cuts.”
“Cut,” she repeats. “When I saw your cut, I realized he meant his club brothers."
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. "What did he say?"
She looks over her shoulder again, eyes darting to every shadow. "It's why they're following me, isn't it? They think I know something important.”
"Sarah." I keep my voice firm but gentle. "What did Biggy tell you?"
She leans in, her voice barely audible. "He said, 'Chaos…Fury…tell them Fiend’s a rat.’”
The words hit me like a physical blow. I’m able to keep my face neutral only due to years of practice. Fiend? No fucking way. My trusted brother. The man who's had my back in countless fights. An officer who sits at my table.
“See, it sounds like nonsensical ramblings from a very injured man,” she continues, her words tumbling out faster now. “But then I saw your cut—it’s just like his. And I put two and two together. Chaos, Fury, Fiend, they’re names, aren’t they?”
"Chaos." I look up to find Fury standing a few feet away, his face ashen. From his expression, I know he heard everything. Sarah's eyes widen as she stares at the patches on his cut.
"Oh my god," she whispers. “You’re Fury.”
Fury moves closer, his voice low and dangerous. "Say that again. Exactly what he told you."
Sarah shrinks back in her chair. "He said, ‘Chaos, Fury, tell them Fiend’s a rat.’ That's all, I swear. I didn't know what it meant."
Fury's eyes meet mine, a silent conversation passing between us. If Biggy's accusation is true, we've got a brother that we all trusted feeding information to our enemies. He may even have set Biggy up to be killed.
“I’m safe now, right?" Sarah asks, her voice small. “I’m not in danger anymore. Now that I've told you, it's no longer a secret, right? They have no reason to—to silence me."
I almost laugh at her naivety, but there's nothing funny about this situation. “I’m afraid that's not how it works.”
Her face grows ashen. "Oh god. I really don’t want to die.”
“We're going to keep you safe.” Fury’s tone is gentler than I expect, given what we just learned.
"How?" Her voice cracks.
"You'll have a shadow," I explain. "Someone watching over you until we handle this situation."
I call Demon, our Sergeant at Arms. He answers on the first ring.
"Need you at Henry Ford Hospital. Now," I say without preamble. "Third floor. Protection detail for a civilian witness."
"On my way," he replies, no questions asked. That's Demon—solid, reliable, deadly when necessary.
I turn to Sarah, who watches me with wide, terrified eyes. "My brother, Demon, will be here in twenty minutes. He'll keep you safe."
“Demon?" she squeaks out, wringing her hands together. This girl looks like she hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in days.
I think of Fiend—my trusted brother, who's stood beside me for years. Who knows every one of our operations, every weakness, every strength. Who’s at the clubhouse with my ol’ lady.
“Listen,” I tell Fury, keeping my voice level despite the rage building inside me. “I need to head back to the clubhouse."
Fury nods, understanding the unspoken message.
"Go," he says, his hand landing on my shoulder. "I'll hold things down here."
I stride down the hallway, already dialing Zeus. He picks up immediately.
"Where's Rowan?" I demand, pushing through the hospital doors into the cool night air.
“Not sure, prez.” His voice is steady, calm, not at all riled. “I’m not at the compound. I’m…uh…I’m…at the care home having tea with Eleanor.”
I consider telling Zeus more. Asking him to get back and keep tabs on Fiend, or to watch over Rowan, but Zeus and Fiend are tight. Best friends. After the shock of hearing Fiend’s a rat, I’m all fucked up.
Is Zeus a rat too?
Are they both traitors, working together to bring the club down for some reason? Fuck. I’m not even sure it’s true about Fiend. Something Biggy said on his deathbed. It could be nonsense, like Sarah thought. Delusional rantings of a dying man. But I can’t afford not to listen.
“Get back to the compound,” I bark out.
Ending the call, I stride out of the hospital, swing my leg over my bike, and fire up the engine. The night air whips against my face as I tear through the streets, pushing my Harley to its limits. My mind races with possibilities, each one darker than the last.
If Fiend betrayed us to the cartel, how deep does it go? What information has he shared? And most importantly, what's his endgame?