Chapter 48
It’s been close to two weeks since we left Vartan rotting in the street outside Alek’s burned-out club. Long enough for the stink of him to fade from the streets, short enough that his ghost still lingers every time someone looks over their shoulder.
Brighton is different now. You can feel it in the way people walk.
Straighter backs, quicker nods, and a new edge of respect—or fear.
Probably both. The Armenians who were left don’t put up a fight.
Without Vartan pulling their strings, they bend quickly.
Some swear loyalty. The rest disappear before we have to decide for them.
That’s the thing about power—it fills the gaps fast. We cut off the head of the snake, and instead of chaos, we get silence and order. Brighton belongs to us, whether anyone likes it or not.
Alek called this morning, requesting we join him at his club.
We all meet at the lot where The Diva Lounge used to stand, a cigarette burning between my fingers as we stare at the burned bones of its remains.
Alek reaches into his jacket and pulls out a wad of paper—napkins and receipts scribbled with ideas.
He spreads them on the hood of a beat-up car like a makeshift table and starts talking.
We all look at him in surprise. “You want to rebuild?” Cillian asks.
“I don’t want to jump into reconstruction,” he corrects.
“That’s months of permits, contractors, and heat we don’t need in Brighton right now.
I want plans. Control. A blueprint we can use when the time is right.
” He taps the sketches with a finger, drawing our attention back to them.
“Smaller than King’s Temptation, but equally as elite.
Private rooms. Security. A stage that will showcase the A-list talent we hire.
Enzo’s brows furrow. “So you’re not building?”
“No.” Alek sighs with a tinge of annoyance. “Not yet. I’m designing. I want contractors I trust, permits that can’t be pulled, and the right people in place so when we flip the switch, it’s fucking perfect.”
Scanning his notes, I ask, “So what’s step one?”
Alek lists his plans off like a checklist: secure the site properly, file paperwork under shell companies, scout reliable crews who keep their mouths shut, negotiate with the city through people who owe favors, and line up finances without leaving a paper trail.
He names people—architects who’ve worked silently before, a permit runner who owes him a favor, a foreman who won’t ask questions—allowing us to design for our other businesses without drawing suspicion.
“I want contingencies,” Alek says. “Security for during and after construction, a way to keep the club a private fortress if we need it, and exit strategies if someone decides to fight. We build in layers… the front that people see, and the parts they never get to.”
He might be a kid, but he’s fucking smart. He has thought this through meticulously. Down to the finest of details.
We go through corners and costs. Enzo offers to talk to his contacts about cash flow.
Cillian grumbles about zoning regulations but names a lawyer who’ll ghost the filings.
Alek assigns roles like a man carving out territory: who talks to which official, who watches the site at night, who handles local contractors with loyalty checks.
We argue logistics, timelines measured in weeks, not months, and contingencies for possible heat.
Our meeting spills into dinner, one long table with plates of food passing between this unexpected family we have built.
Cillian and Madison sit close, their easy banter folding into the room.
Enzo’s arm is behind Eavan’s chair, his grin wide and comfortable.
Alek looks lighter than he has in months; the plan has him alive in a way nothing else has.
Ani is at my side, her hand tucked into mine under the table.
For a few hours, the world narrows to the steady pressure of her fingers and the laughter surrounding this table.
Dinner is ordinary in a way it hasn’t been for a long time.
We trade stories, we joke, and when Alek raises his glass, it’s not just about turf or revenge—it’s about the future.
“To family,” he says.
“To family,” we echo.
I look around the table, the brothers I’d kill for and the women who keep us from going too far, realizing that for once, our future isn’t just about surviving.