19. Conner
CONNER
Men are so predictable. Guess where a single, decent looking guy from the wrong side of the tracks is on a Saturday? Church? Nope. School? Funny. I’ll tell you. A fucking club dirty enough to catch tetanus just breathing.
Neon lights bleeding against sticky walls, the smell of sweat and cheap perfume clinging to every surface like a second skin. And there he is — Xavier King.
Even now, it claws at the back of my skull, that old hunger whispering.
The scientist in me — or whatever twisted version of that I am— wants to peel him open, slow and deliberate.
Wants to see if he even bleeds red like the rest of us.
I don’t think he does. A beast like him?
Blood’s probably black, congealed, an infection to the rest of society.
I'd make the first incision just below the ribcage — neat, clinical.
Let gravity do its work. Watch what spills out and take notes.
See if something that cold and calculating can even feel pain.
But I don’t move. I won’t. I’ve worked too fucking hard to bury that part of me. I remind myself that I’m not that man anymore. I don’t get my answers with a scalpel, not these days. Not even for him.
A dancer’s got her legs draped over his lap, laughing at something he said—though from where I sit, I doubt he’s said much at all.
Doesn’t have to. Xavier’s got that type of face.
Smooth, sharp lines like a blade; black hair curling just enough to soften the edge, but not enough to make him safe.
The hazel eyes, though — those are the real tell.
Light enough to look warm, calculating enough to gut you while you’re still smiling.
I look over at the small black-haired girl, tapping her fingers against the bar.
She’s too young to be at this bar, but this is Raider territory — cops don’t come here.
Not unless they want their cruisers torched and their bodies washing up in the canal two days later.
I put two fingers in the air, and she comes running over like her tail is on fire.
While I wait for her to come to me, my eyes go back to assessing Xavier.
He’s not bulky like most of Marcus’s enforcers.
Slender, compact, but all muscle. Functional.
Efficient. A blade, not a hammer. Which makes him dangerous.
The Raiders don’t usually breed finesse, but Xavier?
He’s got it. It’s in how he sits — relaxed but never loose, always aware of where the exits are.
It’s in how he lets the dancer grind on him while his eyes scan the room every few minutes, like clockwork.
He plays young and wild for the audience, but that mind’s working overtime.
“Good evening,” I murmur, keeping my eyes on my target.
“How may I help you, sir?” Her voice squeaks. If I thought she looked young before, now I know it. Too young to be here, too scared to pretend otherwise.
“That gentleman over there,” I nod toward Xavier. “Send him a drink.”
She follows my line of sight, and I catch the small tremor that rolls across her bottom lip as she lowers her voice. “You sure?”
“Top shelf. Whiskey neat.” My tone leaves no room for negotiation.
She nods quickly, the message clear. As she walks off, I watch the way her body moves — the stiff shoulders, the wince with every step, like she’s trying to make herself smaller.
Her gaze keeps darting to the one-way glass office perched above the main floor, the one that watches the entire club like a goddamn executioner’s box.
She’s not afraid of Xavier. Not really.
No — from what I know of him, Xavier’s ruthless, but with reason. He calculates. He plays the long game. That’s why, with Marcus bleeding out alliances faster than he can replace them, half the room’s already whispering Xavier’s name like a prayer. Or a warning.
She walks over to Xavier who looks at her with weary eyes. A small interaction, before she points to me and he locks eyes with me. Come on Mr.Ruthless take the fucking bait.
He grabs the glass and lifts it to me with a stiff nod.
I return the movement and watch him hiss as the liquid burns down his throat.
Then I glance up to the office above the floor and raise my glass once more.
I can’t see him, but I know Marcus is up there, watching, smoke practically pouring out of his ears.
Normally, I’d keep my distance from the Raiders — and they’d return the favor.
I mean, if I tried to recruit a guy and he surgically sawed off one of my men’s arms, I’d steer clear too.
Those were the good days. When lines were clean, violence was honest, and monsters like me knew exactly what role we played.
But those days are gone. Now? The power’s shifting, but I am the beast I have always been.
I take another sip, eyes locked on him as the dancer leans in, whispering into his ear. He smiles — slow, charming, disarming — like he isn’t a viper waiting for the strike.
Like I said, men are predictable. But boys like Xavier? They’re something worse.
Because boys like him grew up swallowing their father’s poison and their brother’s failures like medicine. And it hardens them. Turns them into something else.
And it's that something else, I need right now.
He lifts his glass, toasts the girl in his lap like she’s won something. She giggles like it means she matters. She doesn’t. None of them do. They're ornaments for him to decorate his ascension. Temporary warmth while he plots how to gut the people who he thinks are in his way.
That’s the thing people don’t get about Xavier King — he doesn’t crave power for the sake of it. Not like Marcus. He craves control. Quiet, absolute control. The kind that doesn't scream in your face. The kind that smiles while you put the noose around your own neck.
And when Marcus finally falls—and he will fall—the vultures will circle. But they won’t realize Xavier’s already poisoned the carcass. There won’t be anything left for them to feast on.
After a few moments, Xavier smacks the ass of the girl dancing on him and makes his way out of the club.
I finish my drink, set the glass down with a quiet click that barely echoes over the pulsing bass vibrating through the walls.
The dancers keep moving, the men keep leering, and Xavier’s already slipped out, cutting through the smoke-hazed room like a ghost who never belonged to the living in the first place.
I rise, rolling my shoulders once as I slide my coat back into place. The leather creaks faintly — an old, familiar sound — as I move through the floor. Eyes glance my way, but no one holds my gaze for long. Raiders know better than to look too long at someone like me.
The bouncer at the door — some overgrown kid trying to look tougher than he is — steps aside without a word as I approach. I can feel the weight of his nervous stare as I pass.
The door groans open on rusted hinges, and the music dulls behind me as I step into the night. Cold air cuts across my face like a blade, sharp and clean compared to the rot inside. The door thuds shut behind me, sealing the heat and noise away.
The alley stretches ahead, narrow and cracked, littered with broken glass and the stink of oil pooling under the static lights from the club. Xavier’s there already, a thin line of smoke rising from his cigarette, his silhouette waiting like a promise.
I slip my hands into my coat pockets and step closer, the crunch of gravel under my boots the only announcement. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t turn. Just exhales a stream of smoke and says, flat, "You follow all your marks this close, doc?"
“Cigarettes are bad for you.” My voice is calm, dry as I slip a joint out of my coat pocket and lean forward against the wall.
Xavier finally glances at me, hazel eyes cutting sharp under the shadows. He smirks around the cigarette. "So is serial killing."
I snort, can’t help it. “Touché.”
He flicks ash off the end of his smoke, studying me like a cat studies a mouse it hasn’t decided whether to toy with or kill. After a moment, he slides his lighter out of his pocket and lights my joint for me.
“Why’d you send me gasoline?”
I meet his gaze, unblinking. “Whiskey’s good for the spirit.”
He huffs a soft, humorless laugh. "Good for the fire too."
“That depends on what you plan on burning.” I smirk, taking a long pull, allowing the smoke to burn its way across my chest.
He watches me for a moment longer, smoke pooling in the cold air between us. The faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—amusement or calculation, I can’t tell. “How are you burning me this time?”
“Nothing like a slow one, ain’t it?” The smoke bellows from my nostrils. “Your brother is fucking with a girl I am exceptionally fond of.”
“Fond?” Xavier quirks a smile, teeth flashing under the streetlight. He takes a lazy drag off his cigarette, but his eyes stay sharp.
“You guys killed her pseudo-father,” I drone, filling my lungs again, letting the familiar high lace through my blood, steadying the rising pulse beneath my ribs. Beckoning me forward.
“I wouldn’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Do you understand that I will put your brother down like the dog he is?”
Xavier snarls — something primal flashing behind his pretty-boy mask. “Not before I do.”
The space between us tightens, the air heavier now, thick with everything unsaid. Our shoulders nearly brush as we step in closer, neither of us willing to blink first.
I can feel his breath now — sharp, clipped — as his hand flexes at his side. One movement too fast and this could go bad. Fast.
But I keep my voice low, steady. "I let you pass when they killed Kelly." My jaw tightens as I feel the name drop between us like weight. "But now someone is going to pay. You. Marcus. Asher. Isaiah — pick one."
At the sound of their names, Xavier’s lip twitches again, but this time, there’s less amusement in it. His voice drops to something darker.
"You must be more than fond of this girl."
I smile then — cold, mechanical, like the reflex of an old wound pulling tight. The kind of smile you wear when you're toeing the edge of something sharp, knowing full well you might slip. My mind lingers on his words for half a beat — more than fond. What would that even mean?
I turn it over like a specimen under glass, studying it from every angle. Am I capable of it? Of that kind of softness? When did Jasmine go from a point of interest to a person of fondness? When did she become a person I want to protect?
My tongue runs over the curve of my lip, and I roll my shoulders back looking through his foggy gaze. I won't give Xavier the satisfaction of knowing the spiral he has just unlocked in me. Instead, I hold his gaze and say, flat and deliberate, “His name was Tommy. Ring a bell?”
Xavier’s face hardens, and he takes a slow step back, the cigarette burning down between his fingers. “That wasn’t us.”
“You want to lie a little better?”
“Nah, promise.” Xavier shrugs like it's nothing, like we're talking about the weather. “It was a gift from the Italians.”
My jaw clicks, heat crawling just beneath the skin of my neck. I run a hand across my face, forcing my breath to stay steady. “Explain gift.”
“They had to teach us a lesson,” Xavier continues, voice casual, but his eyes never leave mine.
“They got a whiff of Marcus’s plan for the Raiders and uniting with the Cartel.
Tommy was their message. Remind us that they can still get into our camp.
” He takes one last drag before tossing the cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his boot.
I shake my head, a humorless breath slipping out of me. “You’re all so fucking disorganized it’s pathetic.”
“Watch your mouth.”
“Or fucking what?” I growl, looking down at the animal in front of me.
Xavier’s jaw ticks now, his turn to feel the itch under his skin. “Look, I am sorry about your girl.”
“Don’t be sorry.” I shrug, tossing the joint onto the alley floor. “She’s going to get even.”
“Is that a threat?”
I step in close, close enough to feel his breath hit my cheek, my voice like steel wrapped in velvet. “Look me in the eye, Xavier.”
He does. And for a beat, neither of us blink.
“Do I look like a man who makes threats?”
“No.”
“So, I promise my girl is going to come and get what’s hers, and you are going to serve up Marcus on a silver fucking platter.”
“Or what?”
“Or.” I snarl. “I’ll be skinning you alive.”