Chapter 9 #3
He stands tall near the railing of their wrap-around porch, lording over us. His massive muscles bulge as he crosses his arms. Malic is huge, but I could take him any day of the week. Maybe a punch to the gut would shut him up for once.
His partner in crime, Wilder, gives him an exasperated look, running his hand over his shaved head.
It's eerie to see Wilder and Mack in the same vicinity.
Not only do they want to murder each other on sight, but the similarities between the two are uncanny.
You'd never guess they weren't full brothers.
Same eyes. Same hair color. Same build. They'd be twins if Wilder hadn't decided to shave his head.
“Looks like shit to me,” Mack hisses, cracking his knuckles, ready for a damn fight.
Sometimes I wonder how the two of them managed to get a home here on Syndicate Strip.
No one knows exactly who their boss is. All we know is they're from Greenwood.
We grew up with them. And now, they're working for some guy here?
Franco hasn't said much on that front. Only that we need to keep our eyes on them and try to figure out the identity of their boss.
But he says that about everyone who lives on the strip.
“Shit, huh?” Wilder quips, standing to lean against the railing with that familiar cigarette resting between his lips.
“Yeah, shit, asshole.” Mack squares up, eager to get his fingers around Wilder’s throat and take his brother's life.
“So brotherly,” Malic jokes, cocking his head. “But this is a fight I'd love to feast my eyes on. Which brother will win? The loose cannon or the one with a stick up his ass?”
Wilder whips his gaze to Malic. “I better be the loose cannon.”
Malic only grins in response, giving me time to reel Mack in.
“Cool it,” I grit out, putting a hand on Mack’s chest before he marches up the stairs and punches them both.
He’s prone to losing control of the anger clinging to him.
“He’s not worth it out here.” I eye the crowds meandering through campus across the road from the strip.
There's not a lot of traffic on this side of campus, but there are still witnesses around.
The last thing we need is someone calling the cops because a gang-brawl has spilled out onto the lawns. Franco is never pleased when we get ourselves into trouble. Even though the law is well on our side of things.
“Save it for the fight,” JJ mutters under his breath so only Mack can hear him.
“Whatever. We got shit to do. Fuck you guys,” Mack says, tossing them the bird before marching up the stairs to the front door of our house and stomping inside.
“Nice to see you guys again,” I say sarcastically with a little wave. “So great to have you both as neighbors. Speaking of, are you ever going to beef up your numbers?” I grin when Malic stiffens at my comment.
For some reason, Malic and Wilder have never taken on pledges or filled their frat house with interested members. It’s odd to me that they haven’t been recruiting like we have. Isn’t that the point of school now? Beef up the numbers in your gang?
“We don’t answer to you,” Malic replies stiffly, cocking his head until his body relaxes. “Something is coming, though, huh? I’ve seen it.” His gaze turns toward the clouds moving overhead and casting shadows above us. “Something big. Familiar…” he hums.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I grunt, narrowing my eyes.
“Seriously, Mal?” Wilder grumbles.
“Don’t listen to me,” Malic sings again, before turning on his heels and walking into the house, leaving me more confused than ever.
Wilder shrugs and follows him inside without another word or look back.
“Let's check in at the frat house and then go home,” JJ sighs, nodding his head toward our house in the distance.
Our true home. The house on the hill we grew up in.
The house that holds the precious memories from our youth.
Memories of her. All the good times we had.
Even the devastation of losing the one person we thought we’d run away with.
That’s our home. This frat house is merely the place we hang out at and show our faces so we can continue to fulfil our duties as the Franco Syndicate heirs.
I nod in response.
The moment I step into the large frat house, I’m greeted by the familiar dog that lopes up to me with his tongue hanging out. I grin, running my fingers through his golden fur. There's something so soothing about having our old dog around, following us everywhere.
“Waffles,” I say, patting his head with a grin. “How’s it going, boy?” He leans into my hand as I pet behind his ears. He doesn’t make a noise or acknowledge my words when I pet him. “And how the hell did you get here, hmm?” I hum. “Last I saw, you were at home lying on the couch.”
Waffles doesn't shy away from the questions; he simply begs for more pets and doesn't look the least bit ashamed that he escaped from our mansion on the hill. Again. Our elusive dog is constantly going missing for hours at a time and showing up later like he wasn’t into something he shouldn’t have been.
No doubt begging for scraps at the local diners or keeping watch around campus.
“It’s been decided,” Mack says, coming down the hall with a grin. “We’re throwing a welcome back to hell party.”
“Tonight?” I question, raising a brow.
“We’ll get a jump on all the newbies on campus. Everyone loves our parties. Duh.” He shrugs, patting Waffles’ head. “Hear that, boy? We’re going to have people here tonight. You’ll have to be on your best behavior.”
“Best behavior?” Brutus, one of our recruits, asks gruffly, taking a step back when Waffles growls at him. “He doesn’t even like us.” He gestures to the other recruits standing beside him.
All six of them.
“He doesn’t like anyone,” JJ says, patting Waffles’ head and quieting him down. “Good boy.”
No matter how many people initiate into our gang, Waffles hasn’t liked any of them.
Constantly growling at every person who gets close to him.
Including Brutus, who has been with us for the past year.
His family comes from Chicago. A prominent mafia family with ties in Miami and Boston.
Franco was eager to have him on the team, so, here he is.
He's a dickwad most of the time, but whatever.
Come this time next year, we'll be long gone and out of this life. No matter what it takes.