19
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.
I watch him from my corner, swirling the amber in my glass, letting the ice bite my knuckles. 23 years old. Twenty-fucking-three. And already sitting pretty close to the throne his brother's barely still holding onto. In another life, and by that I mean a couple of years ago, the itch to see how the brain of a guy like this works would’ve consumed me.
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 justbelow 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 raisemy 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.
