Chapter 3
1736 Words
The New York summer clung to the city like sweat-soaked silk—hot, heavy, and unforgiving. The sun had barely risen, but the streets already buzzed with movement. The smell of diesel, iron, and fresh bread hung in the air as life stirred to its usual rhythm.
But inside a certain quiet brownstone on the East Side, the air was different.
Cold. Still. Controlled.
DJ stood at the kitchen window shirtless, muscles taut, the morning light tracing every sharp angle of his torso. A cigarette hung from his lips, half-smoked. His eyes weren’t on the skyline—they were somewhere far away. Somewhere darker. Somewhere he had buried a long time ago.
A knock came.
Short. Firm.
He didn’t turn. “Come in.”
Aron stepped into the apartment, his curls still messy from sleep, a toothpick in his mouth and his suit jacket slung over one shoulder.
“The Boss wants you,” Aron said, voice low.
DJ didn’t react.
He crushed the cigarette into the ashtray, slipped into his crisp white shirt, and buttoned it up slowly. The gold chain around his neck disappeared beneath the collar like a secret. He adjusted the red tie, tugged on his black pinstripe jacket, and reached for his pistol—sliding it into the holster at his ribs with a quiet click.
Another day. Another mission.
But this one felt different.
The car ride was silent. The city flew past in blurs of brick and steam. DJ didn’t speak, didn’t blink. Aron sat beside him, tapping his foot to a rhythm only he could hear.
They pulled up to the compound just after eight. The guards opened the gates. Inside was a different world—clean-cut hedges, marble statues, a stone fountain that never ran dry. The mafia boss didn’t live in a house. He ruled from a throne.
DJ stepped out of the car and made his way up the wide steps, through the double doors, and into the lion’s den.
The Boss’s office was dimly lit, walls lined with books, war memorabilia, and old photographs of the family’s rise to power. The man behind the desk wore a navy three-piece suit and a pocket watch on a gold chain. His hair was silver, slicked back, his dark eyes sharp and calculating.
He didn’t bother to stand when DJ entered.
“Devon,” he said, voice calm and slow like a man who never rushed a damn thing.
DJ gave a short nod. “Boss.”
“I hear last night’s cleanup was tidy.”
DJ didn’t answer.
The Boss smirked and leaned back in his chair, lighting a cigar. “You’ve done good work here. Real good work. Youngest to ever climb that high in this family. You know why?”
DJ didn’t flinch. “Because I do what needs to be done.”
“Exactly.”
He took a long drag from his cigar and then set the file on the desk in front of him.
“There’s trouble in Chicago.”
DJ’s jaw tightened.
The Boss continued, flipping the file open. Inside were photographs—graffiti-tagged alleys, dead men on sidewalks, a map with red ink bleeding over Michigan.
“Some up-and-coming crew outta Michigan. New money. New blood. They’re pushing into our territory. Our guys out there are outnumbered, outgunned, and losing ground.”
DJ’s fingers curled into fists inside his pockets.
“I need someone I trust,” the Boss said. “Someone who knows the city. Someone who’s not afraid to get his hands dirty.”
He looked up, his eyes locking with DJ’s.
“I need you and your crew to go out there, back up our allies, clean up the mess, and claim that city back.”
For a second, DJ didn’t speak.
Chicago.
Home.
He hadn’t set foot there in nine years. Since the day he boarded that train with nothing but a duffle bag and a promise on his lips.
Aurelia.
He could still hear her voice. See the tears in her eyes. Feel the softness of her lips when he kissed her goodbye.
Was she still there? Would she even remember him?
Would she still care?
His throat tightened, but his voice came out like steel.
“When do we leave?”
The Boss smirked again.
“Now.”
DJ walked out the office without another word.
By the time he stepped into the sunlight, the rest of the YoungBloods were already waiting by the car.
Aron raised an eyebrow. “So? Where we headed?”
DJ slid his sunglasses on, hiding the flicker in his eyes.
“Chicago.”
---
Chicago
The warm sun peeked through sheer white curtains as the morning breeze fluttered lazily into the spacious bedroom.
Aurelia stirred beneath the pale silk sheets, a soft sigh slipping from her lips. Her blonde curls tumbled messily around her face as she slowly blinked open a pair of bright, sky-blue eyes. Her features were delicate yet bold—thick lashes, a soft pink mouth.
The mansion around her was silent. Still.
Lonely.
She rose slowly, her ivory nightgown brushing against her thighs as her bare feet padded across the cool wooden floor. She pulled her hair into a loose bun and wrapped herself in a soft robe before heading down the grand staircase, her fingers lightly grazing the rail.
The house was large—too large. Everything was polished, expensive, and cold. Paintings lined the walls, but none meant anything to her. Her bare feet quietly padding through the empty halls as she made her way toward the one room that felt like home.
The servant’s kitchen.
Inside, the rich scent of cinnamon and fried batter wafted through the air. At the counter stood Maybelle, her back turned, hips swaying slightly to the quiet jazz playing on the old radio.
Maybelle had deep brown skin and sharp, expressive features. Her black curls were pulled into two puff buns, and she wore her usual apron covered in flour. Her eyes were wide, animated, and filled with warmth. She looked a few years younger than Aurelia but had always carried herself like she was older—wise beyond her years, and fiercely loyal.
Aurelia smiled, slipping onto the stool beside the counter. “Something smells incredible.”
Maybelle turned, a grin lighting up her whole face. “Well, good morning, sleeping beauty. Hope you’re hungry—I’m making cinnamon fritters and scrambled eggs.”
Aurelia’s smile grew. “Perfect.”
They ate together in the small kitchen like they always did, side by side, ignoring the formal dining room that sat untouched at the front of the house like a museum exhibit.
Aurelia took a sip of orange juice before glancing toward the window. “Is my father awake yet?”
Maybelle didn’t look up as she flipped a fritter. “Nope. Left early this morning. Said he had a meeting with some ‘important clients.’” She added air quotes with her free hand. “Sounded stressed. Didn’t even eat.”
Aurelia frowned slightly, her brows pulling together.
“Did he say who?”
Maybelle shook her head. “Just told me to lock the doors behind him. That’s never a good sign.”
Aurelia stared out the window in silence, a small pit of unease forming in her stomach.
---
The compound was secluded, surrounded by thick trees and overgrown brush. A vast, gated property with cracked pavement and ivy crawling up the side of an abandoned factory-turned-hideout.
Wyatt Cane leaned against a sleek black car, arms folded over his chest. He had a strong jawline, deep-set hazel eyes that always looked like they were calculating something—or someone—and a smug half-smile that made most people uneasy. His hair was tousled perfectly, like he rolled out of bed cool and dangerous.
He was dressed in a navy vest and slacks, a gold chain around his neck and a cigarette between his fingers.
Across from him stood Mr. Wentworth, clutching his leather portfolio like it could protect him from the wolf in front of him. He was tall, lean, with fading blond hair and lines that had deepened in the last year from stress and late-night negotiations.
“So,” Wyatt said, flicking ash onto the dirt, “you’re the real estate guy everyone’s been talking about.”
Wentworth gave a polite nod. “I—yes. I move property. Quietly. Discreetly.”
Wyatt grinned. “Perfect. That’s exactly what I need.”
Behind him stood two men, both younger but no less intimidating. One leaned on the hood of the car, the other chewing a toothpick, both watching with hawk eyes.
Wyatt turned his gaze back to Wentworth.
“Tell me, Mr. Wentworth… who runs this town?”
Wentworth hesitated.
He swallowed, unsure whether to lie or admit what he really knew. “Chicago has its own circles. I… stay out of them.”
Wyatt clicked his tongue, mock disappointment flashing in his eyes.
“Wrong answer.”
He stepped closer, the smugness in his face hardening to steel.
“See, I’m not just here to buy buildings. I’m here to own them. Every one of them. This city’s been crawling with old dogs, and I think it’s time someone new put them down.”
Wentworth’s hands tightened around his portfolio. “And what exactly are you asking of me?”
Wyatt leaned in, his voice low.
“I’m not asking. You’re mine now. That means if you hear anything, see anything, you come to me. And in return… you get to keep your daughter safe, your house standing, and your neck intact.”
Wentworth’s blood went cold.
He tried to keep his voice steady. “And if I say no?”
Wyatt’s eyes turned dead cold, his jaw tightening like a trigger being c****d.
“People don’t tell me no and live.”
He took one last drag from his cigarette, then flicked it into the dirt.
“You work for me now. Understood?”
Wentworth nodded slowly, the fear creeping into his face. “Understood.”
Wyatt’s grin returned, smug as ever. “Good boy.”
He patted Wentworth’s shoulder hard enough to make him flinch, then turned toward the car.
“Let’s get this place cleaned up. We’re setting up shop.”
The compound gates closed behind them, but the real threat was just beginning to open.
- Writer
