Alejandro

ALEJANDRO 

The Triad sits before us, well, one of the Triad. They never keep all three leaders in one place at once. A smart move. Keeping my fists behind my back, I play the good little bodyguard, a scare tactic. I'm a big bastard, so I use it. My reputation as a fighter precedes me, even if they don't know I'm one of the Cobras 

Just how I like it.

I want to fly under the radar, it gets me into places and lets me learn things I might not otherwise. "Are you here to hand everything over?" The cocky bastard smirks, his chunky cheeks pulling up in a sickening way, tugging on a scar across his face.

Sylvester chuckles, looking comfortable as he leans back in the opposite chair. We're the only people in the restaurant, a neutral place to meet. No blood will be spilled today…especially with Black being absent.

"No, I'm here to give you a chance to give us back our shipments and go our separate ways as acquaintances," he rumbles.

The man loses his smile, and I feel Jake grinning next to me where we stand behind Sylvester's chair. He has that effect on people.

"You will all die. We rule this city," the Triad snarls.

Sylvester casually sips his wine before looking back at the man. "You own a patch of land outside city limits, you were once rich and powerful. Not anymore. I will squash you like a bug. But remember that when you're torched with your people. Remember the olive branch I offered." He sighs and gets to his feet, buttoning up his suit jacket. To add insult to injury, he throws down the money to cover the bill. "It's on me. I know you're going through financial hardships, wouldn't want you to go bust long before I destroy you."

Without another word, Sylvester turns to us, his eyes dark and triumphant. I wait, any moment now…

Boom.

The Triad stands, a snarl on his face. "You're children! You know nothing of this game! My family ran this city before you came along!" he roars.

Sylvester glances at him over his shoulder. "You did, not anymore. Get with the times, or die."

Jake and I part for him. I go last, letting Jake protect Sylvester's back. The man twitches, so I part my leather jacket and flash my piece at him. "I wouldn't," I growl, and when I'm sure he won't shoot I turn my back.

It's a risk, he could stab me or shoot me, but this way, I'm showing him exactly how scared of him we are. He swears, and I hear the smashing of glasses, making me smile. Before the month is through, they will be ours. Nothing gets in our way, not when Sylvester sets his mind to it.

And the man just insulted Sylvester and our family. They're dead men walking, they just don't know it yet. The man doesn't attack, though, he knows better. He threw down the gauntlet, and now he has to live with the consequences.

Exiting the restaurant, I pull on my shades and swing onto my bike as Jake shuts Sylvester's door and climbs into the driver's seat. I nod and yank on my helmet. It's time. We have a debt to collect.

We race through the city back to the Cobra Industries skyscraper. Roaring through the streets, I disregard the speed limit—this is the only time I feel alive—and pull into the underground garage before Sylvester and Jake. I scan my hand and eyes in the security panel—you can never be too cautious—then pull into my spot before climbing off. Storing my helmet, I decide to go grab Black before they get here.

I head to the elevator, riding it all the way down to the basement that most people don't even know exists. That's where he'll be, I know it.

I was right. I find Black in the basement, which he calls 'the fire cave.' Seriously, if this guy wasn't like a brother to me, I would be terrified. I'm pretty sure he's certifiable, but he always has our backs, and he's family.

I hear the screams from the elevator, the smell of smoke wafting to me. One of these days, he's going to burn the whole damn building down. Striding through the corridor, I follow the sound of heavy metal music and step into the room he's occupying. I lean against the wall, watching as he bends down and lights a cigarette before going back to burning the man's balls who he's strung up.