Page 91 of The Carnage We Keep

I’m great with it.

The boxing club has a few venues for their spectator fights. Behind the stables. In the basement of Montclair Gymnasium. But tonight’s fights are taking place here at the Garrison, a crumbling old Revolutionary War-era fort tucked into the woods near the cliffs. The Garrison acts as a highly unofficial student-run party spot, facilitating loud music, drinking, barely contained chaos, and all the other fun, unhinged shit you’d expect at a college campus full of mafia heirs.

The large space is surrounded by the ruined stone walls of what were once the main officers’ quarters, now covered with dark moss and brambles. I doubt there’s been a ceiling here since James Madison was in office. Instead, the moon gleams down on the party through the clawed branches of trees that are slowly swallowing the jagged ruins back into the forest.

A massive bonfire burns in what used to be the center room, casting flickering orange light and snarling shadows across the stone and sending sparks spinning up into the night sky. There’s a bar set up along one wall, complete with stools, liquor bottles, kegs, plastic cups, and two Reckless members pouring drinks.

Beyond the crumbling walls, motorcycle engines rev in the darkness as club members tear up and down the old dirt paths through the woods, periodically blasting past the arched openings in flashes of headlights and engine noise.

Honestly, I’m impressed the Reckless are throwing another party so soon. Their last one, at the Spire a week ago, started as a blowout rave and ended with half the guest list accidentally rolling their faces off after someone spiked the absinthe with enough ecstasy to dose a small country.

My money’s on Jude. Though lately, he’s been operating on a whole new level of secretive, Machiavellian bullshit, so who knows. Besides, I’ve had other things to deal with the last couple of weeks aside from keeping tabs on Jude playing puppeteer and masterminding God knows what.

As if on cue, when I look up mid-stretch, my eyes lock onto a stabby, pint-sized, irritatingly attractive little monster.

AKA, my wife.

My jaw tightens as my gaze follows her stepping through the main archway into the party. She does a scan of the Garrison, but I can tell even from over here that she’s avoiding looking in the direction of the boxing ring.

It's safe to say she’s still pissed about the basement.

I mean, I get it. It was a dick move. But Lester was on my list. Also, things went to shit even with just me there. If Bella had tagged along, things would have gone nuclear.

Or, who knows? Maybe she’d have gotten hurt.

My brow furrows as I track Bella while she crosses the party. She gets a beer at the bar, which, okay, odd: didn’t really peg her for a beer drinker. She chats with Kirill Tsarenko for a bit, and I refuse to acknowledge the stabbing twist inside me that brings a dark, murderous snarl to my throat when I see the motherfucker drape his arm over Bella’s shoulders.

She looks good.

Like, really good.

Her dark hair is down. Her black eyeliner makes the ice blue in her irises ignite in the firelight. She’s in black platform boots, a poofy black tulle mini-skirt, and a white men’s style tank-top that molds to her tits and makes it extremely clear that she’s not wearing a bra.

Visions of those fucking perfect breasts and utterly bitable pierced nipples wander through my head before a hand lands heavily on my shoulder.

“You ready?”

I glance at my brother and shrug. “Am I ever not?”

He chuckles. “Just keep your head in the game, as in on the fight with Adrik and not on your wife giggling and flirting with Knightsblood's biggest whore. I’ve got good money riding on you tonight.”

Cenzo chuckles and nods his chin past me. I follow his gaze right back to Bella as she laughs at something Kirill says.

My jaw tightens. “She’s not flirting⁠—”

“Oh yeaaaah! Rail me harder, Kirill! Give me what my lame husband won’t⁠—”

Cenzo snickers and scoots away when I whirl on him with a wild haymaker.

“Hey!” he laughs. “Save it for the fight!” He eyes me. “Little touchy, hmm?”

I grind my teeth.

No. I’m not touchy about Bella. She can talk to, laugh with, and fuck whoever she wants. I don’t care.

Sure, you don’t.

Shut up, self.