Page 50 of The Deceptions

I shrug at the kid whose brows furrow. His lips pop open to retort, but we walk faster than he can speak. No matter, he can take it up with Mack at the Coliseum, if he sees fit. Although I’d advise him not to. Mack’s a damn rage machine in the ring against opponents, taking them down with three or four punches.

“Don't be such a dick,” JJ huffs softly, shaking his head.

“Eh. It's the little freshies that piss me off. Why’re they always in my way?” Mack speaks the rest of his sentence loudly, parting the sea of people down the middle so we can pass through. Even parents pull their kids out of the way.

Normal people would offer the concerned parentals a placating tight smile or a shrug, but I don't offer either. I keep my eyes forward. Despite the nagging feeling pulling at my gut.

Something is wrong.

“How about a party tonight at the frat house? A real welcome to your new hell?” Mack grins, rubbing his hands together like an evil mastermind of some sort.

“Your new hell,” JJ grunts, shaking his head.

“Sure. I'm sure our members would love that.” They would, too. We currently have five frat brothers pledged to our cause.

Our house.

Our gang.

“Even the pledges,” Mack chortles with a grin that could put the Grinch to shame.

“They won't be pledges for very much longer,” JJ reminds him with a huff.

Soon, the people who pledged themselves, played our games, and took on jobs over the summer to prove themselves will be full members of our way of life. AKA joining Franco's ever-growing gang.

“We'll get new ones. New initiates. Just like we did last year. Another cemetery party and then the real games can begin. Should we make them stand naked in a field and pretend to be a scarecrow again?” Mack walks backwards, staring at us with hope in his cruel eyes.

“We'll devise new games this year. We need to test their strengths and discover their weaknesses. You know they're pledging to…” JJ wrinkles his nose, shifting his gaze toward our home on the hill, above the graveyard beside the college that has expanded to its fence line. “All that.” He says it like a bad taste explodes on his tongue, twisting his expression.

“I do love our planning sessions,” Mack says, wiggling his brows. “I got a whole list written down of fun activities to testthem.” AKA Mack has some sadistic shit written down that we'll all have to vote on.

Why my father left the three of us in charge of recruiting college-aged kids, I'll never know. Maybe it was to give us a purpose while we get our degrees, so we don’t wander off, change our names, and start a new life. Or maybe he has trust in us to live for our cause and continue the gang when he’s long gone. Either way, we’re forced to stay and live this life without a choice.

The crowd’s chatter fades as we leave campus behind, heading toward Syndicate Strip—the old frat row. Five grand, pristine houses stand in a row, representing a haven for mafia members and gangs that attend here. A place where they carve out their turf, study at Greenwood, and make connections that run deeper than any degree they could ever get their hands on.

These are our prospective kingdoms while we wait to rule.

I tune Mack out as he goes on about the initiation games, we make our new pledges participate in every year to join our faction. The Franco Syndicate. A gang organization. The rulers of Southern California. And now? Way beyond.

Franco sips his whiskey, staring at us the entire time. “We’ll be bigger than the Viotto bastards,” he grunts, slamming his glass down. “California will be ours. All of it. Every state in the fucking vicinity will be ours and then?” He smirks again, leaning against his desk with a dreamy expression floating across his features. “The world is our damn oyster.”

“You want to take from the Viotto’s?” I ask cautiously.

The Viotto’s are a crime family. The fucking mafia. Raised to take pieces of California for themselves and rule them as their kingdoms. They have their slices, and Franco has his–Greenwood, California. A place they want, but have never got their greedy fingers on. Oh, they’ve tried, inciting war on Franco. But never succeeded.

In one last failed attempt at getting a slice of our pie, they sent Raphael Viotto. A disgraced member of their family, to assist Franco as a second-in-command. Franco wasn’t dumb. He knew the deal had stipulations and a built-in spy. But he let Raph stay on our property. Assist in deals with other mob and mafia families. Raph Viotto was involved with everything Franco did, even coming to their own damn alliance.

Franco paces in front of his desk, going on and on about how the planet will be his, and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop him.

Except us. Me, maybe. One day soon, Franco will be on his knees for the crimes he’s perpetuated against others, including the three of us whom he called his children.

“We’ll eliminate anyone who gets in our way,” Franco huffs, shakily running his hands through his dark hair. “Even those fucking Viotto snakes,” he hisses with malice.

“Howdy fuckers. Long time no see,” Jaxon says, bumping straight into me with the lazy grin he always wears. Nothing bothers that fucker. He’s pure fucking chaos. And also a part of the mob–a set of families invited to Greenwood by my father.

His grin grows when he sees the tension lining my face. Nothing pleases him more than riling me up and challenging me to a fight in the ring.

“Sup, assholes,” Mack says with genuine joy lighting up his face.