Beautiful Mistakes: A Gritty Dark Mafia Romance by Cora Kent

Author:Cora Kent [Kent, Cora]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2025-03-04T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

Raiden

Roughly twelve hours have passed since the city woke up to sirens, smoke, and the unraveling of an empire. Now, evening shadows stretch long and lean across the Destroyers’ clubhouse, casting dark fingers through cigarette haze and across scuffed floorboards. The place hums with subdued energy—every voice lowered, every laugh tinged with unease, like mourners at a wake trying too hard to keep things light. Men linger by the bar, heads bowed in hushed conversation over half-empty glasses of warm beer, while others hover near the dartboard, occasionally glancing at the news blaring soundlessly on an old TV mounted in the corner. The usual rowdy atmosphere has been replaced by something more brittle, as if the whole room is holding its breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I’m sitting at a wooden table with Bash, Trigger, and Vic, the scarred surface littered with beer bottles and crumpled bills. We’re playing poker, a rickety lamp dangling overhead. The cards feel slick and worn between my fingers, edges soft from countless late-night games. Outside, bikes line the lot like watchdogs, exhausts still ticking as they cool in the night air, a mechanical chorus that echoes off the emptiness.

Bash deals the cards, his massive hands shuffling the deck before flicking one card after another at us. Trigger, ever silent, tips his chair back on two legs, the wood creaking beneath him as he eyes his hand without giving anything away. Vic flicks a glance at me, smirking faintly as he arranges his chips into neat stacks. They’re my brothers, if not by blood, then by bonds forged in midnight rides and battles. And right now, I’m grateful for their company—even if the mood is heavier than usual.

We start talking in low tones about the events of the day, our voices barely rising above the whisper of cards sliding across the table. Everyone knows something went down with Saverio Castiglione’s house, but details remain murky, like smoke caught in a glass jar. The city’s criminal underbelly is buzzing, families and gangs all trying to figure out how to position themselves in this new, scorched landscape. You can feel the tension in every back alley and dimly lit bar across town.

“So,” Vic says, tapping a chip on the table with a steady rhythm, “word on the street is everyone’s losing their minds. Blame’s flying in every direction, thick as bullets in a firefight. They’re saying the Russians did it, or the Italians from Chicago looking to expand their territory. Some say it was a freak accident, like anyone believes that garbage.” His fingers are still on the chip, toying with the clay.

Bash snorts. “Freak accident, my ass. Castigliones don’t just go up in smoke on a quiet morning. Someone sent a message.” He sets down his bet, leveling a look at me. He’s subtle about it, but I know what he’s asking without words. He got me a bomb a few days ago, and now Saverio Castiglione’s house has exploded. You don’t need to be a mathematician to put two and two together.

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