To do that, I need to find their weak point. Their vulnerability.

So I’ve been watching and waiting. Letting them think the Braterstwo are defeated, that they cut the head off the snake when they killed Tymon.

In the meantime, I run my business. I keep my territory secure. And I amass more money and power by the day.

There’s a knock on my door. It’s Jonas. He enters without waiting, carrying a crate of Żubrówka, Polish vodka. He pulls out one of the bottles, showing me the bright green label and the single blade of bison grass swimming in the pale amber liquor.

“Just in time,” he says, grinning. “We were about to run out.”

Jonas has a broad frame, packed with muscle, and thick black hair that he combs straight back from his forehead. His eyes are so dark that you can’t tell the pupil from the iris, and his eyebrows are straight slashes that go up at the outer edges, like Spock. His personality is the opposite of Vulcan, however. Jonas isn’t logical. He’s impulsive—quick to laugh, and quick to brawl. He doesn’t think things through. Which is why I’m the boss, instead of him.

It’s what Tymon wanted. Not that it matters—now that my adoptive father is dead, I won’t be second to anyone, ever again.

“What’s the total liquor sales this week?” I ask Jonas.

“Fifty-seven thousand,” he replies proudly.

That’s up twelve percent from the week before.

“Good.” I nod.

“There’s one thing, though,” Jonas says, frowning.

“Hold on,” I reply.

I tap the shoulder of the girl who is currently kneeling between my legs, sucking my cock. Her name is Petra. She’s one of our bartenders—one of our best, actually. She’s as skilled with her mouth as she is with her hands. It’s a pleasant accompaniment to the tedious task of balancing the books. But I don’t usually cum. As hard as she works, my cock only seems half-alive, like the rest of me.

“You can leave,” I tell her.

Petra stands up from behind the desk, brushing off the knees of her tight black pants. She’s wearing a corset top, half unlaced to show her generous cleavage. Her lipstick is smeared around her mouth.

Jonas smirks, realizing we weren’t alone in the room. He eyes Petra’s breasts, and then her ass as she leaves the office. Not like he hasn’t seen it all before.

“How is she?” he says. “I haven’t had the pleasure yet.”

“She’s fine,” I say shortly. “What did you want to tell me?”

Jonas turns serious again, getting back to business.

“I think one of the bartenders is stealing from us.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve been weighing the bottles. We’re short thirty-eight ounces.”

“Are they heavy pouring?”

“No. I put regulators on the nozzles.”

“Then they’re either giving drinks to friends or pocketing the cash.”

“Somebody is,” Jonas agrees.

“I’ll watch them tonight,” I tell him.

“Perfect,” Jonas says, smirking once more, and folding his arms across his chest.

“What?” I ask him, annoyed.

“You gonna put your cock back in your pants?”

I look down at my cock, still smeared with Petra’s lipstick. I’d already forgotten about the truncated blowjob. I tuck myself back in my trousers, scowling.

“Happy now?” I say to Jonas.

“Sure,” he says.

We head out onto the floor together.

The night is just getting into full swing—guests lined up at the bar, the dance floor becoming crowded, every booth full.

I look around at the busy, bustling space and I see money, money, money. Waitresses stuffing cash into their aprons, handing patrons drinks marked up by four-hundred percent. Bartenders swiping credit cards again and again, each swipe another infinitesimal addition to the wealth of the Braterstwo.

The walls are covered with grass-paper, the booths upholstered in rich emerald velvet. The lights are a dim, watery green, with patterned shadows that make it appear as if the patrons are walking through tall grass.

This club is indeed a jungle, and I’m its king. The customers pay homage to me without even knowing it, as I drain their wallets drink by drink.

I take a position at the corner of the dance floor, pretending to watch the clientele. But really, I have my eyes on my own employees. In particular, on the bartenders.

There are four behind the counter of the main bar: Petra, Monique, Bronson, and Chaz. All are fast and flashy workers, hired for skill and sex appeal. I’m not ruling out the women, but I already suspect the men. Petra and Monique make a staggering number of tips from the lonely businessmen in the area. Bronson and Chaz do pretty damn well for themselves too, but in my experience, there’s a masculine greed that won’t allow a man to be satisfied with three hundred a night.

A good bartender is like a juggler and a magician all in one. They’re chatting with the customer while simultaneously flipping glasses, agitating shakers, and pouring twelve shots in a row. They make money disappear and alcohol rain down. They’re always doing ten things at once.

It takes a practiced eye to see what they’re really up to.

In twenty-eight minutes, I’ve spotted the thief.

It isn’t Bronson, with the bulging muscles and frat-boy charm. He slips a free drink to a giggling blonde, but he still rings it in, using his own tips to cover it.

No, it’s Chaz who’s the tricky little fuck. Chaz with the silver rings, hipster beard, and man-bun.

That egotistic little shit has two separate scams running at the same time. First, he’s taking payments from three or four customers at once, carrying the cash over to the till and pretending to ring it all in. But as his fingers fly over the screen, I see he’s only ringing in nine out of ten drinks, counting on the volume of transactions to hide what he’s doing from anybody watching.

Then, something Jonas hasn’t even caught: Chaz has a bottle of Crown Royal he’s snuck into the building. It’s a top-shelf liquor, eighteen dollars a pop. Any time a customer orders it, Chaz pours from his own bottle that he’s set on the shelf in place of my liquor. Then he takes the entire payment and drops it directly in his tip jar.

In the time I’m watching, he steals about seventy-six dollars. By my rough calculations, that means he’s skimming over nine hundred dollars a night.

I motion to Jonas, calling him over.

“It’s Chaz,” I tell him.

Jonas looks over at Chaz and his shit-eating grin as he pops the top off four bottles of Heineken, sliding them across the bar to a quartet of rowdy college girls. Jonas’s face darkens. He takes a step forward, like he’s going to grab Chaz by the shirt and haul him over the bar right then and there.

“Not yet,” I say, laying a hand on Jonas’s chest. “Let him finish his shift. We don’t want to be short-handed tonight. Grab him on his way out, instead.”

Jonas grunts and nods. A scuffle breaks out over by the bathrooms, and Jonas heads in that direction to make sure the bouncers break it up.

I lean back against the pillar at the corner of the dance floor, arms folded in front of my chest. The satisfaction of catching the thief is already fading away. My mind is turning back, as it always does, to the nagging problem of the Griffins and the Gallos.