Brotherhood of Cain (Werewolf/Mafia)

Chapter Three: The Ivory Knuckle Company *

"Never open your mouth, unless you're in the dentist chair." - Sammy "The Bull" Gravano

Chapter Three

6 Years ago

  My eyes scanned the desolate street. The strident scent of salt washed over me in invigorating waves. It almost covered the stench of death and decay in the buildings. We weren't far from the docks, yet there was a certain emptiness that had settled over the block that wasn't evident a few streets over.

  I grabbed the empty duffel bag from the seat beside me, making my way out to the warehouse. Behind me, a few wolves followed my lead. I needed all the extra manpower I could get to carry the product. The product being, you ask? Seventy kilos of bricked heroin.

  This deal would be one of the biggest we made this year. It would supply enough money for the pack to carry on. It would fund repairs, food, and weapons. As long as this deal went smoothly, money would be made. There wasn't much risk on our side, despite the circumstances.

  The pack—Brotherhood of Cain—was a known force to be reckoned with among the underworld of Citadel. Rumors of the wolves we carried were drifting from ear to ear quickly. None of the human-run gangs wanted to be in the way of our animalistic tyranny. They had calculated the odds and it wasn't in their favor. They would wait though. They had enough patience to sit until we made a mistake. Then they would pounce.

  I had no problem waiting though. Whenever they decided to gather their balls and try something, we'd burn them to the ground.

  I turned around. "Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open," I looked over my backup. They were muscled, smart, and had enough training to easily take down the humans. However, anything could go wrong. Notoriety today could mean death tomorrow. There was no room for breaking. "If anything 'appens, be on guard. I shoot, you shoot. Those fuckers won't be alive if they do somethin'." A serious nod spread through the group. Good.

  Rolling my neck, I headed inside.

  The warehouse door had been cracked. I slipped through, scanning the enclosed room. Towering ceilings held up walkways with a few men on guard. I could see AK's slung across their backs. There was only one other door on the far wall. That hopefully meant only one other entrance point.

  A few tables were set up in the middle of the room. I could see the bricks lined up across the table. A few crates were stacked in the corners, probably holding more of the contraband Musa imported. Six other guards took places along the wall, each armed with a mean scowl and guns in hand.

  I focused on the man in front of the table. He was tall, dark skinned, with long braids that hung down his back in gaudy gold plates. He reclined against the table, hands spread. He wore this big grin, as if he was the cat with the cream and the canary. Dressed in an indigo satin shirt and tight leather pants, I could easily tell this was the famous Musa.

  Musa was the leader of the Ivory Knuckle Company. A gang of mostly Algerian men that had traveled over to America to make a profit. Half of the gang were teenagers that were brought over to support their families. Over the course of my introduction to The Company, there was one thing I knew about them: they were manically obedient. If Musa said go shoot up the women's and children's shelter down on Third, they would do it. Their willingness to brutalize was what made them dangerous.

  However, wolves didn't back down and we sure as hell protected our own. So that has led us up to this moment, fighting to keep the pack stable. They may be obedient, but we were desperate. Desperation made people do crazy things, things like killing and pillaging without a second thought.