The Grayson brothers run the city like kings. Connor- The Devil, the strategist, the cold-blooded mastermind who built their empire. Ronan- The Mad Dog, the enforcer, the chaos that keeps everyone in line.

They were men who built their empire from nothing. They knew hunger—the kind that burned like fire in your gut, the kind that forced you to hustle, steal, kill if you had to. They remembered syrup sandwiches and crime allowances, the fake bills they used to finesse shopkeepers just to keep themselves from starving. But now? Now, they counted money, and their accountant lived in a goddamn penthouse, drowning in Parmesan and fine wine.

Their name carried weight. Their power stretched across the city like a shadow, creeping into every deal, every trade, every pocket.

But tonight, some dumb motherfuckers thought they could front on them.

Connor is all control, discipline, and patience. Ronan? He wants war.

Blood is thicker than water—but in their world, even blood gets spilled.

Connor leaned back in his seat, legs spread, fingers lazily drumming against the glass of whiskey in his hand. His green eyes scanned the crowd, sharp and unreadable, always watching, always calculating. He didn’t need to move. He owned the place. He owned the city.

Ronan, on the other hand, was all restless energy. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. Darker-haired than Connor but with the same ruthless green eyes, his smirk was pure trouble. He enjoyed this part—the game, the thrill, the violence waiting beneath the surface.

One rules with his mind, the other with his fists.

"You see those assholes?" Ronan muttered, exhaling smoke as he nodded toward a group of men near the bar. Outsiders. Stupid enough to walk into their club like they belonged.

Connor took a slow sip of whiskey, eyes never leaving the intruders. "I see them. Fucking dead men don't think for long."

Ronan grinned, all sharp teeth and menace. "That’s what I fucking like to hear."