"This is so fucking boring." I throw an arm around Jeremy’s shoulders as we walk to campus. "Give me something, Jer. A battle, a war, a little toy to fuck with."

"We have the initiation coming. Try to hold it in until then," he says, calm as ever.

Jeremy is the Heathens' leader, the son of the New York Bratva’s strategist, and a carbon copy of his old man in more ways than he’ll admit.

"It's not piss, Jer. I can't just hold it in," I grumble, loud enough to turn a few heads. Not that I care. People stare anyway—at my height, my full-sleeve tattoos peeking from under my T-shirt, my general fuck-you attitude.

I was born for chaos. Bred for it. Comes with the family name. My mom and my aunt Reina are identical twins, but their choices couldn’t be more different. My Aunt left the Russian mafia before I was even a thought. Mom and dad? They’re Bratva royalty. That means Jeremy, Vaughn, and I have a legacy to uphold—shoes to fill soaked in generations of blood.

Killian and Gareth? They’re just here for the ride. A revival of their distant Russian roots, maybe. A way to vent, for sure.

"Just go to your lotus, Niko," Killian says from my other side. "That usually takes care of the aggression, even if temporarily."

"Satan’s heir, you evil genius." I release Jeremy and yank Kill into a headlock.

"Stating the obvious, I see," he mutters, his usual arrogance dripping from every word. One day, someone’s going to take his head clean off for that mouth. But not today.