From Bullets To Billions novel Chapter 390

Capítulo 390: Jett The Enforcer (Part 1)

The Black Hounds were not simply another street gang. In the hierarchy of Notting Hill’s underworld they had the label of an Organised crew; the Black Hounds functioned like a small, efficient machine designed to extract advantage and maintain control.

Only one force in the area eclipsed them in reach, the Crime Syndicate higher up the chain, but between the Syndicate and the Hounds, there was a balance of power. The Hounds moved with confidence because they had fewer people to fear and even fewer to answer to.

Numbers meant a lot in this city, and the Hounds had them. The Chalkline boys boasted volume, loudness, and swagger, but volume didn’t always translate into discipline. In a direct test of organized violence, the Chalkline boys were merely noise next to the Hounds’ precision.

The Black Hounds could take on more than one kind of opponent and come away with territory, influence, and, if anyone tried to push back, a reputation that made others think twice.

Within that machine, three names rose above the rest, Darius Vale, Sable Vix, and Jett Corbin. Each carried a particular reputation that, when combined, made for a potent leadership triumvirate. Darius was the mind at the top, the cold strategist who kept the gears oiled and the calendar clean of risky impulses.

Sable was the tactician, the person who thought five moves ahead and could map out an operation like a chessboard. Jett, by contrast, was the contact-man with the muscle, known by everyone in the Hounds simply as the Enforcer.

When Jett decided he would act, manpower moved, doors opened, and the night bent to his will. He did not need to dominate people through intellect; he dominated them through a simple, unflinching application of force.

Tonight, Jett was at a restaurant with his people, and despite his job title, he hadn’t appointed himself to any ascetic diet. He’d ordered like someone with an appetite carved out by hard living: a sixteen-ounce steak, a full rack of ribs, and half a roast chicken.

Each entrée came armored by a pile of carbohydrates, fries, rice, and almost an entire loaf of bread. His companions watched him with a mixture of admiration and quiet calculation; Jett could dispatch food at an alarming rate without looking gaunt or drained.

He wasn’t towering, exactly, bigger than most, but not a mountain, but he had an appetite that betrayed a hunger beyond ordinary hunger. The men around him ate at ease; the extra plates were plainly Jett’s.

Conversation moved around the table like a tide. Men shrugged, forked food into their mouths, and continued the business of being men of their world. The topics were the usual mixture of territory, debts, and whether a certain bar had paid its protection fee on time.

Then, somewhere between the rib rack and the second portion of fries, a man at the table picked up his phone. He listened, frowned, asked a few curt questions, and placed the handset down. For a moment the room quieted, the kind of quiet that makes the edges of people sharper.

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