NCT Ten | Mafia

Something off.....

Ten's P.O.V

There'sa place at the top of the Bradford where a greenhouse used to be. I never saw this place in its heyday, but I imagine it produced thick red roses to put on crisp white linens. Now it's my lookout.

I have a room in the hotel, like the other guys. Bare walls and a clean mattress. More than I could have hoped for when I was a kid, but the ruined greenhouse is where I spend most of my time. From here I can see all four corners of the Bradford. I can see the cross streets and the buildings beyond—abandoned, mostly, which is what makes this place perfect. Over the ridge of brick and metal, the city spreads out in front of us, bustling with headlights, with sound. The world spinning on without any idea that we're here.

That's the point, of course. If the cops knew about this place, they'd be on our asses. Some of our business interests are legal. Some of them aren't.

And Johnny, well, he's a fugitive since his prison break.

The Bradford is more than a place to sleep, more than our operational headquarters. It's a safe haven. And it's my job to keep it that way. That means keeping my finger on the pulse of the streets. I have a network of informants throughout Franklin City. A few cops on my payroll. There are a hundred ways I make sure this place stays secret, but I like to watch for myself. Sometimes it's the only way I can take a deep breath—with my gaze on the empty streets around us, making sure the crew is safe.

Something is off today.

I lift my face to the breeze, clench my hand around the rusted wrought-iron banister. What the hell is it? I'm about to go downstairs, to make Kun run his scans or whatever the fuck he does on the computer to find a problem I can fucking solve, when I see it—a streak of red.

For half a second, there's relief. Part of me always knows when one of the crew is away from the Bradford. I can feel it as surely as if I were a farmer sensing a goddamn storm rolling in. The red streak? That's Kun. The cherry-striped Shelby is his favorite car, which is saying something. He has twenty in his personal inventory alone, not to mention the garage he keeps for the rest of us.

His favorite, which is why I know he'd never grind the gears so loud I can hear the crunching echo off the brick walls a block away. Tires bounce onto the broken curb. The bottom of the car scrapes concrete with an ear-splitting screech.

I have my cell phone out, a calm sense of purpose washing over me. This is what the crew needs me for. For times like this, when I can be cold as ice.

The Shelby cuts the corner too close, sending mortar and brick flying into the street.

"Get Lucas here," I say, knowing Yuta will be on the other end of the line, pinging the only brother who doesn't live at the Bradford on our secure line. "Nine-one-one," I say as the car comes to a haphazard halt in front of the hotel, where the old valet station would have been.

Fuck.I'm flying down the stairs, still talking.

"And find out what's happening on the police scanners. Some shit went down, and I need to know what they know."

I make a quick stop to grab Johnny.

"It's Kun."

Johnny doesn't argue, but I feel his tension as he follows me down the steps. "On a Tuesday?"

Every single one of us has our demons. Whether it's sex or blood or drugs. There's something we use to numb the pain. Or, worse, something we use to relive it. What happened back then fucked us up so we're not really human anymore. We're animals with damn-near unlimited funds and access to the world's worst vices. Kun's demon is alcohol. At least it was until I sat him in a fucking room for a month, while he swore at me and called me every name in the book, and dried him out. He hasn't touched a drop since.