The Broligarchy - Chapter 1: The Wrong House

The security guard had me face-down on the marble. Then a voice came through his earpiece, and the whole night changed. [free preview chapter]

The house was wrong for me, but I still went: The cars and suits were too tantalizing, and I’d heard things. I knew it was wrong before I cut the engine.

Not of my car. A silver Lincoln I’d taken from the long-term lot at the airport, the kind of car nobody reports for two weeks because they’re in Cabo and they assume the dust on the dashboard is their own: It’d be back before they returned. Hopefully. I left it behind a drainage culvert a quarter mile down the road, which felt like a lot of caution until I came around the bend and saw the driveway.

Eight cars. A Porsche Cayenne. Two big Mercedes. A Tesla somebody had actually washed. And four black Suburbans parked nose-to-tail along the curve, which meant hired muscle, or hired valet, or both. The house sat up on a low rise behind a gate that was, for tonight, propped wide open for guests. Limestone front, balconies on the second floor, one of those round driveways with a fountain in the middle that nobody ever turns on

Tonight it was on. Lit blue from underneath. Somebody wanted you to see it, and somebody could afford the water bill. I’d learn later that appearance meant everything.

I should have left.

“Should” has kept me fed for three years. “Should” says you case the place tonight and you come back Tuesday, when the party’s over and the house is half empty and the Porsche guy leaves his bedroom window cracked because rich men always think the alarm or insurance is enough. “Should” is patient. “Should” doesn’t get caught.

But the gate was open. And through the front windows I could see thirty, forty people in tuxedos, moving around with drinks, and a party that size means catering, and catering means a back entrance nobody’s watching, and a face nobody recognizes because there are other faces nobody recognizes. The bigger the event, the easier the job. That’s just math.

I had a white button-down folded in the trunk. Close enough to staff if I kept my hands full and my eyes down.

So I went in.

Here’s the thing about getting into a place: it’s never the lock. It’s the walk. You pick up something to carry, you move like you’ve got somewhere to be, and you let everyone else’s assumption do the work. I came in through the service door past the pool house, through a kitchen that was loud and bright and full of rented people in black aprons, and not one of them looked at me twice. I lifted an empty tray off a steel counter, pushed through the swinging door, set the tray down on the first flat surface in the main room, and kept walking.

I clocked the room on the way through, the way I always do. Two big guys in dark suits, not tuxedos, standing at the edges with their hands folded in front of them. Earpieces. One by the front door, one near the hall to the back. Security. I marked where they were standing the way you’d mark a wet floor, something to route around, and I filed it and kept moving. That detail’s going to matter later. I didn’t know that yet: Every detail would matter over the next seven days.

The stairs were marble too. Wide, with a runner down the middle in that same deep red. I took them like a man heading to a bathroom he’d used before, one hand in my pocket, in no hurry at all. Second floor. A long hallway, four doors, all shut.

First door, locked; my picks were in my pocket but that cost time I might not have. Second door opened on a bedroom the size of my whole apartment, empty, a watch case on the dresser with maybe six watches sitting in it under glass. I didn’t touch anything. First pass you learn the room, second pass you take. I left it and went for the third door.

I never got there.

The hand came from behind: fast, heavy, and it put me into the marble before my brain had finished the word *behind*. My cheek hit stone, and a metal taste dripped across my tongue. A knee landed in the middle of my back, a hand closed on the back of my neck, and a voice over me said very quietly, “Don’t move.”

He zip-tied my wrists. I felt the plastic bite down, and that’s when I knew it was bad, because a guy who carries zip ties is a guy who does this for a living. And a guy pressing that much into my back is a guy I was not going to fight my way from.

Which was evidenced by what he did next: He flipped me over like I didn’t weigh anything. Big. Big in every direction, a thick neck and a chest like a door, pale buzzed hair going back at the temples, pale eyes set deep over a nose that had been broken and reset at least once. He looked at me the way you’d look at a problem on a clipboard. Not angry. Just sorting it.

“How’d you get in,” he said. Not a question. A sentence with a period on the end.

“Kitchen,” I said. No point lying at this stage.

He hauled me up by the zip tie, the plastic possibly breaking skin, and he walked me back toward the stairs. I was running the next hour in my head: jail or a beating or a beating and then jail, when he stopped. One hand went up to his ear. He pressed it and listened. His face didn’t change but his grip on my arm was just a tiny bit looser.

“Yeah,” he said, to whoever was in his ear. “Copy.”

He looked at me again, and something behind his eyes had shifted.

“It’s your lucky day,” he said. “The boss has taken an interest in you.”

I didn’t say anything. When a thing changes faster than you can read it, the move is to shut up and watch, and I’m good at shutting up.

He brought me down the stairs and through the main room, which had thinned out. Most of the tuxes had gone home. The ones still there had pulled their ties loose and dropped onto the low couches in the easy, spread-out way of men who actually live somewhere, and I counted them on instinct, the way I count everything.

The tall one first, because you couldn’t not. Gym body, the kind you only get by making it the whole point, a gold tan and a jaw like a catalog. He was standing by a bar cart with a glass in his hand telling some story, and two guys on the couch were turned toward him like he was the TV. Everything about him said *look here*. So I did. My gut said, that’s him. That’s the one in charge. You learn to trust the gut; mine’s kept me out of more rooms than it’s put me in, and he’s the one I’d need to blow to get out of this.

And I’ll be straight with you, since we’re going to be spending some time together. The body didn’t hurt his case. A man built like that, golden and loose, holding a room with a story he was sure you wanted to hear. Some animal part of me filed him under *want* in the same half second the professional part filed him under *boss*, and I didn’t love that the two had landed on the same man, because want makes you sloppy, and zip-tied on a stranger’s floor was a bad night to start being sloppy.

On the couch, a smaller guy with glasses and a trim black beard, dark skin, a laptop open on his knee even now, even here. Next to him a tall man, Black, model-handsome in a way that made you lose the thread of your own thoughts, one arm stretched along the back of the couch behind the laptop guy. Easy. Like he owned the inch of air over the other man’s shoulders. I held on him a moment longer, the way you look at something in a window you already know you can’t afford.

Over by the far wall, leaning in a doorway with his arms crossed, a lean guy with dark hair watching the room the way I watch rooms. He was the only one who looked at me now, being led by the guard. He held my eyes for a second. Then went back to whatever he was doing, and I didn’t know what to do with that, so I packed it away.

And somewhere off to the side, near a console table, a guy in a plain shirt was stacking used glasses onto a tray. Average build. Average everything. I think I registered him about as much as I registered the tray. My eyes went over him and kept going and landed back on the tall one, and that was that.

Five of them with their ties loose in a house worth more than I’d lift in ten lifetimes, and me in the middle of it with my wrists zipped and a copper taste still in my mouth. I want to tell you I was *only* scared. I was scared. But there’s a particular charge to being the one thing in a room that doesn’t belong, to being looked over by men who could make you disappear before breakfast. Knowing that, I’d be lying if I told you the charge was all fear. Some of it was the other thing, the thing that has put me in more trouble over the years than any lock ever has. I noticed that about myself and packed it away for later. Later was starting to look like it might be a while.

The big man walked me down a back hall and into a small room. One chair. He pointed at it. I sat. He left, and the door didn’t lock behind him, which I noticed, and filed, and couldn’t use, because my hands were still zipped.

I waited. Three minutes, maybe five; I was good at estimating time because I had a few standard songs I could sing in my head and I knew how long each one was. Then a speaker in the ceiling clicked on, a real flush-mount intercom and not some plastic baby monitor, and a voice came out of it.

It wasn’t the big man’s voice. This one was quieter. Lower, and a little flat, like it was coming through a cloth, or like the man on the other end wanted it that way. Unhurried. The kind of voice that doesn’t push because it’s never once had to.

“You got further than most.”

I looked at the grille. Beige plastic. I said nothing.

“Most of them don’t make it past the kitchen. You made the second floor. That takes a particular kind of confidence.” A pause. Maybe a smile in it, I couldn’t tell. “Or stupidity. What’s your name?”

I thought about lying. I don’t know why I didn’t.

“Jim.”

“Okay, Jim. Here’s where you are.” No menace in it, which was somehow worse than menace. “There’s footage of you coming in the service door, walking my kitchen, going up my stairs and into a room that isn’t yours. That’s breaking and entering. Probably intent to commit, depending on what you were planning to lift off that dresser. My head of security would like to call the police.”

I heard knuckles crack behind me.

“So call them,” I said. I don’t know why I said that either. Sometimes the mouth gets out ahead.

“I might. That’s option one. Cops, footage, your prints in a system, your face in a system, and everything you’ve been quietly doing for three years gets a lot harder to keep doing.” He let it sit; how did he know three years? Lucky guess? Or ... “Or, option two. You stay here. Seven days. In that time you figure out one thing, which is who actually runs this house. At the end of the week you give one name. One. Get it right, and you’re in. You join what we’ve built and what we’re building, and your life stops looking like a Lincoln you didn’t pay for; you might even get a decent car out of the deal. Get it wrong, and we’re back to option one. Police, footage. And maybe other thing because Viktor can get rough when he’s inconvenienced.”

Knuckles cracked again behind me.

“What if I just walk? You said I had a choice in everything. I’m choosing the door.”

“You do have that choice. It’s a real one.” The voice didn’t even change. “There’s the door, Jim. Walk out tonight and you’re fine, nobody lays a hand on you ... Viktor. The only thing that happens is the cops get a call the second you’re off the property, and they get the footage with it. That’s not me threatening you. That’s just the consequence of how you spent your evening. Your call, either way. Stay or go.”

And that, more than anything, is what kept me in the chair. Not a threat. A man handing me the math and letting me do it myself. I’d never been good at the slot machines or poker table. But people? One in maybe six or seven? I liked those odds.

The voice was the other thing that kept me there, though I didn’t look straight at that part. I’ve been talked at by hard men my whole life, men who got loud because loud made them feel big. This was the opposite of loud. This was somebody so far past needing to raise his voice that he could lay out the worst week of my life like he was pulling out a chair for me, and the calm of it landed somewhere low and unwise, somewhere that has never once cared about consequences. I wanted to know whose mouth that was. I told myself that was strategy, that knowing the man was the whole job. Some of it was strategy.

I thought about my apartment with the month-to-month lease and the radiator that worked when it felt like it. I thought about three years of this and a net worth that hadn’t moved an inch. I thought about the word *in*, and how long it had been since anybody anywhere had said it to me unless it had to do with sex.

“I’ll stay,” I said.

“Good.” The speaker clicked. The little light went dark. And that was it. Conversation over, and I still didn’t have a face to put on the voice.

The big man cut the ties. He didn’t apologize and I didn’t wait for one. He walked me upstairs, past the watch room, past the door I never got to open, and put me in a third room. Queen bed, its own bathroom, a window that looked down on the pool. Folded towels on the dresser. Clean.

“Don’t leave the house,” he said. “Don’t take anything. My name’s Viktor.”

“Thanks, Viktor.” I’d already heard that. I chose not to tell him. In my business, you don’t necessarily volunteer information.

He shut the door. I locked it. I sat on the end of the bed for a long time and didn’t move.

Five of them, not counting Viktor. He took orders, he wasn’t the one speaking. So one down, six left, 20% chance by random, and I already had ideas.

I needed to name the one who’d just offered me a door out of the only life I knew how to run. One of them was behind that intercom.

The tall one at the bar. The room bent toward him. He stood like he paid for the place.

Or the quiet one in the doorway, the watcher, the only one who’d clocked me.

Or the guy on the laptop, working at his own party, because either he couldn’t stop or he wasn’t allowed to.

Or the beautiful one with his arm laid out behind him like a flag over territory.

Or the small wall fly, tucked out of the way with the tray.

I pulled the curtain back. The pool was the only light left in the yard, blue and still, and somewhere under this roof a man was watching footage of me walking his kitchen like I’d paid for the floor, and he’d decided that was worth a week of his time. Seven days in a house full of men I’d already caught myself looking at bit too long. Seven days to find the one with his hand on all of it. I didn’t know yet that those two problems were going to turn out to be the same problem. I let the window’s curtain drop.

I’d been lying there maybe an hour, almost under, the house gone quiet around me, when I heard it. Footsteps in the hall. Slow. They came down the runner and stopped outside my door.

Nothing for a second. Then the handle moved, and it was locked, and I heard a small sound after it: fabric, then something harder, the dry click of keys. And the handle turned.

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This is a free preview chapter. The rest of this story will be paywalled, one new chapter a week, on Fridays. //Kai