Page 1 of Chaos & Corruption

Prologue

Alex Reggiano

The ivy crawlsup the buildings of Stonewall University, hiding the aging bricks and fine-grain stone, but that’s not all those vines hide. Inside the walls of this prestigious hellhole the privileged assholes of the Scorpio Society congregate, weaving lies and ruining reputations one day at a time. It’s a skill inherited by some but mastered by all that are inducted into their sick and twisted cult.

But deception and character defamation are the least damaging of their crimes.

A misdemeanor if you will.

They breed chaos and corruption like it’s their God given right and when an innocent woman gets in the way of that, well, they’ll stop at nothing to silence her.

They won’t care that her grandfather was a legend or that her father is still very much connected to the mob and they sure as fuck won’t blink an eye over the fact her brother is on the verge of becoming a championship boxer.

When the Scorpio Society puts a mark on you, you’re done.

Victoria Bianci learned that lesson the hard way and so did I.

But those rich cunts didn’t bank on me.

They didn’t realize I’d sacrifice everything—piss away my career and destroy my future—to avenge every drop of blood they stole.

One

Alex Reggiano

“You’re a cranky bitch.”

I resent that comment. I’m a lot of things—hungry, horny, stressed, and miserable—but I’m not cranky. And while we’re at it—I’m no bitch either. I’m the motherfucking tight end for the Stonewall Sinners. The guy who caught every pass this asshole threw and ran every one of those plays into the end zone, scoring touchdown after touchdown. Without me we wouldn’t have had the stellar season we did. But there is more work to be done and this upcoming season will make or break us. It’s the season where all eyes will be on our team and at the end of it only the best will be drafted to the NFL. That’s why I stayed behind this summer and trained exclusively with Coach Riley while the rest of my team was off playing on their daddy’s jet skis.

So maybe Webber has a point, perhaps I am a tad cranky.

“When was the last time you got laid?” he presses.

Juggling the pizza box with one hand, I kick shut the door to my Audi and do the mental math. It’s been me and my hand for a while. My last hook-up had to be around springtime and that girl was a fucking lunatic. There have been some prospects since then, but with all the training and camp kicking my ass over the last two weeks, I’ve been too tired to worry about getting my dick sucked, much less finding a piece of ass to fuck for one night.

“Man, you have to release that poison,” Webber continues, and I roll my eyes. “It’ll fucking kill you.”

That’s the difference between me and my roommate. He’s more concerned with getting his dick serviced than getting drafted. Then again, he doesn’t have to worry about shit. Buzz around campus is that the Tampa Bay Pirates already have their eye on him.

“When I get back tomorrow, we’re hitting Dizzy’s. Mostly everyone will be back from the break so it will be easy to find someone to get you off.”

Dizzy’s is a bar off campus where some of our friends work. It also acts as a watering hole for most of the students here at Stonewall. A visit to Dizzy’s guarantees you some top-shelf booze, good music, and a quick lay.

Well, that used to be the case.

Not too long ago, someone committed suicide by jumping off the second-floor balcony—or at least that’s the story around here—I don’t buy it, but I’m just a fucking athlete. I keep my head down and my circle small. You see, that’s the thing about Stonewall, on paper it’s great academically and no other university can beat it athletically, but behind the scenes it’s a cesspool of corruption controlled by a bunch of spoiled elites that are part of some deranged cult they call the Scorpio Society.

They have a hand in everything—including Dizzy’s.

But Webber is oblivious to that shit. When he’s not on the field, he’s schmoozing with anyone and everyone including those sick fucks.

I make my way toward our seven-story apartment building, punch in the security code that unlocks the front door and start for the stairs. If I weren’t about to cheat on my diet with this pizza, I might opt for the elevator, but I got extra cheese and double pepperoni. In twenty minutes, this thing will be gone, and I’ll be in a food coma. I need all the cardio I can get while I’m still conscious.

Climbing the stairs, I bring my attention back to Webber.

“While I’m touched you give a damn about my dick, I don’t need assistance with finding someone to take care of it.”

“If that were true you wouldn’t be this cranky,” Webber volleys.

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