Chapter 221 The Contest
Brandon might not be the top dog, but he's been a grade-A jerk for over two decades.
Started smacking kids around at six, kept it up through college, and never lost a scrap.
Even when he ran into some tough dudes outta town, he took 'em down without breaking a sweat.
A few years back, some rich punk tried to mess with him at a nightclub, and Brandon straight-up pulled a gun on him.
Scared of anyone? Nah, not Brandon.
So, when James strutted in all cocky today, it really got under Brandon's skin.
A small-time doc living with his in-laws not only clocked him but also wanted to throw down. Brandon was so ticked he forgot he was even hurt.
John and his crew whipped out their phones, dialing up backup.
Outside, James was just chilling, munching on a watermelon.
"James, Brandon's got some sketchy pals," Nathaniel said, limping over with his cane. "Want me to call in some muscle?"
James's earlier moves had Nathaniel all fired up, itching to rally some guys and make a scene.
If they could take down Brandon and his goons, Nathaniel's street cred in Rosewood City would skyrocket.
Maybe one day he'd be as big a deal as Sebastian.
Mia smacked Nathaniel upside the head. "Don't stir the pot."
She shot him a look. "Can't you see things are about to blow up?"
Nathaniel shrugged. "What's one Brandon gonna do? Even if Keith shows up, it won't change squat."
"Get lost," Mia said, then turned to James. "James, should we call Mr. Davis?"
Mia was the sensible one. "Brandon's family ain't big in Rosewood City, but his grandpa's the head honcho of the Los Angeles Mystic Alliance."
James had laid a serious beatdown on Brandon and even threatened to bust his legs. Mia was worried things might spiral out of control.
The Mystic Alliance hated internal beef. If it went down, they'd drop the hammer, maybe even get the bigwigs involved.
If they could get Richard to step in, they might smooth things over.
"No need," James said with a sly grin. "If I gotta call someone to deal with Brandon, I might as well off myself."
Nathaniel gave a humbs-up. "James, you're a legend."
Mia nodded, not pushing it further.
She'd only met James a few times but knew once he made up his mind, he wouldn't budge.
In less than half an hour, a fleet of cars rolled up to the club, oozing arrogance.
Maseratis, Porsches, Ferraris, Audis, Lambos, and Hummers packed the lot.
Brandon's crew, John's business buddies, and other socialites all showed up to back Brandon.
A bunch of them brought their flashy girlfriends to watch the showdown.
They were armed to the teeth: baseball bats, golf clubs, car locks, batons—you name it.
The scene with two hundred people was straight-up wild.
They surrounded James and Nathaniel like a pack of wolves.
Some folks thought Nathaniel looked kinda familiar, but with his beat-up face, they couldn't quite place him.
Brandon, all patched up and feeling like a king, strutted out of the club with John and his crew.
Seeing the crowd, Brandon's ego shot through the roof. He waved like he was royalty. "Hey, everyone."
Two hundred voices echoed back, "Hello, Mr. Bell."
Brandon stood tall, soaking in the attention. He felt untouchable.
The ladies in the crowd were giving him those admiring looks. They loved a guy who could throw down.
Brandon glared at James and Nathaniel. "James, last chance. Kneel, admit you're wrong, break your own legs, and send Kaitlyn to my bed. I'll let you off."
James squinted. "I'm breaking all four of your limbs."
Brandon pointed angrily. "Don't get cocky. Nathaniel can't save you. Richard won't either."
Nathaniel, puffing on a smoke, looked at Brandon like he was a total moron. Clearly, James had his back.
James glanced around. "If this is all you've got, Brandon, I'm breaking your legs and arms."
"Arrogant!" Brandon laughed angrily. "You'll regret this."
"Regret?" James sneered. "You mean like burning you a bit and smashing bottles over your head?"
John, clutching his phone, shouted, "My uncle's coming. Let's see how cocky you are then."
James smiled. "Your uncle will disappoint you."
Just then, a convoy of ten black Lincolns rolled up, moving slow but with serious swagger.
The Lincolns pushed through the crowd and parked near Brandon and John.
Thirty-six dudes in black suits got out, looking like professional muscle.
Their presence totally overshadowed Brandon's crew.
A middle-aged guy in a red suit, holding a bracelet, stepped out. It was Ray.
Ray walked forward like he owned the place, and people moved aside in fear.
"Uncle Ray, you're here," John said, eyes lighting up. He rushed to greet Ray. "Perfect timing. Some punk challenged us, hurt me and Mr. Bell, and threatened to break our limbs. I told him my uncle is Ray, and he didn't care."
John exaggerated, wanting to crush James completely.
Seeing Ray, Brandon's confidence soared. The women around him looked at Ray and his men with admiration. This was real power.
They looked at James with disdain, thinking, 'He's done for. His arrogance will be repaid. A loser can't fight big shots.'
Ray's eyes flashed coldly. He squeezed his bracelet and sneered, "Who messed with my nephew? Do they have a death wish?"
His anger was clear.
"Me!" James stepped forward, hands behind his back. "Got a problem with that?"
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