29. Gangster Prince

"You… you've got the guts to hit me…" The guy dropped Anirudh's collar and stumbled back, one hand cradling his stinging cheek, the other pointing at Anirudh like he'd seen a ghost.

"Hit you? What, you got eyes in the back of your head now?" Anirudh quipped, cocking his head with a grin.

"You… you…" The dude was choking on his own rage, words failing him. This was Kimbell, Chicago mayor's kid—a textbook rich punk. In a city like Chicago, that title meant clout and swagger. At Chicago Business School, Kimbell strutted around like a kingpin. Who didn't kiss his boots? But this random nobody just clocked him in front of a crowd—was he itching for a coffin?

"Boss Kimbell…" His lackeys went white, jaws on the floor. These were his cronies, clued in on his dad's city-hall throne. They knew the juice that came with it—future gigs, easy street. These bums had hitched their wagons to Kimbell, bowing and scraping at his every word. Now, seeing their golden boy take a slap, they were pissed—like someone had torched their houses.

"What are you losers staring at? Waste this clown!" Kimbell snarled, the penny finally dropping. He'd been shamed—big league. If he didn't pound this kid into the dirt today, how could he strut around campus—or lock eyes with Laila—without eating crow?

"Kimbell, you're out of line…" Just as the posse charged and Anirudh squared up, Laila shot to her feet, planting herself between them.

The move threw Anirudh and Kimbell for a loop. Anirudh hadn't clocked her as the ride-or-die type who'd back him up. Kimbell's face went from red to a sickly swamp green.

"Out of line? Me? Laila, this jerk smacked me, and you're ragging on me?" Kimbell bellowed. He'd been publicly punked, and the girl he was nuts about wasn't patting his back—she was sticking up for this nobody. His blood was boiling.

"This is a classroom, not your playground. You rolled in with your goon squad and tried to throw hands first. Don't drag your dad's name through the mud…" Laila's voice was pure ice. Real talk: she'd seen Anirudh in action and knew these clowns didn't stand a prayer. She stepped in to keep him from turning it into a bloodbath—big trouble meant bad news for everyone.

"Drag his name? Ha! Laila, my rep's already in the gutter today! Move—I'll cave on anything else for you, but this punk's toast!" Kimbell sneered, his temper off the leash.

"Kimbell, don't be a dumbass…" Laila snapped, her cool cracking. Her dad, a state senator tight with Kimbell's old man, gave her some heft. That frosty glare? It screamed boss vibes.

Laila's arctic stare hit Kimbell like a brick. Their dads were buds, and she was his dream girl. She was dead-set on shielding this guy, and he couldn't swing—if he clipped Laila by mistake, he'd be screwed.

"Fine, Laila, I'll chill—for you. But you, punk—sleep with one eye open…" Kimbell growled his exit line, spun around, and bailed. Today's hit to his ego was a knockout.

His crew shot Anirudh death stares before shuffling out after him.

"Didn't know you had that kind of mojo, Laila. Big thanks…" Anirudh, brushing off the threats, flashed her a cheesy grin.

"He's the one who should be thanking me, not you…" Laila's face froze over as she flopped back into her seat.

"Heh…" Anirudh chuckled. She knew damn well those punks wouldn't last five seconds against him. "Still, he said I'd pay. I'm spooked they'll jump me, Laila—sis, got any tips?"

"Your mess, your problem…" Laila huffed, then tuned him out cold.

"…" Anirudh blinked, thrown. Guess he was chopped liver to her.

Outside, Kimbell's cheek was screaming—hot and raw. A nerd in black glasses sidled up. "Boss Kimbell, we just eating this one?"

"Hell no. But Laila's in the picture—I've got to play nice for now. Gimme your phone…" Kimbell smirked, dark and mean.

"Right…" A pudgy kid handed over an iPhone 15. Kimbell snatched it and dialed quick.

Meanwhile, in some swanky Chicago villa, a guy wrapped up like a mummy sprawled on a recliner, tearing into his phone.

"What? You didn't find him? You useless clowns! Chicago Genius University's a postage stamp—how do you botch that? Drop dead already!" Bandages smothered his face, but those eyes were spitting fire.

"Anbery, he's gone, man—three Tommy Joneses at Chicago Genius U, none of 'em him. Maybe he tossed us a fake name…" a whiny voice pleaded over the line.

Anbery's scowl deepened. "I don't give a damn about your guesses. Tell the boys to rip the city apart—I want him… ow…" He winced mid-rant, pain shooting through his wounds.

He hung up, ready to crash. Last night, he'd been crooning at karaoke when some bastard turned him into a punching bag—his worst humiliation in twenty years. No payback, no respect. He was Anbery, third prince of the Rust Knights, one of Chicago's top gangs.

His ringtone blasted as he dropped the phone. Anbery flinched, checked the caller, quirked a brow, and picked up.

"Anbery, you've gotta have my back, dude—I got jumped, wahhh…" Kimbell's bawling hit the line like a freight train. Anbery's frown dug in deep…