The way she looked at me, like I’m guilty of everything she despises, makes me question if she’s right. But I saw somethingelse beneath her suspicion, beneath the armor she wears. She’s fighting the same war, just on a different front.
I think about calling her. My thumb hovers over the keypad on my phone. But I don’t dial. Because what the hell would I even say?
Let’s hold hands and clean up the mess together?
Fuck that.
I grind my teeth until my jaw aches and push off the post, heading back to the apartment.
The streetlights flicker overhead. I walk fast, sticking to the shadows. I don’t take the main roads.
When I reach my apartment, I slam the door behind me, flick the deadbolt, and toss my jacket over the chair. My holster’s still strapped to my side. I don’t take it off. Not tonight.
I pace the floor. Back and forth. Each step grinding broken glass deeper into the soles of my boots.
Briggs is gone. Alica’s been threatened and hasn’t answered a call in two days. And Serrano’s creeping closer to my back door with every hour. This whole fucking city is drowning in shadows and I’m running out of air.
I grab the bottle of whiskey off the crate and take a long pull. It scorches all the way down, but doesn’t burn deep enough to kill what’s festering inside me.
What eats at me most? I saw this coming. I just didn’t want to believe it. It’s Philly repeating itself. I thought if I kept the payouts fair, I could run the pit in the dark and still come out clean.
But loyalty doesn’t mean shit when survival’s on the table. Money talks louder than honor. And the Serrano crew doesn’t ask. They take.
A sound rattles at the window. I freeze. Whiskey still in my hand. Gun in the other.
It’s probably the wind but I check anyway. I edge toward the blinds, my body coiled tight. Slowly lifting two fingers to peek through.
The balcony’s empty, of course it is this high up. But my gut still knots. I’ve seen this pattern before. Pressure. Isolation. Confusion. It’s the setup before the ambush. Serrano’s playing chess while I’m still swinging bare knuckles.
I sit down hard on the mattress, drag both hands down my face, and exhale sharp.
I need help.
The thought feels like swallowing glass. I don’t ask for help. I claw my way through. I fight. I bleed. I outlast.
But this isn’t just about me anymore. They’re taking my fighters. They’re closing in. And if I fall, they’ll use my ring to bury me. All that blood I’ve tried to wash clean? It’ll flood back in.
I stare at the ceiling, my eyes dry and burning from lack of sleep. Katana might hate me. Hell, she might shoot me on sight. But she wants the same thing I do. Her girls safe, the threat dead.
I grab my phone from the side table. My thumb hovering over the keys. I type out a message, stare at it for a long minute before deleting it.
I try again. Nothing sounds right. Finally, I settle on the truth.
It’s getting worse. If you want answers, we need to talk. -Dante
I don’t give myself time to rethink it. I just send it. And sit in the dark, waiting to see if the fuse I lit leads to an ally or a bullet.
5
KATANA
We need answers and the best place to find them is in Church. So that’s exactly where we go.
It’s late. Most of us are tired, hungry, hangry even, but what we all have in common is rage. Amber might not be a member of this club, but she’s one of our girls. One we chose to protect. And we failed her.
The Royal Harlots don’t fail. We’re fucking queens.
We may have been dealt a hard blow by an enemy we don’t know, but there’s a saying about women scorned, and these women? They’re down right deadly.
