Paige slides off her stool. "Meet back at home this afternoon?"
Amira and Bo follow suit, looking just as eager to start doing something productive. None of us are very good at sitting around. Whether that's naturally ingrained in us or due to the fact we spent years actively spending every moment fighting to survive, doesn't matter. Regardless, it's one of the things that's kept us together all these years.
"Yeah." I give my friends a warning look. "No stupid risks. I don't want it to get back to the Winters’ that we're involving ourselves in their shit."
Poking your nose into the Winters family business is a good way to get dead. They're ruthless and have no fear of most repercussions. I refuse to let anyone I care about wander into their sniper-shot sightline and end up with a snowflake carved into their chest.
"Oh, really?" Paige presses a hand to her sternum and pulls an innocent expression that I've learned to be wary of. "Because we," she gestures at Bo and Amira, "were planning to rock up at Black Ice and tell Paul Winters that we know he's a piece of regurgitated cow shit and to fuck off out of our city. That abad idea, you think?"
Black Ice is the club Paul Winters treats as his base of operations. Everyone knows if you go to Black Ice you're walking directly into the snake pit. It's dodgy as hell with a reputation for catering to the worst kind of people.
Paige exchanges a mockingly dismayed glance with Bo.
"Bit too subtle, maybe?” Bo asks with biting sarcasm. “Should consider putting some proper effort in and declaring all-out war on the Winters instead? Earn ourselves some medals of valour from the city."
Amira pulls a disgruntled face and signs,More likely to get lynched by the city for tearing down their favourite billionaires.
It's so unfunny how true that is. The Winters are politically connected and most news stories about them describe the family as if they're well-loved socialites rather than the literal mafia.
Milo makes a low humming sound. "Guess we'd have to settle for being the unsung heroes of Danger."
"I don't want to be unsung," Bo sulks, indignant. "I wantmanysongs to be wailed uproariously in my honour."
Amira pats his arm, consoling him. Then she signs,People don't respect a well-meant mass murder like they used to.
Paige makes a noise of agreement and shakes her head. "Bloody PC culture gone mad. Can't even mass murder the mafia anymore without someone getting offended."
Bo snorts out a laugh and Amira pulls a mock-sad face.
I give Milo's arm a tug, coaxing him off the stool so we can go before this conversation spirals any further into nonsense. "Ok, let's leave all high-level vigilantism to the comic book characters. No altruistic murders of gangsters, please. You know I don't have anything nice to wear to court."
"Bit rich," Ben comments, smirking at me like the motherfucker he is. "Considering your own Punisher emulation origin story with Danger's numero uno crime family."
My right hand clenches into a fist. I would very much like to put that fist in Ben's face, crack his jaw up a little, knock out a few teeth, leave him something to remember me by.
Milo grabs my fisted hand and shoots Ben an exasperated look. "That's just a rumour."
"Soyousay." Ben scoffs derisively. "Buthenever says so when people ask."
"Peopleshould know better than to ask shit about shit they know shit-all about," I snarl, the threat in my voice unmistakable.
But Ben, because he's Ben, doesn't know when to shut his fucking mouth, so he just grins and carries on poking. "If the Winters have decided to start selling to kids, it's probably because of Paul Winters. Maybe if you hadn't killed Sam, this new drug never would have found its way to a kid like Tony."
Sam was head of the family before Paul. He ruled over the Danger like an ancient king, possessing a certain brand of respect and care for the city, like it really was his kingdom and everyone living in it were his subjects. He seemed to feel some responsibility for them, which is why he had his rules, like not selling drugs to kids.
I'm on Ben before I can fully think through the action, moving forward and reaching over the bar to grab hold of Ben's t-shirt. Milo doesn't try and hold me back like before. He knows me well enough to understand why what Ben said would strike so deeply. He also knows I have a pretty good hold on the brambles of rage I've been cultivating inside me since birth. As much as I want to break Ben's nose by slamming his face down on the bar, I won't. You don't last long on the streets with a hair-trigger temper, and that's just a fact.
Still, that doesn't mean I need to put up with Ben's bullshit. I clench my fingers in the front of his t-shirt and yank him half across the bar, leaning in close to speak harshly into the other man's face. "Don't think that just because I haven't ripped your cock off for groping my boyfriend on the regular that I won't crush your skull against the pavement for playing head-fuck games with me."
Ben's smirk has been wiped away and replaced by a mix of daring, like he wants to see how far I'll take this, and genuine fear, knowing my reputation as a seasoned fighter.
I give him a good shake, hard enough to rattle bones and cause him to grunt in pain. "You're already two strikes down with me, fucker. No joke, you will not like what happens after three," I warn viciously. "Keep questions about my past out of your mouth and your handsoffMilo."
For a long, tense moment, I let the threat dig in and take root. Ben's face changes, fear eclipsing everything else as he realises how serious I am. That understanding better stick, because I am not in the mood to play civil.
I shove Ben backwards, letting go of his t-shirt so he loses his balance and has to catch himself on the bar so he won't topple over.
There's a handful of seconds where everyone is silent, the oppressive tension lingering in the air like the cloying humidity of a summer storm.
