“That’s fine,” Cole said.
I felt the air in the room relax just a hair, at least on our side of the table. Lane looked at his brother with surprise, but I’d always sensed Cole was the peacemaker, the rational one in a room full of hotheaded, egotistical shitheads like myself.
“You’re sure,” Satan said, implicitly agreeing with Sonny—perhaps the biggest moment to date. “Because you’ll have back-to-back street wars on your hands.”
“Swear to it,” Cole said. “I made these guys in New Mexico Black Reapers because they needed it. You guys don’t need it. But you need the help.”
Satan pointed across the table and looked right into Cole’s eyes.
“I want to hear those two pretty boys say it,” he said. “We’ve wasted so many fucking hours talking about what shit ‘might’ look like, and this is the first time we’ve seen shit actually turn into something. But I’m not letting the voice of one speak for all three on your side, most especially when you’re not the president of either.”
Cole leaned back in his chair, giving space to Lane and Brock.
“We agree,” Brock said.
Lane was left to flounder. He didn’t look thrilled, but he didn’t put up much of a fight.
“Agreed.”
I didn’t get the sense Lane was power hungry; he just seemed like the kind of guy who got what he wanted, when he wanted. It was a trait we all shared, but Lane seemed to have it to an unusual degree.
“Now then,” Sonny said. “We have that in place. You came to us. We’re not changing our name. But we’ll charge as part of the Black Reapers for the purposes of killing King.”
“Son, you better have a fucking good idea of what you’re doing.”
Not even Sonny. Satan is pissed.
“If that is to be the case,” Lane said. “We can work with that. You’ll be the Devil’s Patriots on behalf of the Black Reapers. We may call you the Arizona Reapers, but you won’t change your name. However, there are only so many positions we can all have. I don’t want multiple sergeants-at-arms claiming power or multiple secretaries. Butch is our SAA. You’ve met him. Looks like fucking white Godzilla. I need to know that if he gives an order in the battlefield, you’ll take it.”
That wasn’t directed at us.
It was for me.
I had gone all this time without taking orders from anyone but these two; the idea of giving it up was insulting and laughable. My initial response was to tell them to fuck off.
“Give it a thought, Spawn,” Sonny said before I could say anything else.
And that’s when, of all people, Melissa came to mind.
I’d had to admit I was wrong when she came back. I’d had to lower myself, to humble myself. It wasn’t fucking great, and there was no guarantee any of the shit between us would work out. But it had turned out for the best.
This wasn’t giving up anything real. This was just a situational thing.
But fuck…
“I’m no one’s bitch except in battle,” I said, essentially asking for confirmation.
“Yes,” Cole said.
“Then fine,” I said before I could overthink it.
“Do we have a deal, then?” Sonny said.
It took me a second to realize the impressiveness with which the kid—quite a statement considering he was in his late twenties—had acted. His father had failed to negotiate over what felt like half a year what his son had managed to do in all of, what, thirty minutes? Tops? Fifteen?
And he’d gotten me to agree to cede battlefield authority to Butch?
Admittedly, fuck, if there was anyone to trust in battle, it was a dude who looked like he had killed a few people in his day. It sure as fuck wasn’t Mason, who just looked like a bitter old man. But Satan was right.
