“Cassius, I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show.”Adrian speaks without lifting his shaded eyes.He lost his sight three years ago, but somehow the fucker knows the exact moment I enter a room.
Caleb, our younger brother, stands behind him.His front nearly touches Adrian’s back, one hand resting on his shoulder.They have their own system — finger taps for card values, a nudge for suits, and as much as I’ve studied them, I can’t fully decode it.Caleb never sits at this table.Poker isn’t his thing, but he’s played every month since Adrian lost his sight.Caleb’s thing is numbers, which is another reason my asshole brother wins more than he should.
“Have I ever not shown?”I slump in the metal chair next to our baby brother, Atlas.Rain’s still dripping off me, and I don’t bother hiding the puddle I share with him.I go out of my way to make sure Atlas gets some of the water.His eyes, along with the rest of the ones surrounding the round table, all look at me in question, Adrian being the only exception.
This poker game has been going on for generations.Our own father, prior to his untimely demise, used to bring Adrian and me here when he was the one playing.We'd play in the corner of the room, dealing each other cheap plastic cards until we fell asleep.To this day, I have no clue how Dad got us both in our beds before morning.He never drove, and I can’t remember ever walking home.Adrian says he must’ve carried us both, or called for a cab.I’m sure he’s right, but I’m more shocked that he bothered to take us home at all.
Caleb and Atlas never got to experience the joy of poker with dear ol’ dad.They were too young and, fortunately for them, I stopped him from ever being able to put them through what Adrian and I had to endure.
“There can always be a first time,” Adrian answers, and the other players return their eyes to their hands.Adrian was never much of a talker before his accident, but he does even more listening these days.More often than not, he knows who has the winning hand before their cards hit the felt.He spits some bullshit about people’s breathing and the smell of sweat, but sometimes I think he’s faking his blindness.Adrian loves this game.
When Dad was alive, this was the one night a month that these assholes called a truce and didn’t try to kill each other.
“If I ever miss this, you’ll know I’m dead.”I stare down at my shit hand.Seven of clubs, two of diamonds.Off-suit.Useless.The poker equivalent of a middle finger.This long night just keeps getting longer.
The door pushes open, and Adrian’s busty blonde assistant steps in, shutting the door behind her.She sets a zipped black leather bag on my brother’s right-hand side.She’s worked for him, for us, for nearly a decade but I haven’t a fucks clue what her name is.
“The phones you asked for, Mr.Ashenheart.”
“Thank you.”My brother’s voice remains emotionless.He unzips the bag and pulls out one of the burners.With his free hand, he tugs a slim earpiece from each ear, swapping them for fresh ones.He places the two dead devices into the waiting palm of his assistant without an explanation.Adrian runs on a constant feed—Caleb in one ear, and his head of security, Mavik, in the other.Always watching, always talking, always in his head.Thank fuck I’m not the one chained to that annoying-ass setup.When busty knows he isn’t going to say anything else, she leaves the room the way she came without another word.
“Phones?”Atlas asks.
“New burners.”Adrian unzips the bag.We all nod, including the people who aren’t getting a new burner.Every now and again, our security company takes a side job, of the bloodier variety, and the people in this room know that because they feed us the targets.
The Accord is what makes this game different from when Dad was alive.He would’ve despised it.Called it cowardly.He never would’ve admitted that sometimes power means you make friends out of enemies and fight the right war.
Five of Vegas’ most notorious heavy hitters: the Bratva, Dead Man’s Hand MC, the Italians, the Ashenheart family, and law enforcement–represented by an undercover FBI agent and a ghost from Homeland Security.No devices past the door.The signal jammer hums under the table.Everyone here walks in on a burner identity and leaves the same way.
It’s not exactly peace.
It’s power, held together by a handshake.
Wherever my cousin London is, I hope she’s proud of the alliance born from her disappearance because it’s truly inspiring.
It rose out of blood and grief.Uncle Leven’s first, then ours, then everybody’s.London’s disappearance lit the match.Spiderwebtook someone from each of us.No true proof.Few bodies ever found.Endless silence.London didn’t just vanish—she fit their pattern.Spiderwebdoesn’t dump bodies; it reroutes them, sells them, renames them.No body meansmaybealive.That silence is why we sit with men Dad would’ve shot on sight.Every man at this table has already learned how to lose.They all have a ghost with Spider’s signature on it.Spiderwebisn’t a family; it’s a black widow with eight legs.We clip legs; she grows new ones.The only kill that matters is the head behind the silk.We’ll keep cutting threads until she shows herself.Divided, we all lose more than we’ve already lost.
Konstantin “Kostya” Orlov, the Bratva’s Pakhan, tosses a chip into the pot, leaning back.“Three girls under purchase cover went dark.The convoy was intercepted en route to our East Coast partner shelter.Our source insideSpiderwebis dead.”
Leven doesn’t blink.“As long as those ‘purchases’ stay fake, Kostya, I won’t slice you from heart to cock.”
Kostya’s mouth ticks up.“Please.You’d make Cassius do it.”
He isn’t wrong.
Dominic Estrade, President of Dead Man's Hand, exhales, exchanging a look with his VP Vex and his Enforcer, Havoc.“We’re all too old to fuck with double-crossing.Anyone using cover to move flesh for real is dead.”
“And let me guess,” Havoc says, “no one knows who the hell hit it?”
Marco DeLuca, the Italians’ underboss, lifts a shoulder.“The feds?Another syndicate?If we had a clear answer, we wouldn’t be sitting here.”
No trafficking.No kids.That line never moves, not for Kostya, not for Leven, not for me.I can open a man from ear to ear and sleep like a fucking baby.I know what I am, but I don’t buy flesh, don’t sell it, and never look away from it.London is the reason and the reminder that you can lose everything without a grave to point at.I set my cards down.“Then we stop playing defense.”
Adrian adds, “We need their network dismantled at every level.Hacking their communication, seizing their assets, cutting their supply…”
Caleb follows, “And we need to make sure everyone they send to replace their fallen gets greeted with a bullet.”
Uncle Leven taps a single finger against the table.The room goes still.He doesn’t speak often, but when he does, it’s final.“Caleb, you don’t get a say on bullets unless you’re planning to take up pulling the trigger.And, you,” he turns to the badges, “Need to feed us names.”
