Coco's mouth curls upward. “Because Sableine is the sole manufacturer of clay and ceramic composite poker chips for five major casino companies nationwide.”
The table goes silent. Cruz freezes mid-chew. Rafe's lighter stops mid-flick. Even the breeze seems to pause.
Cruz exhales, the sound cutting through the stillness. “You want us to hit a casino?”
Bishop's palm settles flat against the table. “That’s a terrible idea.”
Coco doesn't acknowledge Bishop. Her manicured nails sink into the flaky crust of a pastry, tearing it apart with deliberate precision. Crumbs scatter across her plate like evidence.
Bishop leans forward. “RFID chips embedded in every single one. Serial numbers cataloged in databases that update in real-time.” His index finger taps the table with each point. “The moment they're reported missing, they're worthless.”
Rafe's lighter clicks shut. “And that's assuming we'd even make it past the armed guards, the facial recognition cameras, and the floor security that memorizes every regular's betting patterns.” His eyes narrow. “Three minutes. That's the average response time.”
“Not to mention, historically speaking,” Cruz says, “people who fuck with certain casinos disappear.”
Coco finally looks at Bishop, eyebrow arching just slightly. “And yet, here we are.”
Bishop leans forward, forearms braced on the table. “Ma.” His voice drops, the word hanging between them. “This is a big leap for us. What am I missing? Why this job?”
Coco's gaze slides from face to face, lingering a half-second too long on each of us. The corner of her mouth twitches upward. “Because we're leveling up, boys.” She takes another sip of coffee, sets the mug down with deliberate precision. “Unless, of course, you don't think you can handle it.”
Bishop's jaw flexes. A muscle twitches in his cheek. Cruz and Rafe go still beside me, and I feel my own spine straighten against the chair back.
Rafe's lighter stills between his fingers. “What casino?” His voice drops half an octave, the way it always does when he's calculating odds.
“We're not hitting a casino.” Her red nail traces a path across the table like she's mapping a route. “We're taking the armored truck.”
The patio falls so quiet I can hear the neighbor's sprinklers kick on.
Cruz's throat works as he swallows. Bishop's knuckles whiten around his mug. Something cold slides down my spine, locks into place between my vertebrae with an almost audible click.
Coco continues, unhurried. “Every three months, like clockwork, Sableine fulfills their order, and a third-party security company picks it up in an armored truck. They’re vulnerable for two hundred miles. Once they get to the distribution hub in Arizona, they’re officially registered and sent out to whatever casino.” Her lips curve into something between a smile and a warning.
Bishop exhales slowly. “Jesus Christ.”
I lean back, drumming my fingertips against the table's edge. “An armored truck.” The words taste like copper pennies. I watch Rafe's thumb strike his lighter—click open, snap shut—the flame briefly illuminating his face before disappearing. His eyes never leave Coco.
“Six inches of reinforced steel,” I say. “Bulletproof glass. Armed guards.”
Rafe's lighter pauses mid-flip. “But no armor is perfect.” The flame catches, holds, then dies under his breath.
Cruz's voice drops to a murmur. “How'd you come across this information?”
Coco's smile spreads slow as honey as she settles back in her chair, red nails drumming once against the arm. “An old friend.”
My gaze slides to Bishop first—jaw tight, eyes narrowed to slits. Then Rafe, whose lighter has gone completely still in his palm. Cruz's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. The air between us suddenly feels burdened with unspoken history.
“Timeline?” Bishop asks.
“Three weeks,” Coco says. “Go to Sableine and scout the place. Figure out the best way to make it work.”
Silence settles. The kind that reminds you this isn’t a conversation. It’s an order dressed up in family language.
I clear my throat, glancing at my brothers. “We’re gonna need more bodies.”
Bishop’s head snaps toward me. “No outsiders.”
I lift a hand. “Those private security companies usually have a two-man escort.”
