“He also pissed himself.” Bishop calmly cuts his steak like this is a completely normal conversation. “Important detail.”
“Wait, so you scared him into coming out with funeral music?” I look at him incredulously, not fully understanding.
Bishop chews slowly, savoring his steak before answering. “Didn’t even break a sweat. Man had the survival instincts of a goldfish.”
“And then,” Jax says, leaning in again while shoving a fry into his mouth, “when the guy finally cracks and comes stumbling out? Bishop just yawns, stands up, and goes ‘Took you long enough.’ Like he was bored waiting for his dry cleaning.”
Griffin shakes his head as he reaches for the truffle fries. He nudges some toward my plate without looking up. “Still the most efficient takedown I’ve ever seen.”
“Wow, that’s... I don’t know what to say.” I take the offered fries, swallowing before turning back to Jax. “So Bishop is Reaper. What are you? What’s your story?”
Jax grins and sits back in his seat, stretching his long legs out under the table. “My call name isn’t that dramatic. I’m known as ‘Luck.’”
Bishop snorts.
Griffin runs a hand over his face. “Jax has the craziest luck in the field. Sometimes it borders on ridiculous. Like the time he literally tripped runnin’ through the Columbian jungles and landed on a guy with a briefcase full of drug money.”
“Fate, baby,” Jax says smugly.
“Luck, Reaper, and...?” I look directly at Griffin expecting him to spill.
He takes a slow sip of his whiskey before smirking at me. “Guess.”
“Grim.” I say pointedly before shoving another fry in my mouth.
Griffin pauses mid-bite then slowly lowers his fork. Jax bursts out laughing, slapping the table. Bishop raises a brow in quiet amusement.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Griffin mutters, pointing his knife at me. “Who told you?”
Jax wheezes, “She guessed it! How the fuck did you do that?”
“Huh.” Bishop leans back in his seat, studying me with renewed interest. “Maybe she is psychic after all.”
“Wait? That’s actually it?” My eyes go wide and I hold my hands up in front of me. “I was kidding because you’re always so broody and I figured no one escapes you, like no one can escape death. Isn’t that too close to ‘Reaper’ though?” I poke him when I say ‘broody.’
He catches my finger before I can retract it. “Close, Reaper fucks with people’s heads. I get the job done.” His grin sharpens, all predator. “Permanently.” Then he lets my hand go.
“Ugh.” Jax fake shudders. “And that’s why no one invites you to parties.”
Bishop raises his glass in silent agreement.
“And I bet it’s also an honor for you to have a connection to Bishop in that way,” I say quietly, hoping I’m not overstepping on some unwritten rule.
They all go still. After a beat of heavy silence, Griffin picks up his whiskey glass. “Yeah, somethin’ like that.” He squeezes my thigh reassuringly under the table before nodding. “Bishop’s the closest thing to family I’ve had. He looks out for me and for Jax.” Then less seriously. “Even if he gets off on bein’ the only one who can make fun of me without gettin’ shot.”
Bishop grins. “It’s a gift.”
Jax whistles before raising his own glass. “To fucked up family trees and the idiots who water ‘em.”
Bishop snorts again, which seems to be the way he communicates for the most part. Griffin rolls his eyes but he clinks his glass against theirs anyway. It’s brief but there’s something soft about his expression when he drinks.
They fall into quiet conversation. I sit back and watch while eating appetizers and whatever else Griffin decides to shove in front of me. He doesn’t stop until I’m too full to eat another bite. I’m regretting my life choices when I hear one of them bring up Sokolov. My attention is drawn back to them. The mood shifts almost imperceptively. Griffin’s shoulders tense, his fingers stilling around his glass before he sets it down. Jax sobers instantly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.
“We’ve got eyes on three of his known associates,” Bishop says low, gaze flicking to me briefly before returning to Griffin. “But Sokolov himself? Ghosted. Like he knew we were coming.”
Jax taps a restless rhythm against the tabletop. “Which means either someone tipped him off or the prick’s got instincts like a goddamn cockroach.”
Griffin’s jaw ticks, before he nods toward my plate. “You done?”
