I lower the gun and secure it at my back. My hands are steady. That’s how I know I can live with the outcome.
I text Augie.
It’s done. Handle cleanup.
When I step outside, the night swallows me in one bite.
Fake blood, plastic knives, and laughing faces painted with fear they don’t understand fill the streets.
None of it touches me, though. This isn’t a celebration or a spectacle.
The bar is stillalive past midnight.
Smoke hangs low, tangled with the bite of expensive bourbon and the weight of too many conversations happening at once. The Orchid doesn’t need volume to feel full. It carries its own rhythm, steady and contained, the kind that doesn’t spike or spill.
I’ve been here for over an hour. Long enough to know I’m drinking more than I should, not enough for it to matter. My thoughts keep looping the same stretch of road, circling what’s already happened and what comes next, without landing anywhere useful.
Vin took his time getting here. That wasn’t an accident.
He wasn’t at the warehouse tonight. I wanted to tell him myself how it ended.
He’s the one who’s been pushing me to stop operating in the margins. To let the city understand who I am now, not just whose son I was.
Now they will.
It’s quieter than usual, but I doubt it has anything to do with Halloween. Most of the people who come here don’t bother with costumes. The theatrics don’t interest them. If anything, they’re probably out in the streets enjoying the chaos.
For men like us, every night carries its own version of it.
I sit in one of the back booths, freshly showered, clean clothes, sleeves rolled to my forearms. The blood is gonefrom my hands, but it hasn’t let go completely. It lingers in ways soap can’t touch.
Vin slides in across from me, already wearing that familiar half-smile. His confidence is sharp tonight, keyed up, like he’s been waiting for this confirmation.
“You look like someone who’s had a long night,” he says, catching Beck’s attention with a glance. “Two bourbons.”
“I finished it,” I say, leaning back against the booth. “Both of them.”
Vin studies my face, not reacting yet. “So it’s done.”
I nod. “Alton and Colin won’t be a problem again.”
He lets out a low breath through his teeth, not surprised, just acknowledging the weight of it. “That’s definitive.”
I don’t respond to that. There’s nothing to add.
“Speaking of clean-up,” I say instead, “check in with Augie. I want everything gone. No noise. No questions later. I sent word through Beau, but I want confirmation.”
Vin is already pulling out his phone. “I’ll handle it.”
Beck drops the drinks. Vin sets his phone aside and wraps his hand around his glass, like grounding himself.
Vin lifts his glass but doesn’t smile. “Ports hate instability. This puts things back where they belong.”
I clink my glass against his and drink. The burn does nothing to smooth the edge inside me.
He leans back in his chair. “And it shows. Calls started coming in this morning. Schedules tightening up. People want to know when lanes are reopening, what capacity looks like next week. Confidence is already coming back.”
“That was the point,” I say. “This wasn’t about optics. It was about order.”
