My chest tightens for half a second.
Safe.
They’re safe.
I tear my attention away and step into the clubhouse behind Spike.
The air shifts immediately. Lighter outside. Heavier in here.
Stefano doesn’t hesitate. He walks in like he owns every room he enters. Not arrogant, just certain. Maverick moves at his side, similar posture but looser, more relaxed.
This is his second home, after all.
We all follow Spike into the war room and take seats around the long table.
Spike doesn’t waste time as he addresses the room.
“As you’re all now aware,” Spike says, voice carrying easily through the war room, “this is Maverick’s brother, Stefano.”
Stefano inclines his head once.
Luckily, telling them apart isn’t going to be an issue. Maybe it’s because we’ve been around Maverick so long, but the differences are there if you know where to look.
“Stefano runs New York in my stead,” Maverick says smoothly. “A few months ago, we decided to increase our weapons inventory.”
“We prefer our business conducted quietly,” Stefano adds, voice calm and precise. “The less attention drawn, the better for everyone involved.”
“So when the idea came up to purchase clean guns,” Maverick continues, “I chose to keep the Shadows out of it. I didn’t want your name anywhere near ours. I have enemies. Powerful ones. The last thing I wanted was to bring them to your doorstep.”
“I located a broker,” Stefano says. “He informed me he wouldn’t have a fresh shipment for several months but recommended another source with… impressive success rates. Had my stubborn brother told me about you gentlemen beforehand, I would have known to vet that recommendation more thoroughly.”
“Mistakes were made,” Maverick says simply. “Now someone either knows…or suspects…we have a relationship. And they’re willing to exploit it.”
“By using the Shadows to take the fall if something happened to us because of your negligence,” Stefano finishes evenly. “So. What have you learned about the guns?”
“Half the shipment is garbage,” Spike says flatly. “Metal’s weak. Failure points in places that’ll get men killed. And not the men with the barrel pointed at them, but the ones holding it.”
Stefano’s expression doesn’t shift, but something colder moves behind his eyes.
“And the other half?” he asks.
“Clean,” Skip answers from where he’s leaning against the wall. “Which tells me this isn’t sloppy manufacturing. It’s deliberate. Not a bad batch.”
Stefano steeples his fingers, much like Maverick does when he’s deep in thought.
“Someone wants blood,” he says calmly. “Yours… or ours?”
“Possibly both,” Foster adds.
Spike leans back in his chair, jaw tight.
“Our supplier’s from New York,” I remind them. “Your territory.”
Stefano’s gaze sharpens.
“And you think I would sabotage my own shipment?” he asks mildly.
“No,” I answer. “I think someone wants you to believewedid.”
