Heartbroken and reeling, Amelia remained rooted in the middle of the floor. The last few tears stung as they dried on her cheeks. The funeral dress was itchy, and the shoes pinched her feet.
She stood unmoving through the length of another song, frozen in the callousness of it all and uncertain of who to blame. And perhaps that was the worst of it—the blameless efficiency of how it ended. That was the danger of daydreams and the futility of faith.
Amelia stooped to the floor and collected the prayer card and book that’d fallen. She thumbed through its pages and picked a random one.
“It’s only a bruise,”read a line inside. She covered that line with the prayer card, closed the book, and shelved her faith for good.
THIRTY-TWO
EMORY
In the basement lounge, Emory held court. All twelve captains, plus Jack and Liam, gathered around the oblong table. The pendant light above had a spotlight effect, so Emory sat exposed at the head.
He had done the needful with emotional amputation. Sever the limb to save the rest. There he was, a hero to his own ego, while Amelia cried upstairs. Hail to the Chief. Emory the monolith was as strong as ever while Emory the man came unglued.
A cloud of smoke hung over the table, shapeless and swirling in the light. Though it stung his nostrils, Emory drew a deep breath.
“Deception and deceit are venom to the organization,” he said. “I won’t tolerate gossip or lies, so you’re here to learn the facts.”
He wasn’t trying for the dramatic flair of a vague threat, but it still resonated that way. Some men nodded. Others cut sidelong glances at one another. Most had heard a bastardized version of what came out of Torres and jumped to conclusions, either grievously wrong or splintered with half-truths and hearsay.“Call court and put it to bed,”Liam had advised.
Emory tipped his head to Corey. “The floor is yours.”
Stone-faced, Corey stubbed out his cigarette and sat at attention. He was a good soldier still. The Army had declared him a combat hero and decorated him with medals to prove it but ignored the demons of war that hounded him. He deserted before redeployment and was dishonorably discharged. All the qualities in Corey the military discarded—grit, loyalty, courage—he funneled into the Moriartys.
“Torres confirmed that Ivan is leading the Velascos,” Corey said. “Ivan kept a low profile after his ‘accident,’ but a year ago reached out to two Velasco captains who were already eying a takeover. Together, they orchestrated Philippe’s overthrow and murder. Ivan keeps his inner circle tight, only a few captains he sends orders through. The rest admire him as everything Philippe wasn’t. Ruthless, action-oriented, a visionary.”
Emory exchanged a worried glance with Jack. Ivan’s brutality would metastasize into a sickness the Velascos couldn’t manage. What they saw as action-oriented was reckless impulsivity. Their visionary would lead them to ruin.
“He’ll only be shiny and new once,” Emory said. “They may admire him now, but he’ll bleed them dry. What’s their next move?”
“Torres says Ivan is planning something big, something he promised you, Chief.” A sympathetic half-smile twitched across Corey’s lips. “Torres didn’t know what that meant.”
I will destroy everything you love.
“It means something personal,” Emory replied and evaluated his men staring expectantly at him. “The Velascos are a whole new beast under Ivan.”
“Well, are we going to ice these fuckers or what?” Scotty, captain of Redding post, demanded from the other end of the table.
His bald head gleamed, and crimson colored his cheeks. Where other captains minded boundaries with Emory, Scotty pushed.
“Vegas was a warning shot,” Emory said, “and I’m notescalating on a whim. We strike when I know where Ivan is, and it’ll be measured. Ivan is sloppy. I’m not.”
Scotty shot a look at Marcus, whose territory shared a border with his, though Marcus was based in Sacramento. Emory spotted the exchange, brief and subtle though it was.
“Vegas was more than a warning shot,” Marcus said with mild apprehension and couldn’t hold Emory’s stare. “They came for the Havick girl, and they’ll come for her again.”
“What we’re all wondering is,” Sal, captain of the Bay Area, chimed in, “what are we doing with her? Is she coming or going? Much respect to you, Chief, but she either needs to be in or out. This on-the-fence shit will spell tragedy for everyone. You. Her.Us.”
“What are you concerned about?” Emory asked Marcus.
Still unable to look at Emory, he spoke to the wall beside him. “When you cut her loose, she’ll go back to daddy and sing like a bird.”
Emory counted the nods around the table. Six. His captains were split down the middle.
“Sing about what exactly? She knows our faces and a few of our names. You think Cal doesn’t know that already? He keeps tabs on everyone at this table.”
“She knows about the shop in Vegas, where we’re headquartered, our numbers, our structure.”
