Amelia licked the blood off her lip and combed her fingers through the hair at his temples. It soothed him, she already knew. In their nights together, she did it when he couldn’t sleep.
“We can’t. Not right now.”
Shoulders slumped, Emory dropped his eyes to her chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. His calm sea, what he wouldn’t give to rest a bit on her quiet shores. Strong as she was, she couldn’t shield him from the inevitable, though, and a silhouette filled the parlor door’s frame.
“Emory, now,” Liam demanded. Shadows shrouded his face, and the parlor clock started its midnight chimes. “Something else has happened. This can’t wait.”
FORTY-FIVE
EMORY
Emory arrived in the parlor on the wrong side of midnight. The men quieted as he slid shut the pocket door. Liam stood at the fireplace where flames crackled and sufficed as comfort. The rest opted for the warmth of whiskey. A bottle traveled the circle that included Thomas emptied of apologies and Disco sullenly avoiding Emory’s stare. Jack, Corey, Pete, and Zulu perched throughout the room.
In an unintended homage to the shadow walk, Jack stepped aside to let Emory into the circle and waited for him to join. It wasn’t enough that Emory had left Amelia to come in here. They needed him back in the fold and committed to the brotherhood.
What more do they want from me?Everything, it seemed.
Emory stepped forward, the circle complete. Like those desert nights gathered around sacred flames, something powerful existed there but so too did the sinister and unspoken.
“What happened?” he asked.
The men exchanged ashen-faced glances that entreated someone else to speak. Jack finally did.
“Three street soldiers from Disco’s crew were dumped outside our headquarters in Vegas. They were missing hands. Their cocks were cut off and stuffed in their mouths.”
Emorydrew a breath and closed his eyes, but the vision in the dark was no less vivid. The Velascos had always been violently inventive. Ivan would sharpen that flair, give it purpose and place, and dead bodies would pile up, brutalized in ways that’d sour the stomach and boggle the mind.
“War’s here,” Corey remarked to no one in particular, perhaps just himself, but for the benefit of the room too.
The burden of leadership landed at Emory’s feet. He’d shoulder that responsibility if nothing more than for the expectant and faintly fearful eyes peering at him, battle weary though it was just the beginning. The road map of past precedence ended, and they would travel off the page.The only way out is through.
“Enough is enough,” Emory said with scant composure and his heart pounding in his ears. “I won’t tolerate our own being ripped to pieces and dumped on our doorstep. If the Velascos want brutality, they’ll get it in spades. We will define a whole new meaning for them.”
“There’s more,” Corey said and turned to Disco. “Give him the ground truth.”
Disco cleared his throat and pinned his eyes to the floor. “Some captains think our organization won’t survive a war and maybe it’s better to break off now.”
Emory drew a deep breath. “How many?”
“Five that I know of. Eli and Scotty are the most vocal, but Marcus, Sal, and Nate share the sentiment.”
Disco shook his head as if it were a crying shame, as if he hadn’t fudged the numbers and counted himself out. Emory turned to Jack, whose cheeks flushed red. Treachery must’ve never crossed his mind. Good time Jack, boozing and bantering, wouldn’t notice the divide, not until the earth split and swallowed them whole.
Emory fetched the whiskey bottle from Pete and took a swig. Only on rare occasions did the men see him drink—shadow walks, funerals, weddings. He marked the milestones but scarcelythe road between. They watched him as he held the room in silence.
“That tracks with what I’ve seen.” Emory swished another slug of booze on the inside of his cheek to dull the pain. “I would’ve said six, though.”
He stared at Disco in a winged-back chair too large for his slender frame. He’d always carried himself bigger than what he was and had the stuffy, bespectacled appearance of a scholarly man. He’d never looked the part. Disco said nothing but pressed his lips together and clasped white-knuckled hands in his lap.
Emory returned the bottle to Pete and presented the door with an outstretched arm. “Thomas, Disco, you’re free to leave.”
The circle tightened after the two men left, as if the walls might soak up secrets shared there. Emory noticed how battered his men were. Blood matted Pete’s golden curls from a nasty cut to the scalp. Half of the knuckles on Corey’s right hand were busted. A bullet graze split open Zulu’s forearm. It wouldn’t need stitches, but the cut mangled a bit of tattoo work.
“We can’t go to war if we don’t trust our own brothers,” Emory said, though he knew damn well war wouldn’t wait for loyalties to align. “We have to put a tourniquet on this. It’s the only way we’ll have a fighting chance. We’ll focus on Scotty and Eli. Marcus, Nate, and Sal will fall in line with some persuasion. Corey, I want you to keep an eye on Disco.”
“It’s Scotty, man,” Pete said and chewed a hangnail. “Eli’s just a hothead. He’ll come around. Scotty’s got the chip on his shoulder.”
Emory might’ve guessed as much. Grievances always boiled down to three things—money, women, pride. Years ago, Scotty fancied himself a shoo-in for captain of Las Vegas post. When Liam appointed Emory instead, Scotty cried nepotism to anyone who’d listen. Few did, and the stunt landed him a post in cakewalk territory no one else wanted.
