The gate stayed closed.
Blackjack walked out like he was stepping onto his own front porch, not into a live exercise in how fast men could die. 8-Ball was at his shoulder. Spade and Ace flanking. Jersey was a step behind. I fell in beside him without thinking, hand resting on the butt of my gun.
Up close, you could feel the tension humming.
One of the SUVs’ back doors opened.
A man climbed out.
He wasn’t in a cut. No Serpent patch, no club insignia. No suit either. Dark jeans, dark shirt, jacket that cost too much to be bought with honest money. Hair slicked back. Just enough jewelry to say he knew someone like Tesauro Vincino personally but not enough to look like a walking ad.
He walked up to the other side of the gate and stopped just out of reach. Hands empty. For now.
Up on the roof, I heard the faint metallic click of a safety going off.
“Evening,” Blackjack said, casually. “Youlost, friend? Casino’s that way.” He jerked his chin toward the glow of Atlantic City in the distance. “Lots of better places to park then out here.”
“We’re comfortable here,” the man said. His accent was a mix—East Coast on top, something else underneath. “We figured you would be too. Being home and all.”
“You’re on the wrong side of my fence to be talking about our home to me,” Blackjack replied.
The man smiled like he’d expected that answer and wanted it.
“Relax. We just came to talk,” he said. “A courtesy, you could say.”
“Funny,” I muttered under my breath. “Your idea of courtesy usually comes with bullets.”
His eyes flicked to me. He didn’t comment. But he’d clocked the Vipers patch. Good.
“You ain’t exactly known for conversation,” 8-Ball said. “More for making messes.”
“The world changes,” the man said. “Our employers thought it would be polite to let you know they’ve noticed yours getting… ambitious. Sitting with Giorlando. Passing words around.” His smile thinned. “Passing pictures.”
Tesauro had got the photos too then somehow. And shared the news.
“Your employers being who?” Blackjack asked, playing dumb and doing it better than most.
“You already know his name,” the man said. His gazehardened. “Tesauro Vincino doesn’t appreciate thieves. Or meddlers. Or men who think they can interfere with business they haven’t paid to sit at the table for.”
“He can send me an invoice,” Blackjack said. “I’ll file it under ‘shit I wipe with.’”
A low chuckle went around the Aces closest to us.
The messenger looked at the clubhouse. At the bikes. At the men on the roof. At me. He measured all of it.
“You’ve got a nice setup here,” he said. “Bikes. Bars. Little side ventures. Play money. Family. It would be unfortunate if something happened to it because you couldn’t mind your own lane.”
“Something already did happen,” I said. “Toourhospital.Ourjunkyard.Ouryard. That wasn’t us wandering into your lane. That was you swerving into ours.”
His jaw ticked. He didn’t look at me again. Coward’s trick—only talk to the man who you think matters.
Blackjack’s voice lost the humor.
“You drove to my door with your cars and your snakes, and you think you’re going to scare me into playing dead?” he asked. “You think I haven’t buried louder men than Tesauro Vincino without anyone ever finding the spots?”
The messenger’s smile came back.
“We don’t need to scare you,” he said. “We just need you to do the math.” He gestured vaguely at theSUVs behind him. “We have more bodies than you have bullets. More men than you have beds. More money than you have patience. This isn’t a question of if we win.”
