The club sat near the strip, wrapped in glass and light. Black marble steps, velvet rope, two mountains in suits at the door. Neon script curled above the entrance—BLACK VELVET—in a soft purple glow that said you had to know somebody to get past the line, and if you had to ask how much a drink cost, you didn’t belong inside.
We didn’t wait in the line.
Jersey rolled ahead of us, lifted two fingers. One of the door mountains clocked the Devils patches, then my Vipers colors, and hit the latch. Rope lifted. Crowd parted. The looks that followed us were all money, lust, curiosity, and that particular edge of fear that came when people realized the real wolves had just walked into their pretty little cage.
Inside was worse.
Champagne andperfume and sweat. Bass so heavy it vibrated in my ribs and made my bruises complain. Lights strobed over leather couches, mirror-backed bars, bodies pressed together in tailored suits and dresses that cost more than some bikes. Girls in sparkles and heels moved through the swarm like they’d been bred for it.
The Black Velvet was built in layers. Dance floor drowning in light and noise. Rail of tables above it for the semi-important. And above that, like a throne box at a gladiator ring, the VIP lounge—a suspended glass-and-steel nest overlooking everything.
That’s where Dante “Diamond” Giorlando held court probably.
We were escorted up by a man with a jaw like a cinder block and a discreet earpiece. He didn’t ask our names. Didn’t need to. The patches did the talking. Vipers. Devils. Roman’s problem solving children.
The VIP lounge was quieter only by degrees. Music still bled through the glass, bass a constant pulse under our feet, but voices were more contained. Leather booths. Low tables. Crystal bottles lined up like trophies. High rollers, models, men who lived in custom suits and thought they were bulletproof because they tipped well.
Dante stood by the glass.
Red suit, no shirt. Just a blood-colored blazer and matching pants, black dress shoes shined obscene. His chest was a map of ink—saints and sinners climbing up sculpted muscle. Gold chain, gold watch, rings that would break your nose if he slapped you.Hair slicked back perfectly.
He looked exactly like the kind of man who’d use a club as a mirror just to see himself prettier.
Turnpike made a face I didn’t miss. Jersey’s mouth twitched.
Dante turned as we approached. His eyes flicked over the patches, the faces, the grime we still wore from the day. Annoyance flashed before charm slid over everything like lacquer.
“Blackjack sent his best?” Dante asked, voice smooth.
“Blackjack sends us as a warning,” Jersey said.
Dante’s smile thinned. “You picked a fun way to bring me a Hallmark card,” he said, glancing at the Valet in front of his club. “Packed house. Money on every table. And you waltz in here with colors like you’re about to fire a gun in the air.”
“We’d prefer not to,” I said. “That’s sort of why we’re here.”
His gaze landed on me finally. Took in the blue-and-black of the Shore Vipers. The warlord patch on my chest. The faint smudge of someone else’s blood still on my cut.
“I don’t know you,” he said. “New pet?” he then asked, turning to Jersey.
“New ally,” I replied. “And I’m nobodies’ pet.”
He huffed a laugh. “Relax.”
He waved us closer toward a low table already crowded with half-finished bottles and abandonedglasses. Two men flanked him like furniture—Abenzio Leandro on his left, Metella Azzarello on his right. I knew the names from Jersey’s rundown on the way in here after we parked. Both soldiers. Both old-line Giorlando men.
Abenzio was thick-necked, middle-aged, scar doing a white line across his lip. Azzarello was leaner, younger, eyes sharp, suit black and immaculate.
Raptor hovered just behind Turnpike’s shoulder, trying to look smaller than he was. Baby prospect. First real big war job. I didn’t need to see his face to feel the electricity under his skin. Fear and pride and wanting to prove himself so hard it stung.
“Talk fast,” Dante said. “Before one of my VIPs gets spooked and leaves before spending more money.”
Jersey didn’t bother with a speech. He laid it out in short, hard strokes. The messenger at the gate. The SUVs that had rolled up to the Devil’s compound to talk about numbers like they were inevitabilities. Tesauro’s name. The three businesses hit in the same breath—Sin City, the Lodge, Outlaw Armory.
“All deliberate,” I added. “Strip club, bar, gun shop. Three different income streams. Three different fingers. All broken at the same time.”
Dante’s jaw worked. “I’ll be fine. Have you seen the guards out front? I don’t cut corners on security.”
“Maybe not,” Turnpike said. “But you’re lit up like a fucking Christmas tree right now, Diamond. Your club is on the hit list. Your name. Your accounts. Your fronts. You’re exactly the kind oftarget they go for when they want to show your father they can reach into his pockets and take out whatever they want.”
