It was cold. It was practical. It was the only way this game got played without more heat involved. Regardless of Roman’s men, the police would still want to scour this place. This was just Roman’s way of controlling the dialogue and scene for when they show up.
I hated it anyway.
We stood.
My knees wobbled when I straightened. Blood dripped from my hands onto the expensive carpet. It looked wrong there. Too real in a room that had beenbuilt entirely on extravagance.
Dante lit a cigarette with hands that only barely shook. He took a drag, then exhaled smoke and resentment.
“Vincino and Bolivar in my house,” he said. “Shooting up my club. Killing my men. Taking your guy too.” His gaze cut to Jersey, then me. “My father’s going to love this story.”
“Tell it right,” Jersey said. “Tell him you’d be dead too if Turnpike hadn’t knocked you on your ass. Saved you from your own man.”
Dante’s mouth twitched. He flicked ash onto the already ruined carpet and glanced over at Azzarello.
“I’ll make sure that part’s clear,” he said turning back to us.
We left Raptor under the club lights after Jersey removed his cut, eyes closed now because I couldn’t walk away until I’d done at least something for him.
His bike waited out back, lined up with ours. Silent. Pristine. Idiotic in how whole it still looked when its owner wasn’t coming back for it.
“We’ll send someone for it,” Jersey said quietly.
Turnpike swallowed hard. “I’ll do it,” he said. “Later.”
We rode back to the Devil’s compound with blood drying under my nails and smoke still clinging to my clothes.
The gate was already open a crack when we pulled up. Blackjack stood in the yard, 8-Ball at his shoulder, faceshadowed by floodlights.
As soon as my boots hit the ground, I could see it in his eyes.
He already knew.
“Roman called,” he said. No hello. No preamble. “Word travels fast.”
Turnpike sighed. Raptor’s absence was a weight at his back.
“How bad?” Blackjack asked. He knew the answer. He still asked anyway.
“Cartel and Vincino hit Black Velvet while we were there,” I said. “Came in the front door like they owned the place. Some Serpents lurking around the edges. Dante’s still breathing. Two of his bodyguards aren’t. One was working for Tesauro and tried to put a round in the back of his head.”
“Jersey shot him,” Turnpike added. Voice tight.
Blackjack nodded once. “And Raptor?”
Silence.
I could’ve spoken. I didn’t. It felt like it had to come from Jersey.
“He caught one in the neck,” Jersey said, each word heavy. “Went down fast. Valkyrie tried. I tried. There was just too much blood. He didn’t make it.”
8-Ball’s jaw clenched. Mirage, hovering near the steps, looked away hard.
“Roman?” Jersey asked.
“He’s pissed,” Blackjack replied. “At Tesauro. At Vladimir. At the world.Not at you. He said you kept his son breathing when his own men couldn’t. Said Raptor died as much for Giorlando blood as for Devil’s. He’s adding that to the ledger in his own head.” He then studied each of our faces like he was counting pieces. “Raptor knew what he signed up for. Doesn’t make it any easier.”
“No,” Turnpike said. His voice shook once. “It doesn’t.”
