“Copy,” Jersey called back.
We untangled reluctantly and got dressed in the armor the world recognized—jeans, shirts, cuts. The only visible evidence left of the night was the rawness in our eyes. Clothes were damp. He leant me a shirt.
In the main room, the Devil’s Aces moved with a different kind of quiet. Not the uneasy one from yesterday. Something heavier. More focused. The kind you got when a name had been added to the wallin their heads even before it was put up physically.
Church filled in fast.
Same table. Same seats. Different weight.
Blackjack sat at the head, gavel in hand. 8-Ball on his right. The Enforcer chair—Evan’s chair—was next. The remaining Prospects, Turnpike, Jackal and Badger, lined the wall.
One spot at the table was still empty. Miami’s.
A cut hung on the wall behind Blackjack—one of the old ones. Today, another frame waited beside it, not yet filled.
When everyone settled, Blackjack rapped the table once.
“Church is in,” he said. “We’ve added a ghost.”
No one spoke.
After a moment of silence for Raptor, he laid it out. The hit on Dante’s club. The Vincino and Bolivar men bringing their war into the Giorlando’s world. The Serpents slithering in the door behind them. The traitor at Dante’s side. The way Raptor had stood his ground, landed his shot, and then took a bullet high in the neck for his trouble.
He didn’t spare the details. He also didn’t wallow in them.
“Raptor died doing what he signed up for,” Blackjack said. “He was a mouthy little shit and green as grass, but he had steel in him. He listened. He learned. He didn’t freeze up when it mattered. All that counts.”
Jersey’s jaw worked, but he stayed quiet. I couldsee his hand curled into a fist on the table, knuckles white.
Blackjack’s phone sat beside his hand, screen dark for now.
“Roman knows,” he continued. “He called me. Thanked our people for keeping his son breathing. Cursed the Vincinos in three languages I pretended not to fully understand. He said this war is now fully on. Giorlando stands with Devil’s Aces and Shore Vipers. It’s not just words anymore. It’s an oath.”
My phone buzzed quietly in my pocket. Liberty. I didn’t pull it out. I already knew Blackjack would be looping her in.
“As of this morning,” Blackjack went on, “there is no more pretending we can walk this back. Tesauro Vincino sent men into our allies’ club. He killed our prospect. He hired our enemies. He made a move in Roman’s world. He’s not getting a polite reply.”
He nodded once toward 8-Ball.
8-Ball picked up the phone and hit a button. Liberty’s voice came through the speaker, sharp and distant.
“I’m here,” she said.
“Liberty,” Blackjack said. “You’re on at Church with us.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” she replied. “Rosé told me about the club. About your boy.”
Her tone shifted—steel wrapped in velvet. Grief hiding under business.
“Didn’t know Raptor. I’m sorry he didn’t get a longerroad.”
“He made it count,” Blackjack said.
“I know he did,” she replied. “And I’m telling you now—my girls and I are riding this all the way with you. Whatever Roman’s cooking up, whatever you’re planning, the Shore Vipers are backing your play. This isn’t just your war. It’s ours too.”
“Good,” Blackjack said. “Because I’ve got something to show you.”
He nodded to Spade. Spade rose, grabbed a frame leaning against the wall, and hung it in the empty spot beside the other memorial cuts. It wasn’t Raptor’s patch that would go in a place of its own when the time was right. It was a photo.
