“Well, shit,” he said. “You going to introduce me, or do I have to assume I died and we got another club in our house?”
Valkyrie started toward him at the same time I did.
“I’m Valkyrie,” she said.
“This is Valkyrie,” I said.
We tripped over each other’s words like idiots. I stopped. She stopped. We both looked at each other, then at Miami.
He stared between us, then started laughing. It turned into a half-cough, half-groan. He pressed a hand to his ribs until it settled.
“What?”I asked.
“What,” Valkyrie echoed.
Miami’s grin went sharp. “What, you fall in love while I was laid up in the hospital or something?” he asked me.
Heat crawled up the back of my neck. I didn’t say anything, which was its own answer. Valkyrie’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t throw a joke out to kill it either. Her eyes flicked to mine for a second, then away.
Blackjack’s gaze sharpened at that. Filed it away. He didn’t comment on it.
“Welcome to the shitshow, Valkyrie,” Miami said, offering a hand that was also currently holding up his body.
She took it cautiously, careful not to cause any further injury and shook it.
Blackjack cleared his throat. The noise quieted more of the room than it should’ve given how full it was.
“Welcome back, brother,” he said. The words carried weight. “We’ve got a lot to catch you up on. Raptor, the Shore Vipers, Vincinos, and Giorlandos. But you might want to take a seat first.”
Miami looked around at all of us before drawing in a deep breath.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “You all look like hell.”
Quinn guided him toward a couch, steps slow, crutch clicking against the floor. People moved without needing to be told—making space, grabbing chairs, closing in around him not like he was fragile, but like he was one of the pillars that held this place up and they were finally putting him back where hebelonged.
And he was.
Valkyrie drifted back to my side. Our shoulders brushed. Nobody commented.
“You okay?” she asked under her breath.
I watched Miami lower himself onto the couch with a wince, watched Blackjack sit opposite him, watched 8-Ball take up position just off to his right.
“For the first time today,” I said, “yeah. Closer.”
Her fingers brushed my hand for half a second, then were gone.
The war was still out there—sitting in glass lined skyscrapers and dock offices and in whatever quiet room Tesauro Vincino was currently poisoning the world from. Raptor was still dead. The Vincinos still owed us blood. Roman was still sharpening his own knife and had us in the dark.
But right now, in this room, we’d gotten something back.
War usually just took. It was almost obscene to watch it lose for once.
I let myself breathe it in.
Miami was home.
The night before had killed a kid.
