Isabella tilted her head. “They’re here,” she said. “Your biker mercenaries. Your dogs, and your thinkers.”
“My tools,” I corrected.
She shrugged and moved away, bare feet whispering across the floor.
I took one last look at the city, then turned my back on it and walked toward the meeting room.
***
The table was long, dark, and older than anyone in the room. I had it brought over from the old place when this penthouse was built. My grandfather had signed truces over it. My father had signed lies. I signed futures.
Now it held my coffee, a cut-glass ashtray, and five men’s attention.
Yashida sat to my right. My consigliere. Immaculate suit, tie straight, expression carved from something cold and patient. Fiorenzo, my brother and Underboss, lounged farther down, sleeves rolled to his forearms, ink crawling up his sun-browned skin, hands scarred and restless. Nico, my son, Capo of narcotics, sat opposite him, too young for the weight on his shoulders, but still made me proud.
At the far end, two Steel Serpents sat side by side like kids hauled into the principal’s office. Colors on.Or rather lack thereof. Gray vests, cuts as they call them. Their eyes were trying to be steady and failing.
Isabella took a chair off to the side. She wasn’t just ornamental like Roman’s woman. Everyone in the room knew that, whether they liked it or not. If I weren’t present, she was the most dangerous person in the room.
I didn’t sit immediately. I walked to the head of the table, rested my fingers on the back of my leather chair, and let the silence stretch.
“So,” I said finally. “Tell me a story.”
One of the Serpents cleared his throat. Late twenties. Scar down the one side of his jaw. Hands a little too tight on his knees.
“We hit the places like you said,” he began. “Strip club first. Sin City. Two SUVs, three of us on bikes. In and out. Glass gone, front all shot to shit. No bodies. Just fear. Then The Lodge. Same thing. Windows, doors. We made it loud.”
“And then the armory?” I asked. I knew this already. It was boring. But I needed to hear it from their mouths first.
The other Serpent spoke up this time. Younger. Eyes too bright.
“Outlaw,” he said. “Far wall, racks, some stock. Also in and out. They know you can touch their guns now.”
“Good,” I said. “I want them to know I can reach out and touch anything that they own.”
I finally sat, folding myself into the chair like a kinghumoring his own throne.
“And the club?” Yashida asked quietly. “The Black Velvet.”
The first Serpent swallowed. “Hotter,” he admitted. “They had people there. Giorlando soldiers as security. Devil’s Aces. At least one Shore Viper we think. We went in the front. Took out the glass. Got some of their men. Caused chaos, took out a few patrons, enough to cause a headache. But Dante, our primary target, survived. His bodyguards didn’t. One of the Devils—a kid—took a round in the neck. Didn’t stay to see what happened but we’re certain he bled out on the floor of their VIP lounge.”
Nico exhaled through his nose. “Shame,” he said, the word lacking any real grief. “The Devils breed the hard ones. If he was young, he probably didn’t have his horns yet.”
“Either way, it sends a message,” Fiorenzo said. “Prospect or not. They thought their colors made them immortal. Now they know they can drown in their own blood and hellfire just like anyone else.”
I nodded once.
I’d seen enough men die to know most of them were forgettable. It wasn’t personal. It was math. But the Devils had a way of turning their dead into rallying banners. Names on walls. Stories told over bottles. Men like Blackjack and Roman built loyalty out of ghosts.
“We also lost one of ours,” the younger Serpent said, glancing at his companion. “Cartel boys too. It was… messy.”
“You’re still breathing,” I said mildly. “That already puts you ahead of others.”
I looked at Yashida. “Opinion?” I asked.
Yashida steepled his fingers. “The strikes achieved what we wanted on this pass, besides not taking out Dante,” he said. “Fear, disruption, attention. Minimal exposure for us on this side. The Velvets hit showed Giorlando his own sons’ world isn’t untouchable. That Devil dying there ties their grief together. The book is being followed, even if some of the lines have changed, shifted, or we’ve skipped a few pages.”
Isabella’s gaze flicked to him at the word book. That ledger floated in the air without being named.
