“Shut up,” I replied.
He grinned, then winced, pressing a hand lightly against his side. The movement was automatic, the way men touched wounds without meaning to.
“You good?” I asked.
“Define good,” he said.
“Fuck you,” I said, echoing his earlier line.
“Love you too,” he said back.
The room buzzed around us—low music from the battered speakers, balls clicking on felt, quiet conversations. No kids’ voices anymore. They’d all been shipped out to safe houses. The absence was its own sound.
I let myself breathe for half a second. Just one.
Then Blackjack’s phone rang.
The sound sliced through the room in a way normal ringtones didn’t. Maybe it was just that everyone here had been conditioned to clock that particular tone. Maybe it was the way he moved when he heard it.
He straightened from the pool table, cue still in one hand, and reached into his pocket with the other. He didn’t automatically hit speaker this time. He glanced at the screen first.
Something in his shoulders changed.
8-Ball saw it. So did Snake Eyes and Spade, who were mid-game of darts nearby. So did half the room, even if they pretended not to be looking.
I watched him thumb flick the answer button. He brought the phone to his ear instead of setting it on the table. That alone said enough.
“Yeah,” he said into the receiver.
His gaze lifted, swept the room, found me without really trying. Found Miami. FoundValkyrie. Found the core.
He held our eyes for a beat.
“It’s Roman,” he said to the room.
Everything went a notch quieter. Not silent. Just… focused. Like all the air had leaned in.
I felt my spine straighten on instinct. Miami’s hand found the bar again, knuckles whitening. Valkyrie’s eyes cut from Blackjack to me, that unspoken question floating in the space between us.
Wherever this went next, we were about to find out.
Blackjack turned away slightly, voice dropping as he listened to whatever came through the other end of the line.
The war had just cleared its throat.
It was about to change volume again.
Whatever Roman was about to say, it wasn’t going to be small.
Twenty
Valkyrie
The room went silent when Blackjack said, “It’s Roman.”
I was halfway down the bar with Tanya, Rebecca and Quinn, laughing at something that didn’t really deserve it, when that tone cut through the clubhouse noise. Blackjack’s voice. Short. Flat. Carrying over the click of pool balls and low music and the constant murmur of men in leather trying to pretend they weren’t waiting for the sky to fall.
“It’s Roman.”
