“Thank them,” he said. “Jersey and Valkyrie took point. They’re the ones you owe a drink to.”
Roman’s gaze locked on us.
It felt like being pinned to a wall by a spotlight.
“Come,” he says. “Both of you.”
My boots feel heavier than they should as I step forward. Valkyrie falls in at my side, shoulders squared, chin up. We stopped a few feet from him.
Up close, the lines around his eyes looked deeper.
“Devil,” he says to me. “Viper,” he says to her.
I nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Valkyrie doesn’t say sir. Just inclines her head once. Respect without submission.
“You pulled my wife and daughter out of that building,” he says, looking between us. “You stood between them and men who wanted to turn them into a message. You could have walked away. Left it to my people. You didn’t.”
“It wasn’t just us,” I say. “Blackjack. 8-Ball. Priest. Turnpike, Snake Eyes, Spade. Liberty’s girls. Miami on the feeds. We all did this, together.”
Roman’s eyes narrow slightly. Then he huffs something that’s almost a laugh.
“Alice,” he says to Blackjack. “I don’t remember you ever being so modestat that age.”
Blackjack snorts. “That’s because you were too busy getting me into trouble to notice,” he shot back. “Or maybe your memory’s going soft.”
“My memory’s fine,” Roman replied. “It’s my patience that’s changed.”
8-Ball smirked.
“Fair,” Blackjack said.
Roman looked back at us. “Regardless. You two were the tip of the spear. You chose to stay and fight for my family when the bullets started. That matters to me. So don’t downplay what you did. That it was just a collective from everyone. That’s good. Rare. Modesty in people who’ve earned praise.”
Roman then put a hand on Blackjack’s arm, pulling him a half-step closer. For a second, the three of us and Liberty were a knot in the sand, the rest of the world blurred.
“Look around,” Roman said softly. “Remember this. My world. Your world. These lines between them? They’re getting thinner. My family…” He tipped his head back toward the city. “…and your machines. Your patches. We’re not the same. But we share business, and enemies. And that matters more than the differences.”
“Enemies picked the wrong people to fuck with,” Valkyrie said.
He gave her a smile.
“You remind me of someone,” he said. “Different gender. Same eyes.”
“Should I be offended on his behalf?” Blackjack asked.
Roman looked at him and laughed.
Not the public laugh. The one I’d heard in the stories from Blackjack and 8-Ball when they’d had enough whiskey and nostalgia to start talking about their early days with him. The sound that said the man standing in front of us had once carried a lot more of his anger in his fists instead of his bank account.
Blackjack jerked his chin toward Liberty. “You two should officially meet,” he said. “Before the night’s over.”
Roman turned fully.
“Lady Liberty,” he said. “At last.”
She stepped in, offering a hand. There was nothing delicate about it. The tattoos on her fingers caught the moonlight; the rings were more knuckle-duster than jewelry.
