At one point, I saw Jackal actually lean on the bar with his chin in his hand like some teenaged idiot, listening.
It made me weirdly happy.
On the other side of the room, India’s half-dancing, half-grinding on Turnpike near the front of the pool table, the two of them laughing loud enough to cut over the music. Someone hoots when she spins around and drops low. Turnpike’s face is red as hell, but he doesn’t look like he’s complaining.
Roadkill’s wife, Rebecca, is now sitting at a table with him, Mirage and Rosé, watching the chaos with a hi-ball glass in hand, expression fond.
Blackjack eventually walks to the center of the room and gestures for the music to drop a little.
“All right,” he said, voice carrying even without a mic. “Listen up, you ungrateful assholes.”
The noise settles. Heads turn.
Liberty joins him, shot glass in hand.
Blackjack raises his drink.
“First off,” he says, “thanks to all of you for not dying.That was very considerate. I’m too tired to have to plan another funeral this week. One is already too much as it is.”
A ripple of dark laughter moves through the room.
He nods once, acknowledging the unspoken name floating there—Raptor—and then keeps going.
“We’ve had a clusterfuck of a few days,” he says. “We’ve been shot at, betrayed. We’ve lost one of our own, nearly lost more, and watched our city get treated like a playground by men who think money is the same thing as power. Tonight, we walked into a half-built statement for Roman, pulled his wife and daughter out from under a traitor, Serpents, and the cartel, and walked away under our own power. That is not nothing.”
He looked at Liberty.
“But we didn’t do it alone,” he says. “The Shore Vipers rode when we needed them. They could’ve stayed behind their walls up north and waited to see who crawled out, but they didn’t. They aimed their bikes at our fire and hit the gas full throttle. That counts. Remember that. Remember this. Devils. Vipers. Somehow all of us managed to hit the same target without shooting each other in the face. I don’t know what that says about the war, but here we are.”
Lady Liberty lifted her chin. “We wanted to see if you Devils could dance,” she called. “You didn’t trip over your own dicks. That’s a win in my book.”
Laughter snapped through the tension like a whip.
Vipers hooted. Devils answered.
Blackjack smirked.
Liberty lifts her glass slightly in acknowledgment.
“This war with Tesauro, the Vincinos, the Serpents, and the Bolivar cartel?” Blackjack continues. “It isn’t over. Tonight isn’t a victory parade. Tonight was a warning shot. Theirs and ours. Tomorrow, we start counting the costs more seriously.”
A sound rolled through the room—agreement, low and rough.
Blackjack then glanced at me and Valkyrie.
“In the middle of all that,” he says, “some of you still managed to be stupid enough to catch feelings. Sometimes that’s worse than bullets.”
Everyone laughs louder this time. Tanya whistles again. Miami drums his bottle lightly against the bar in an obnoxious little rhythm.
Blackjack smirks.
“I’m not saying it’s a good idea,” he says. “But I’m saying if anyone’s earned the right to cling to whatever light they can find in the middle of all this shit, it’s the two idiots wrapped around each other over there.”
I feel my face heat. Valkyrie stiffens against me for a beat, then relaxes, leaning into it.
I decide to go with it.
I slide one hand up, fingers curling under her chin, tipping her face back toward mine.
