Now I had to get back on my bike, call Liberty and 8-Ball and Jersey, and tell them the truth.
Roman wasn’t our enemy.
At least not today.
But someone under his roof was. Someone who’d used his docks and our roads and Miami’s blood to move a ledger that could set the whole coast on fire.
And until we found them, every step we took was going to be taken with that same invisible trigger pressed against the back of our skulls.
Eleven
Jersey Boy
An hour isn’t long until someone tells you it might be the last one your President is breathing for.
We’d tucked ourselves in a quieter corner of the Vipers’ clubhouse, away from the music and the pool table and the girls. The TV was on with no sound. Some crime show was flickering across the screen like a joke. A clock above the bar ticked too loud to ignore.
8-Ball sat on a stool with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped, staring at nothing. Turnpike leaned against the wall, arms folded over his chest, one boot heel kicked back into the paneling, making it creak every few seconds. I took the other stool, phone on the bar in front of me, face down.
Blackjack had gone up into Roman’s world with Mirage, Spade, Ace, and Snake Eyes. No weapons heavier than pistols. No backup but each other and whatever history Roman still thought was worth respecting.
One-hour meeting.
One-hour deadline.
My thumb traced a slow circle on the edge of my new phone, over and over, like I could carve a groove into the glass.
Turnpike broke first.
“You don’t think Blackjack isn’t coming back, do you?” he asked, like he was slapping the thought out of the air instead of asking it.
The words dropped between us, heavy.
For a second, I saw it. Quick, ugly flashes I couldn’t control.
Roman’s guards. Guns up, no warning. Spade going down first, because he’d be smiling when it happened. Blackjack taking one center mass in that expensive carpeted room. No call. No voice on speaker telling us what came next.
Just a silence big enough to swallow the club.
My throat went tight. I flipped the phone over, even though the screen was dark.
8-Ball didn’t snap at Turnpike. Didn’t bark or throw a bottle just to bleed the tension.
He just turned his head and looked at me.
“You heard what he told you,” 8-Ball said. Calm. Gravel low. “If that call doesn’t come, this lands on us. On me. On you.”
“I heard,” I said. It came out flatter than I wanted.
“And you’re sitting here already acting like that’s a funeral notice instead of a contingency,” he went on.
I bristled. “I’mnot—”
“Yeah, you are,” he cut in, but his voice stayed steady. No bite. Just certainty. “You’re running out scenarios in your head like that’s going to change the one that actually happens.”
He shifted on the stool so he was fully facing me. The scar near his left eye caught the light.
“You think we slap that Enforcer patch on anyone?” he asked. “You think you got that because you’re pretty and loud?”
