Turnpike huffed under his breath, but didn’t interrupt.
“You earned that patch,” 8-Ball said, “because every time shit got uglier than it had any right to be, you stepped forward instead of back. Because you keep your head when bullets fly and everyone else starts seeing red. Because when Blackjack needs something disgusting done, he trusts you to do it without making us look like amateurs.”
I swallowed.
“You wouldn’t be sitting where you’re sitting, wearing what you’re wearing, if he didn’t already decide he could die in a penthouse and know you would help keep this family together instead of falling apart,” 8-Ball said. “He didn’t hand you a maybe. He handed you a ‘when.’ He believes you can do it. I believe you can do it. Turnpike over there believes it, even if his big dumb ass won’t say it out loud.”
Turnpike shifted like he’d been called on in class. “I believe it,” he muttered. “Don’t be an idiot.”
“See?” 8-Ball said. “Unprompted compliment. Markthe calendar.”
The corner of my mouth twitched despite everything.
“This isn’t about wanting that weight,” 8-Ball said, softer. “It’s about knowing you’re already carrying parts of it whether you wanna admit it or not. You think you’re just the one with bloodier knuckles. You’re not. You’re the one the prospects look at when they’re scared, too. You’re the one Quinn trusts when the rest of us are gone. You’ve already been leading. The patch just makes it official if it ever comes to that. You hear me?”
“Yeah,” I said. My chest burned. “I hear you.”
“Good.” He clapped me once on the shoulder, firm enough to sting. “So, stop sitting here acting like the only version of this where you matter is the one where Alice walks back through that gate and pats you on the head. If he dies, you don’t get to fall apart. You get to work. And you will, because you’re my Enforcer, and I don’t train idiots.”
I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding since I left Atlantic City.
Some of the static in my head eased. The fear didn’t vanish—would’ve been stupid if it did—but it stopped feeling like it was chewing holes in my spine.
“Besides,” 8-Ball added, leaning back again, “Roman would be an absolute dumbass to clip Alice over this instead of using him. And if there’s one thing I know, it’s that Roman likes to win more than he likes to bleed people.”
Turnpike snorted. “Now you’re reassuring him with logic,” he said. “That’s cruel.”
The clock ticked on.
I picked my phone back up, but this time I wasn’t staring at it like it was a tombstone. Just a line on a board, waiting to be moved.
We made it another few minutes in that heavy, almost comfortable silence before a shadow fell across us.
Valkyrie.
“You two done trying to think your President to death in here?” she asked. “Come walk the fence with me, Devil.”
Turnpike lifted his brows. “Why him? I’m more fun.”
“You’re also more likely to punch a cop on sight,” she said. “I like you right where you are. Stationary and unarmed.”
8-Ball smirked. “Go,” he said to me.
I slid off the stool and followed Valkyrie out.
The compound felt different when you walked it on purpose instead of just breathing inside of it.
Razor wire topped the fences, glittering dull where the light hit. Old factory walls loomed around us, graffiti ghosts clinging to brick faces. You could see the lines of sight if you looked for them—where a rifle could rest, what angle it had over the gate, where an engine could be heard before it was seen.
Valkyrie walked with her hands in her back pockets, shoulders loose, but I’d already seen how fast thatcould change. Her eyes flicked to every corner, every shadow. She wasn’t just stretching her legs. She was checking her skeleton.
We cut along the fence line, boots crunching over gravel.
“Are you always this tense when your President goes into a meeting?” she asked.
“Are you always this chatty when you’re worried about your Queen?” I fired back.
She smirked. “Touché.”
