Long table scarred with knife marks and burn rings. Skull-and-cards emblem carved deep in the center. President chair at the head, Vice to his right, Enforcer seat farther down. Patches on the walls like stained-glass windows for people who believed in torque and loyalty instead of angels and saints.
The difference was the weight of testosterone. TheShore Vipers’ Church came with heels on the table and nail polish marks on the wood. This one was all boots and beard oil.
Every patched in member was there. 8-Ball close to Blackjack. Spade, Mirage, Snake Eyes, Ace, Priest, Voodoo, Jabberwocky, and Roadkill. Everyone but Miami. Prospects even sat along the wall behind them.
I took my place standing against the back wall, off the table’s axis but where I could see everyone’s hands.
Jersey slid into his Enforcer seat like he’d never left it. A few glances flicked his way—measuring, thankful, a little pissed this shit had landed in his lap—but no one said anything. His patch said enough.
When the room quieted, Blackjack rapped his knuckles once on the table and struck it with a gavel.
“Church is in,” he said. “Listen close. I’m only going through this once.”
Silence dropped like a curtain.
“We’ve all heard the pieces,” he said. “The job out of Roman’s dock. The wreck. The hit at the hospital on Miami. The book pulled out of the bike. The meeting at Roman’s casino. The junkyard. The Vipers’ yard getting lit up. Tonight, we’re putting it in one spine so nobody walks out of here confused about who our enemies are and who’s at our backs.”
He laid it out.
Not dramatic. Not indulgent. Just fact after fact,stacked neat.
The Vincinos using Roman’s pier without his knowledge. Ledger in the bike. Names from Philly to Colombia to Russia written in old ink. Steel Serpents pulling trigger duty for other men’s money. Miami bleeding under hospital lights while some suit tried to finish what the wreck started. The way Liberty had walked into a junkyard and found a dead owner strangled with his own phone cord and Serpents waiting in the stacks like rats.
He told them about the burner phone.
About Tesauro Vincino’s voice sliding down the line like he’d been expecting his dogs to report in.
About Liberty saying his name and Tesauro hanging up.
Jersey jumped in and told them about the blacked-out SUVs at the Viper’s gate. About cartel guns chewing at our fence and wall. About Anaconda’s calf and Arizona’s nearly-ventilated ribs. About the Bolivar kid inside the yard putting a barrel to his own head and saying “For Bolivar” before he painted the outbuilding with his brains.
No one interrupted. No one made a joke. The only sound in the room was breathing and the occasional slow grind of a jaw.
When they finished, Blackjack and Jersey leaned back in their seats and let the silence breathe for half a minute.
“From this moment forward,” Blackjack said then, looking around the table, “we are at war with Tesauro Vincino, the Vincino family, the Steel Serpents actingas their mutts, and the Bolivar Cartel they’re partnered with. That isn’t up for debate. That isn’t a question. That’s the weather. The storm has arrived, and while we saw it in the forecast, now we’re in it.”
Heads dipped. Some in acceptance. Some in anger.
He jerked his chin toward me.
“And while she’s under this roof, Valkyrie is to be treated as one of our own,” he said. “She speaks, you listen. She rides with you, you cover her. If she bleeds beside you, you remember who caused it. Anyone gives her shit for the patch on her back instead of the blood she’s willing to spill on our side, they can hand me their cut and go prospect for someone else.”
Blackjack then glanced at Jersey.
“Tell them what it cost,” he said.
Jersey cleared his throat.
“Miami’s still in the hospital,” he said. “Shoreline. Stitched and broken. Last guy who went down that hard for us didn’t get back up. Everyone remembers Anchor. This time it’s different. Miami’s fighting.”
A low murmur of agreement rolled around the table.
I didn’t know who Anchor was or his story. I recalled the cuts hanging on the wall in the main room. Maybe one of those had been his.
“The Serpent at the junkyard took a chunk out of Diamondback’s arm before we put him down,” Jersey went on. “She’ll be fine. Stitches and a scar. Cartel’s hit at the Viper clubhouse put a hole through Anaconda’s calf. Bullet went in and out, no bone,but she’s off her bike for a hot minute. Arizona nearly caught a round protecting her. It tore through her cut instead of her skin. California got strangled by a Bolivar pig who snuck in through the side window. She’s breathing, but she’ll be wearing his fingerprints on her neck for a while.”
Some of the men winced. Some looked impressed. A few looked like they were filing those names away under Don’t Fuck With Our Allies.
