Killers who’d once stood behind him, was now laughing at tables with promoted leaders.
Women who used to call him lover, who’d cried when he got locked up, were now gyrating on the laps of men and women sitting closest to the crown.
And there—at the far booth near the exit—was the new king.
Rico, a big, broad bastard with gold teeth and a gaudy-ass red fur coat. A pretender sitting on his throne. He’d been a loudmouth enforcer back in the day, all muscle and no brains.
Scar remembered him getting knocked out cold once in a sparring match and crying about it.
Now he was the top dog. Scar curled his lip.
Figures
The barstool beside him groaned as someone dropped onto the seat, the smell of cheap vodka hitting his nose before the voice.
“Double shot of Smirnoff,” he told—not asked—the bartender.
Scar glanced sideways.
Pun.
His government name was Merle Jenkins, but everyone called him Pun, short for Punisher. He was a big dude, with a neck like Mike Tyson and fists to match. He used to be his head enforcer, the one man he’d trusted to protect him and the closest to being called a friend.
Still alive and still drinking bottom-shelf poison.
Scar smirked and said just loud enough, “Will you ever stop drinking that cheap shit?”
Pun turned his head slowly and squinted. “Then buy me somethin’ better, muthafucka.”
Scar’s smile widened.
Same tone. Same quick energy. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed him until now.
Pun leaned closer, narrowing his eyes under the bar’s dim lighting, trying to see under Scar’s hood. He turned his head, letting him.
Pun froze for half a second before his jaw hit the floor.
“No…no way,” he rasped. Then louder. “No fuckin’ way!”
Before Scar could tell him shut up, Pun hauled him off the stool in a bear hug that nearly cracked his ribs.
“Put me down, dumbass,” Scar growled, shoving at Pun’s massive shoulders.
Too late. Heads turned. Conversations stopped.
A few chairs scraped the floor as men rose, staring.
One of the lieutenants swaggered toward them, drunk. “What’s going on, Pun? Got yourself a new girlfriend?”
Pun laughed. “Nah, bitch. Look who it is! Scar’s back from the fuckin’ dead!”
Scar clenched his jaw as the sound of his name spread like wildfire. Fast, hot, and dangerous.
He could already see the skepticism on their faces. Some were shocked, some were afraid, but most were suspicious.
The South Side Kings didn’t do resurrections.
A man near the bar choked on his drink. “So when did life in a maximum-security prison mean a few years?”
