VALENTINA
Johnson’sbroken nose looks almost artistic in the shitty overhead light.
Purple and green and yellow in ugly blooms, mottled along his cheekbone, the skin puffed and tight. It’s the kind of bruise that says he deserved it, but also the kind that makes everyone else in the room quietly take note and adjust their tone. He’s leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, pretending it doesn’t hurt when he squints, but the tension in his jaw gives him away.
We’re at the round table in what used to be Xavier’s strategy room, what is now mine whether I feel ready for that or not. The wood is scarred with knife marks, cigarette burns, a ring from a whiskey bottle no one bothered to wipe. Papers are spread out in front of us—route maps, budgets, lists of names, the never-ending accounting of who owes us what and who we owe in return. The air hums with nerves and caffeine and that restless itch that has been living under everyone’s skin for two weeks.
Jackie sits to my right, one leg crossed over the other, pen tapping against the table in an erratic rhythm while she pretends to take notes. Asher is on my left, posture straight, handssteepled, his eyes moving from face to face like he’s cataloging reactions before they happen. Zay is across from me, slouched in his chair, one elbow on the table, looking deceptively relaxed. George sits beside him, older, steady, thick hands folded, his gaze weighty in a way that makes you feel like you’re back in school and the principal isn’t mad, just disappointed. Johnson rounds out the circle, his bruised face shifting into something that almost, almost resembles politeness when he looks at me.
That’s new.
“Okay,” I say, trying to sound more like I’m chairing a meeting and less like I’m playing dress-up in Xavier’s seat. “We’ve gone over runs and budgets. Jackie has the projections from the party’s take. George, you’re working on tightening security around the house and the hospital. What’s next?”
George clears his throat, glances at Asher, then back at me. “We still need to address Marcus.”
The name lands like a stone in the center of the table, sending ripples through the room. My fingers stop tapping. Zay’s jaw ticks once. Jackie’s eyes sharpen. Asher goes very, very still.
I look at George. “What about him?”
“He’s still dead,” Johnson mutters dryly, then winces when Jackie kicks him under the table.
George ignores him. He reaches into a folder and pulls out a manila envelope, sliding it toward the middle with two fingers. “We’ve been asking around more aggressively since Xavier got hit. It’s not just about the Vipers anymore. Marcus still has loyalists, or at least people nostalgic enough to be dangerous. We need to know exactly who took him off the board and why.”
I stare at the envelope like if I look hard enough, it might vanish. “I thought we agreed he was a problem, past tense. We’re really digging this up now?”
“Because bodies don’t bury themselves clean,” George says. “Whoever killed Marcus might be the same someone stirring shit now. Or they might be a ticking bomb we haven’t noticed yet. Either way, it’s unfinished business.”
Asher’s voice is quiet but edged. “We don’t even know if it was one of ours.”
“Don’t we?” Johnson asks, lifting his brows. “Man makes that many enemies in-house, gets that comfortable with treating prospects like dogs, gets obsessed the way he did with her…” He tips his chin toward Asher. “Eventually, someone close enough sticks the knife in.”
Something prickles along my spine. “Obsessed with who?”
The silence after the question feels deliberate.
Asher’s eyes slice toward Johnson, sharp enough to cut. “Don’t.”
Johnson shrugs, wincing at the pull in his bruised face. “She’s not a secret, Throne.”
I look between them. “Can someone say it plainly? I’m not playing guessing games at my own table.”
George sighs, heavy. “We’ve gotten some chatter,” he says. “Nothing solid. But the name that keeps coming up… is Talia.”
For a heartbeat, I don’t connect it. The name floats there, meaningless.
Then I feel Asher’s entire body harden beside me.
“Talia,” I repeat slowly. “Your sister.”
Asher’s hands, so steady a moment ago, curl into fists on the table. “They’re wrong.”
Johnson shifts forward in his chair, seizing the opening. “Look, no one’s saying it’s confirmed,” he starts, holding his palms up. “But Marcus had a thing for her. Everyone knew it. He was always around, always asking about her, always lingering. The man was obsessed. That kind of attention, that kind of pressure, it does things to a girl. Makes a person snap. Maybe she got tired of him breathing down her neck and did what nobody else had the balls to do.”
Jackie’s lip curls. “Your sympathy is overwhelming.”
He shrugs, but there’s an eager light in his eyes I don’t like. “I’m just saying it fits. She’s close enough to get him alone. He’s focused on her, probably underestimating her, like he did everyone he thought he owned. She decides she’s had enough, gets him vulnerable, bang, problem solves itself. You gotta admit it’s a neat little picture.”
The image hits too hard, too clear—a girl backed against a wall by a man who thinks her fear is his right, the sharp breaking point where survival overrides obedience. My stomach twists.
