My phone rings.
Quill.
I let it ring out.
He knows, or at least he suspects. He’d told me weeks ago, back at the Blood Brothers’ clubhouse the night after I put Sophia on that plane, not to make a move until we’d talked it through. I’d sat there, nodded, and knocked back my whiskey like I was going to listen. Like I was capable of sitting on it.
I wasn’t.
The weeks that followed putting Sophia on that plane were the longest of my life. I knew I should go home to Vegas. My club needed me, my business needed me, and every day I stayed at the Blood Brothers’ clubhouse was another day I was avoiding the reality of going back to a life without my brother in it.
But something kept me there.
I knew exactly what it was.
The moment one of the boys came to me with word that the El Pasos had been spotted on Fulton Street, eating, drinking, and laughing like they hadn’t played a hand in my brother’s death, something inside me snapped. Clean and final, like a wire pulled too tight for too long. Every sleepless night, every moment I’d satat Tracker’s funeral watching my mother fall apart, every time I’d had to look Sophia in the eyes knowing I couldn’t bring him back, it all collapsed into one single thought.Now.
I pulled two of my most trusted men aside and kept my voice low and steady, even though everything inside me was anything but. “Find an SUV. Strip the plates. Get it two blocks down and wait for me.”
They didn’t ask questions. That’s why I trust them.
It took them less than fifteen minutes. New York never runs short of SUVs, and my boys are nothing if not resourceful. While they handled it, I walked back into the Blood Brothers’ clubhouse like I didn’t have the weight of what I was about to do sitting square on my shoulders. I found Quill, clapped him on the shoulder, told him I needed some air, and was heading out for a ride. He looked at me for just a second longer than usual. Quill always could read a room, but he nodded and let me go.
I slipped out the back, swapped my cut for a black hoodie, tucked a balaclava into my pocket, and walked those two blocks with my hands in my pockets and my jaw tight, running through every reason I was about to do this and finding not a single one I’d take back.
The boys were waiting, engine running, ready to go.
Nobody said a word.
Nobody needed to.
As we turned onto Fulton Street, I saw them before they saw us.
The El Pasos, spread out across the café tables like they owned the street, eating, drinking, and actually laughing. Like they hadn’t shaken my hand and smiled to my face while selling my brother out to the cartel. Like they hadn’t stood in that room and watched their president point a gun at Lukeand me while Clemente’s men beat us half to death. Like Tracker’s blood wasn’t on their hands.
Something cold settled over me then, not rage, not anymore. Something quieter and more dangerous than rage.
One of the boys glanced back at me from the driver’s seat, waiting.
“Let’s do it,” I said.
He put his foot down. I pulled the window all the way down, felt the rush of New York air hit my face, raised the shotgun, and didn’t hesitate. I told him to slow it down so I could be absolutely certain that every single one of them paid for what they did. My hands were steady. I didn’t feel sick. I didn’t feel anything except the deep, hollow satisfaction of a debt finally being collected.
When it was done, I pulled myself back inside and sat in silence as we sped away.
I thought I’d feel more. I thought finally getting justice for Tracker would crack something open in me, some flood of relief, some release. But sitting in the back of that SUV with the sounds of New York fading behind us, all I felt was tired. Bone tired. And the quiet, aching understanding that killing the El Pasos hadn’t brought my brother back.
Nothing was going to bring my brother back.
We ditched the SUV two streets over, set it alight, and watched the evidence burn. Then we walked back to the clubhouse, grabbed our bikes without a word to anyone, mounted up, and rode straight out of New York without looking back.
I called Quill from the road and fed him some story about an urgent situation back at the Vegas clubhouse. He believed me, and somehow that made it worse, the ease of it. I’d deal with the truth when I got home. I owed him that much.
It should have taken us four days to make it back to Vegas. We made it in three, stopping only for a few hours’ sleep at a time before getting straight back on the road. We knew we had to put as much distance between ourselves and New York as possible before anyone started putting the pieces together.
Sitting at the bar now, I raise my glass to my men one more time and skull my beer in one long pull.
My phone rings again. I glance down, expecting Quill, but it’s Sophia.
