21. Raiden
Chapter 21
Raiden
R oughly twelve hours have passed since the city woke up to sirens, smoke, and the unraveling of an empire. Now, evening shadows stretch long and lean across the Destroyers’ clubhouse, casting dark fingers through cigarette haze and across scuffed floorboards. The place hums with subdued energy—every voice lowered, every laugh tinged with unease, like mourners at a wake trying too hard to keep things light. Men linger by the bar, heads bowed in hushed conversation over half-empty glasses of warm beer, while others hover near the dartboard, occasionally glancing at the news blaring soundlessly on an old TV mounted in the corner. The usual rowdy atmosphere has been replaced by something more brittle, as if the whole room is holding its breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I’m sitting at a wooden table with Bash, Trigger, and Vic, the scarred surface littered with beer bottles and crumpled bills. We’re playing poker, a rickety lamp dangling overhead. The cards feel slick and worn between my fingers, edges soft from countless late-night games. Outside, bikes line the lot like watchdogs, exhausts still ticking as they cool in the night air, a mechanical chorus that echoes off the emptiness.
Bash deals the cards, his massive hands shuffling the deck before flicking one card after another at us. Trigger, ever silent, tips his chair back on two legs, the wood creaking beneath him as he eyes his hand without giving anything away. Vic flicks a glance at me, smirking faintly as he arranges his chips into neat stacks. They’re my brothers, if not by blood, then by bonds forged in midnight rides and battles. And right now, I’m grateful for their company—even if the mood is heavier than usual.
We start talking in low tones about the events of the day, our voices barely rising above the whisper of cards sliding across the table. Everyone knows something went down with Saverio Castiglione’s house, but details remain murky, like smoke caught in a glass jar. The city’s criminal underbelly is buzzing, families and gangs all trying to figure out how to position themselves in this new, scorched landscape. You can feel the tension in every back alley and dimly lit bar across town.
“So,” Vic says, tapping a chip on the table with a steady rhythm, “word on the street is everyone’s losing their minds. Blame’s flying in every direction, thick as bullets in a firefight. They’re saying the Russians did it, or the Italians from Chicago looking to expand their territory. Some say it was a freak accident, like anyone believes that garbage.” His fingers are still on the chip, toying with the clay.
Bash snorts. “Freak accident, my ass. Castigliones don’t just go up in smoke on a quiet morning. Someone sent a message.” He sets down his bet, leveling a look at me. He’s subtle about it, but I know what he’s asking without words. He got me a bomb a few days ago, and now Saverio Castiglione’s house has exploded. You don’t need to be a mathematician to put two and two together.
Trigger shrugs. “Bad week to be a Castiglione,” he mutters, raising the pot by a few chips. His voice is as dry as the desert, and I can’t help but smirk. The humor is welcome, even if it’s hollow. Nobody laughs, but the tension eases just a fraction.
Bash clears his throat, shifting in his chair. The wood creaks beneath him like old bones. “So...the girl.” He says it casually, but I know he’s fishing. “How’s she holding up after all this?” His fingers drum against his cards, betraying his attempt at nonchalance. Everyone at the table knows this isn’t just idle conversation.
I keep my expression neutral, picking up my cards and fanning them out with one hand. “She’s...” I pause, searching for the right words, tasting them before I let them loose. “Proud of herself,” I finally say, forcing a smirk that feels like a lie on my face. “Let’s just say I’ve never seen her so pleased.” I let them think that’s all there is, but inside, I’m replaying how, after Kristopher and Daniela left, she climbed into my lap like she’d just won a fucking war, all heat and victory, and dangerous curves. At this rate, I’m going to have to buy every damn Plan B that Walgreens has if she stays at my house any longer.
Vic snickers. “Proud, huh? Well, can’t blame her. Took down the biggest fish in town.” He shuffles his cards, the sound of cardstock against cardstock filling the momentary quiet.
I grunt, throw in a call, tossing the chips forward with a flick of my wrist. My hand’s mediocre—a pair of nines that isn’t going to impress anyone—but I’m more interested in the conversation than winning right now. The pot can go to hell for all I care. “The families are going to realign themselves,” I say, watching the reactions around the table through half-lidded eyes. “We might see some peace for a while or a lot more bloodshed. Hard to say.” A power vacuum never stays empty for long, and everyone at this table knows it.
“The Destroyers gonna ride high now?” Trigger asks, raising an eyebrow. He tosses another handful of chips into the growing pot.
I shrug, considering my next play. “We’re not doing this to be kings. Just to remind people we’re not pawns.”
They nod, thoughtful, digesting the implications. The game goes on, chips clinking against each other like tiny wind chimes, cards sputtering against the table as we draw and discard. Outside, a bike engine revs and fades into the night. The sound reminds us all that life beyond this table keeps moving and keeps changing, whether we’re ready or not.
Then, the clubhouse door opens with a protesting creak, letting in a shaft of cold air that cuts through the cigarette haze like a knife. Priest strides in, his boots heavy on the worn floorboards. Conversations around the room fade to whispers, then to nothing, as he makes a beeline for our table.
“Raiden,” he says, voice low and urgent, the kind of tone that makes your stomach drop before your brain catches up. He doesn’t bother greeting the others; he doesn’t even glance their way. The tension ratchets up a notch.
“Yeah?” I push my cards aside with deliberate slowness, leaning back, arms crossed over my chest. My fingers dig into my biceps, betraying the calm I’m trying to project.
“The news just reported someone made it out alive.”
The words hit like a punch to the solar plexus. I feel my chest tighten, my throat constricting around memories of flames and smoke. Saverio’s house was supposed to be a funeral for his legacy, nothing more, nothing less. “Who?” I manage to choke out.
Priest grimaces, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “They’re not saying. Just that emergency crews pulled someone out. They’re talking to possible witnesses and surviving family members now. The media’s having a field day with speculation, but the rumors are dangerous right now.”
Bash sucks in a breath that whistles between his teeth, Trigger sets his cards down with a cluck of his tongue, and Vic mutters a curse that sounds like a prayer. I clench my jaw until my molars ache. Damn it. One survivor could turn speculation into a witch hunt. Our carefully orchestrated hit has taken a messy turn.
My phone buzzes on the table a moment later, the screen lighting up with an artificial blue glow. Everyone goes silent, eyes flicking to it like moths to flame. Lucrezia’s name glows against the dark surface, seeming to pulse with urgency. My pulse jumps, matching its rhythm. I glance at Priest, whose expression is grim enough to carve valleys in his weathered face.
“Looks like you might get answers sooner than we thought,” he says quietly, stepping back to give me space.
I pick up the phone with fingers that feel numb and clumsy. Lucrezia’s name hovers there like an accusation, offering no explanation or comfort.
I hit the answer button and pray for good news.