Chapter Three
Church was called for nine o'clock, which meant every patched member was in the chapel by eight-fifty or had a damn good reason why not.
Jackpot sat at the head of the table, the President's gavel in front of him, and watched his brothers file in.
Riptide took his place at the VP's chair, calm as always.
Pike dropped into his seat with a coffee he'd been nursing since dinner.
Ace sat without a word, because Ace rarely needed words.
Block came in last, closing the heavy door behind him.
Six officers. Twelve patched members total in the room. The core of what Jackpot had built over the past decade.
"Let's get to it." He didn't bang the gavel—never had, never would. The room quieted because he spoke, not because of ceremony. "Block, you called this. What've you got?"
Block leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Maldonado."
The name landed like a grenade. A few brothers shifted in their seats. Pike's jaw tightened.
"Vincent Maldonado," Block continued. "Third-generation AC. Runs a construction outfit that's been buying up the inlet for some waterfront development deal. Word is he's got city council in his pocket and enough muscle to make problems disappear."
"We've heard the name," Riptide said. "What's changed?"
"He's escalating." Block pulled out his phone, scrolled through something.
"Three businesses burned out on Arctic Avenue in the past two months.
Patterson's Grocery—kitchen fire, three ignition points.
Kim's Dry Cleaning—electrical, except the wiring was new.
Nguyen Hardware—middle of the night, whole place gone by morning. "
"Insurance investigations?" Jackpot asked.
"Inconclusive across the board. No charges filed. No arrests. Properties sold to Maldonado's shell company within two weeks of each fire."
Silence around the table. Every man in this room knew what that pattern meant.
"That's inlet territory," Pike said quietly. "Our territory."
"That's the problem." Block's voice was hard. "He's not just squeezing these people out. He's destroying them. And he's doing it three blocks from where my mother lives."
Jackpot felt something cold settle in his chest. The inlet was Outlaws ground—had been since they'd pushed out the dealers and the pimps six years ago. The neighborhood was poor, forgotten, invisible to the tourists and politicians who only saw the boardwalk. But it was theirs to protect.
And someone was burning it down.
"Who's left?" he asked.
"One holdout." Block checked his phone again. "Rosa's Lavandería. Woman named Rosa Medina, runs a laundromat and alterations shop. Army vet, two tours. She's been refusing to sell for six months."
"Stubborn," Ace observed.
"Or stupid," someone muttered from down the table.
"She's neither." Block's voice sharpened. "She's the only one on that block who didn't fold. Maldonado hit her place last night—trashed her storage room, slashed her inventory. She didn't run. She opened for business the next morning."
Jackpot's hands flattened on the table.
He knew that pattern too. Knew it from eight years watching casino executives circle vulnerable targets, applying pressure until they cracked. Isolate. Intimidate. Eliminate resistance. Acquire assets.
It was a predator's playbook. And it worked because nobody ever hit back.
"What's the play?" Riptide asked, watching Jackpot's face.
"We take it to him. Send a message. Maldonado's not untouchable—he just thinks he is because nobody's ever pushed back."
"He's got muscle," Pike said. "Construction crews, security consultants. I've seen his guys around. They're not amateurs."
"Neither are we."
The words came out harder than Jackpot intended. Harder than the situation warranted, maybe. But something about this—the inlet, the burned-out shops, the lone woman refusing to run—pulled at him in a way he couldn't explain.
His father had been that stubborn once. Had refused to quit the casino even when his hands started shaking, even when they pushed him toward retirement with half the pension he'd earned. Stayed loyal to people who saw him as replaceable.
Nobody had fought for him.
"I'll handle it personally," Jackpot said.
Riptide raised an eyebrow. "The President rolls on every territory dispute?"
"This one I do."
Something in his voice must have closed the discussion, because Riptide just nodded. Around the table, brothers exchanged glances but kept their mouths shut.
"Block, you're with me," Jackpot continued. "Pike, I want everything you can dig up on Maldonado's operation. Properties, muscle, political connections. Ace—"
"I'll be ready," Ace said. It was the only thing he needed to say.
"We're not starting a war." Jackpot stood, pushing back from the table. "Not yet. Tonight is reconnaissance. I want to see what we're dealing with before we decide how hard to hit."
"And the woman?" Block asked. "Rosa?"
Jackpot's jaw tightened. "She's in our territory. That makes her our problem."
He didn't examine why the thought of her—stubborn, alone, refusing to break—made his chest tight. Didn't analyze why he needed to see this for himself instead of delegating it to Block or Pike.
The inlet was Outlaws ground. That was reason enough.
Church ended without fanfare. Brothers filtered out, conversations starting up about assignments and schedules. Jackpot stayed at the head of the table for a moment, staring at the wall where the Outlaws' original charter hung behind glass.
Twelve years ago, he'd written that charter in a rented garage with five other men who were too angry to quit and too stubborn to die. They'd built something that mattered. Something that protected the people Atlantic City forgot about.
He wasn't about to let some developer burn it down.
"Ready?" Block appeared in the doorway, cut on, keys in hand.
Jackpot grabbed his own leather and headed for the garage.
They took Block's truck instead of bikes—less attention at eleven at night on a residential street. The inlet was quiet when they rolled through, porch lights glowing on row houses that had been standing since before the casinos arrived.
This was old Atlantic City. Real Atlantic City. The blocks where his father had grown up, where families still knew their neighbors' names, where kids played in the streets because there was nowhere else to go.
And someone was trying to burn it off the map.
Block parked half a block from Arctic Avenue, engine idling. "Her building's the one with the green awning. Rosa's Lavandería."
Jackpot studied it through the windshield. Two-story, brick and wood, probably built in the fifties. Hand-painted sign. Apartment above the shop, lights off. A small place, but well-maintained despite the neighborhood's decline.
"That's her car in the alley," Block said. "She's home."
Something caught Jackpot's attention. A black sedan across the street, parked in a shadow between streetlights. Engine running. Two figures in the front seats.
"We're not the only ones watching," he said.
"Maldonado's people." Block's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "They've been doing this for weeks. Parking outside, following her, making sure she knows she's not safe."
"Classic intimidation."
"It's working on everyone else. Three blocks, six businesses. She's the only one left."
Jackpot watched the sedan for a long moment. The rage building in his chest was familiar—the same cold fury he'd felt when the casino let a whale's son walk after putting a cocktail waitress in the hospital. The same helpless anger he'd carried to his father's funeral.
Except he wasn't helpless anymore.
"She's not alone now," he said quietly. "She just doesn't know it yet."
Block glanced at him. "What's the play?"
Jackpot didn't answer right away. He was watching the laundromat, the dark windows, imagining the woman inside who'd chosen to fight instead of fold. Stubborn enough to tell Maldonado to go to hell. Brave enough to stay when everyone else ran.
Stupid enough to think she could win alone.
Something about that combination made his blood run hot in a way he didn't want to examine.
"Tomorrow," he said finally. "I want to meet her. See what she knows, what she needs."
"And those assholes in the sedan?"
Jackpot's smile was cold. "They can watch all they want tonight. Tomorrow, they're going to learn what happens when you hunt in Outlaws territory."
He took one last look at the laundromat—at the building that had become a battle line without anyone realizing it—and nodded to Block.
"Let's go. We've got plans to make."
The truck pulled away, but Jackpot's mind stayed on Arctic Avenue. On a woman he'd never met who was standing alone against a man with money and muscle and no conscience.
Not for long.
She was in his territory now. And Jackpot protected what was his.