Chapter Two
RING RING RING
The sound of my phone slices through the dark, loud enough to rattle my skull. I groan, roll over, and squint at the screen. Juniper.
Shit.
She doesn’t call me before nine. Ever. Says I’m “as foul as a three-legged donkey” in the mornings. If she’s calling now, it’s bad.
I swipe and put it to my ear. “Hello?”
Her voice comes fast, panicked. “brENDEN. The shop. It’s wrecked.” Then a sob cracks her words apart.
Juniper doesn’t cry. Not anymore. Not since Mikey.
Mikey was all bluster and cheap leather jackets, thought he was the king of his little street gang.
Not to mention, the fucker thought women were punching bags.
By the time she ran into me—literally—she was half-blind from the last beating.
She tried to lie, her story changing several times–it was an accident, I’m clumsy, he didn’t mean to–but one look at her busted face and I knew.
An accident with fists doesn’t leave someone’s face looking like that.
I dragged her to Corver and Josh, sat her down, and didn’t let her leave until she talked.
Names, drugs, weapons. Everything. Needless to say, Mikey never saw another sunrise.
She used the money that came out of that mess to open her dream—Tattoos On The Bay. She lived for that place. If someone’s gone after it, I’ll burn them to the ground.
“What happened? You okay? What about the girls?” I’m already hauling jeans up, grabbing a white t-shirt, and my jacket.
“I think it happened after Hazel left. Around two this morning. I just got here. Brenden, everything’s splintered and charred—windows, furniture, and there is a large spray paint something on the wall. It’s ruined. It literally looks like a bomb went off, but I mean that for real.”
My stomach knots. Not Mikey’s crew. Too much time’s passed, and they don’t have the means to get anything big enough to do something like this. No reason for them to circle back. This smells new. Bigger.
“Go to your car. Park a few blocks away. Don’t go back in. I’ll be there in ten.”
I hang up, grab my Glock, and pull my leather jacket over it so that it is covered.
Not fashion—utility. Steel blades and weapons are neatly hidden in every pocket.
I brush my teeth fast, tie my hair back low.
It’s grown darker this winter, heavy brown instead of sun-lightened. Doesn’t matter. I’m moving.
I pound on Joshua’s room, but it’s empty as I open to check when he doesn’t answer. Figures. Corver’s already entering the hall when I go to bang on his door, black jeans and jacket matching mine.
“Josh woke me. Said something about June. Didn’t explain.”
I grunt. That’s Josh. Always halfway gone before you get the story. I think he takes shoot first, ask questions later a little too seriously.
He’s in the kitchen, lacing his combat boots with sharp, practiced pulls, before grabbing his helmet and tucking it under his arm. “Did you hear from June?” He asks as he heads toward the door, ready to go. “I’m heading out.”
“Take a car,” I cut him off. “Not the bike. We might need to move her. A bike is too dangerous if we have people on our backs.”
He doesn’t argue—just slams the helmet down, grabs the Lotus keys, and storms out. My teeth grind. The Lotus Evora is fast, sure. But if he dings it, I’ll kill him myself.
Corver and I pull on our boots, the floorboards thudding beneath us, and snatch the keys to the 5500 utility truck. Time to move.
We make it downstairs, and we watch Josh roar off and damn near laugh at the sight. The kid’s got fire—always has—but he’s reckless the way a man is reckless when he thinks nothing’s fragile enough to break him. Corver slaps the truck’s side with an easy hand like it’s an old friend.
“This thing’ll take lumber or bodies,” I say, because we always say that when we grab the 5500. It’s a joke. Mostly. “We’d know what fits and what doesn’t.”
Corver snorts and pops the back open, the canopy lifting with a practiced push. “Depends on the size of the body and the shape of the paperwork.”
We both grin, but the grin’s flat. There’s a long history under that kind of joke—years of hauling timber and trouble.
Anytime anyone asks, we always tell them Slater Construction started dumb and honest enough: three kids with calluses and a van, flipping houses, changing kitchens, making a name in the one neighborhood that didn’t mind our brand of hard work.
Corver was the kid who could bend a circuit board and teach it to sing.
At eighteen, he was already stringing networks and sewing cameras into jobs so tidy you couldn’t tell they were there.
Josh and I did the heavy lifting. Josh was twenty when we kicked Slater off for real; I was twenty-three and stubborn enough to keep swinging a hammer until the sun set and the last nail held.
We did kitchens, we did basements, we did the floor-to-ceiling remodels nobody else wanted.
Word spread. People with money liked the way we showed up quietly, did a job, and left their house cleaner than we found it.
Money brings opportunities no one asks for.
We were young and hungry, and the doors opened—little ones at first: a back room here, a basement safe there.
Then a job on a high-rise and another connected job beside it.
The business grew up with us, slow and mean and legal on the books.
Slater Construction had invoices and permits, and an office with a nice receptionist. But it had other ledgers too.
Corver kept those records smart: contracts that explained nothing to anyone who didn’t need to know, shell companies with names that sounded boring on paper and dangerous in practice, that sort of thing.
When I was twenty-five my ma started seeing a new man.
She’d always been soft for the wrong ones—no father around, no lessons on how to spot the rot.
This one was worse. He hit her, once, then twice, then to the point that her voice stopped sounding like the safe place it used to be.
One night the beating didn’t stop. She died on the kitchen floor with his hand around her throat.
There was no talking, no police that would help. So we did what we had to.
We found him and we ended it. Quick. Clean.
No trial. No headlines for our house. After that the lines changed.
We got more careful. We got smarter. We watched girls walk into bad situations—June was one—and we broke the men who thought they could do that kind of damage.
Word got around. People with the kind of problems that couldn’t be solved by lawyers started finding our number.
They came with cash and names; they left with nothing but a receipt that said Slater Construction did a remodel.
It kept growing. The legit jobs paid the bills; the other work padded the accounts in ways banks liked to call “discrepancies.” We learned how to make the books sing.
Corver learned how to make a ghost company look like an LLC that paid taxes.
We learned how to move money through Slater’s invoices and real estate flips.
Now? We’re quiet billionaires in suits nobody ever sees except when they need a floor plan or a favor.
The cars, the building, the whiskey—yeah, they’re signs, but we hide them behind a contractor’s license and a smile.
“And we still show up in a truck,” Corver says, slapping the tailgate shut. “Because men use hands before they use phones.”
It’s the truth. Hands still solve most problems. Fingers on triggers, on phones, on tools—different jobs, same muscle memory.
On the drive over, I’d filled Corver in. His laptop’s already open on his knees, fingers flying. Tech’s his kingdom—cameras, systems, digital paper trails that fool governments. If someone left a trace, he’ll find it.
“You thinking Mikey’s old crew?” he asks.
“No. Too long has passed. This feels… targeted. Check for leaks. If anyone traced her back to us, I want to know.”
“I’ll have answers by the time we’re there.”
“Has this been on the police radar?” I ask. I don’t want to have to explain it too much to anyone on the outside. Especially since we don’t know exactly who is behind this.
“No, the cops on the payroll made sure to bury it just like they do with anything connected to us. Faulty something or other inside. They took it off the scanner already, I got alerted right before Joshua pounded on my door.
We drive in silence the rest of the way, the truck’s engine growling. My gut gets tighter the closer we get.
When we roll up, the Lotus is there, spotless thankfully for him. He would be dead if had fucked it up. Josh is leaning against it, Juniper crushed against his chest. He’s got an arm around her waist, rubbing her back while she sobs. Seeing her broken makes my chest ache.
Looking around, the ground is covered in debris. Beams, glass, chairs, random ink bottles, and a few animal skulls that I know were hanging inside the shop. I know, because I hung them up. And they are now twenty feet away from the front door. Or, at least, where the front door used to be.
We’ll do what we do. Slater builds. Slater protects. Slater collects. No one ever called us saints, and that’s the point.
I am halfway out of the truck when the sound of engines pulling up becomes louder, getting closer to where we are parked. BMWs. Three, no—four of them. They slide in smooth, boxing us in like wolves.
The doors open, and seven men step out in near-perfect sync.
Suits pressed, faces marked by old violence.
Eyes flat and practiced. Six-two, six-three–still shorter than my six-six stature.
But height doesn’t mean a thing against men who’ve already killed.
And judging by their stance, their calculated movements, they have definitely killed before.
I slip my Glock out slow, keep it low. Corver does the same.
One steps forward, no weapon in his hands. His voice confirms what my gut already guessed.
“Good mornin’, lads. We’re here t’ look inta de wee… accident dat’s befallen dis fine establishment.”
Irish. Thick as whiskey.
I square my shoulders. “What exactly can we help you boys with?” My voice stays calm, but I’m ready.
Juniper storms toward them, right past Corver and I, Josh following closely after her, all five feet of fury, wiping her tears and fixing a feral expression on her face.
She’s got a dagger at her ankle. Won’t use it unless she has to, but she’s not afraid to.
We made sure she knew how to use it well.
“I didn’t call anyone,” she snaps. “So who the hell are you?”
The Irishman inclines his head, amused. “We know, lass. We’re here on orders from Stefan O’Brien. Surry’s da’.”
The world freezes. Stefan O’Brien. Irish Mafia.
Juniper blinks, stunned. “What does—”
“Dat’s not fer me t’ say,” he cuts her off with a half-smile. “We’d like t’ take a look ‘round. Collect evidence. Help wit’ de rebuild.”
Juniper crosses her arms, glare sharp enough to cut steel. “First of all, stop calling me ‘lass’ or ‘ma’am.’ My name’s Juniper Hall. And I’m not fifty.”
His smirk deepens. “Fair enough, Juniper. May we step inside?”
She sweeps an arm toward the shop. “Be my guest. Not like there’s anything left to break.”
They move toward the shattered doors. Juniper follows right behind, heels clicking, close enough that, yup, I think she did actually just step on his heels. He twitches, but says nothing.
The Irishman glances back. “We’ve dogs t’ sniff fer accelerants. Lab lads t’ swab residue. If dere’s danger left behind, we’ll find it.”
Joshua edges closer to me, phone out, thumbs flying.
He’s already texting Sam O’Brien, we met him a few years back with a home renovation in Seattle.
He wanted a nice remodel, but with some secret rooms to hold weapons and leather.
If you catch my drift. Corver mutters something about “footage” and peels off toward the truck, lost in his screens.
I follow Juniper inside. The crunch of glass under our boots sounds like bones breaking in the silence.
When we enter, I am even more stunned. The shop is completely unrecognizable. June was right. It does look like a bomb went off. I think that might have been what actually happened.
The front windows are jagged holes, glass scattered across the floor like ice.
Spray paint covers the walls in thick black slashes—words scrawled, threats I don’t recognize, symbols that look more ritual than random, almost like Runes.
Stations overturned, chairs split, ink bottles smashed and smeared like bloodstains across the tile.
The smell of chemicals hangs heavy, sharp, and wrong.
Juniper’s hand shakes as she lifts a fallen frame—what’s left of one of her first drawings. She presses it to her chest, shoulders trembling. Josh hovers too close, jaw tight, ready to swing at shadows.
The Irishmen fan out, moving as efficiently as soldiers.
Which I suppose, they are. Two bring in dogs, sleek and lean, noses pressed to the ground while another snaps pictures.
Another crouches near the counter, swabbing what’s left of the charred residue.
The leader strolls slowly, scanning everything, hands in his pockets like he owns the place, an unbothered king is what Juniper would typically call someone like that and I snort at my own thoughts.
I step closer, my voice low and clipped. “What does this have to do with you?”
He looks at me, eyes sharp, smile thin. “Yer askin’ de wrong question, lad. Ye should be askin’ what it has t’ do wit’ her.” He jerks his chin toward Juniper—then toward Hazel’s name scrawled on the wall in dripping paint.
My stomach drops. Hazel.
Josh’s phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, his face hardening. “Sam says this isn’t random. His sister’s car was torched last night. Threats came through after. This was aimed at her. Juniper and Hazel are collateral damage.”
The Irishman hears him and nods once. “Aye. Ye’re in deeper dan ye know. Stefan’s already movin’. Keep yer eyes open, lads. ‘Cause dis… dis is only de beginnin’. Dis is war.”
The words hang in the wrecked air, heavy as ash.
Images from old mafia reels flicker through my head–families warring in the shadows, vendettas carried out in alleys and back rooms, blood always spilling where it shouldn’t.
There’s never just one target. Collateral damage follows like smoke after fire.
Businesses burn, wives weep, sons inherit grudges older than themselves.
I used to watch those films and think they were stories, exaggerated, distant.
But standing here, glass still crunching under my boots, it doesn’t feel like fiction. It feels like foreshadowing.
And for the first time since I was a twenty five year old kid, I feel the ground shift under me.