Chapter 7 Katana #2
Cain moves first, her shoulder brushing the frame as she slips inside.
Lolita goes after her. I’m last, one hand on the cold metal, eyes scanning the lot behind us before I step in.
Inside, the diner’s gutted. No tables, no booths, just a bare linoleum floor and the smell of mildew layered with something chemical.
Light slants inside from gaps in the boards, striping the walls in thin bars.
And in the middle of it, the guy is waiting.
He’s younger than I expected, maybe twenty, but wiry and sharp-eyed, the kind of kid who’s learned how to read people fast. He’s not startled. He’s not scared. He’s got that half-smile people get when they think they’ve already won.
“Ladies,” he says, hands still in his pockets.
Cain’s voice is flat. “Empty them.”
He chuckles. “You’re a long way from your gym.”
My gut tightens again. The air feels thicker now, and not just from the boarded windows and stagnant air.
Cain’s already moving when the kid pulls his hands free from his pocket.
Steel flashes in his right hand, a compact switchblade with a narrow, needle-like point.
She doesn’t give him time to flick it fully open.
Her boot catches his wrist, hard enough to send the blade clattering to the floor. It skids toward me.
Movement explodes in my periphery. The back door bangs open and two more guys step in, bigger, older, both wearing that same loose, cocky body language that says they’ve done this before.
Lolita cracks her neck and grins. “Guess we found the friends.”
The first one lunges for Cain, catching her around the middle. She twists, slamming an elbow into his ribs. The kid dives after the knife, but I hook it with my boot and send it sliding the other way, into the shadow under a tipped-over fridge.
The third guy comes for me. He’s got fifty pounds on me easy, all in muscle, and a scar dragging his lip up into a permanent sneer.
I sidestep, but he’s fast for his size, his arm hooking around to shove me against the wall.
Concrete grinds my shoulder blade, pain sparking down my arm.
I jam my palm into his throat, not enough to crush his windpipe, but enough to stagger him back a step.
It’s enough space to get my blade out. Its black handle and thin edge are a familiar weight in my hand.
Cain takes her guy down with a knee to the groin followed by a headbutt that makes my own teeth zing just watching. He drops, gasping. She kicks him in the side for good measure.
Lolita’s locked with the second big one, trading blows like neither’s worried about bruises. She catches him in the temple with a right hook, but he only snarls, swinging back. Blood blooms along her cheekbone where his fist landed, but she doesn’t flinch.
The one on me lunges again. I let him get close enough to think he’s winning before I slash low, just above the knee. He goes down half a step but not enough before his fist comes up, catching my jaw.
White heat explodes across my vision. I taste copper.
I shove him back, spin the blade in my grip, and drive it into his side, low and angled.
His breath hitches in a short, shocked gasp.
I wrench it free and step back before his hands can grab me.
He folds, blood pooling quickly on the dusty concrete.
Cain grabs the kid by his hoodie and slams him against the wall. “How many more are out there?”
He spits at her feet. “Enough.”
She smiles, but it’s the cold kind that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Wrong answer.” She shoves him toward me. “Katana.”
I know what she’s asking without words. But the kid’s still breathing, still got that spark in his eye like he thinks we won’t do it even after spotting his buddies on the floor.
Lolita wipes her mouth with the back of her glove. “We should move. More could be coming.”
Cain nods once. “Leave him.”
The kid grins as we step over the downed bodies, but it’s forced now, shaky around the edges.
“Tell Seranno, he’s on our radar now.” I toss over my shoulder.
Outside, the light’s gone gray-blue, the long Atlantic City shadows stretching like they’re reaching for us. We’re all breathing hard, boots scuffing through gravel as we make for the bikes.
Cain swings a leg over hers, her voice clipped. “This just went from recon to war.”
I fire mine up, the engine’s rumble vibrating through my bones. She’s not wrong. The day started with questions and ended with blood. And in between, every damn thing Serrano’s name touches feels closer.
The ride back drags the dulling light from the lowering sun along with us.
Shadows stretch between buildings, softening edges, pooling in alleyways.
The vibration of our bikes seeping through my boots and into my bones, lingers long after the kill and even longer after we cut them off in the clubhouse lot.
Cain’s first through the side door, her boots hitting the tile like a warning.
The clubhouse smells like beer, leather, and a hint of cigarette smoke that never really leaves.
Quinn’s behind the bar, glass in one hand, rag in the other.
Her gaze sweeps us once, sharp as a knife.
It catches the blood on LC’s shirt and the smear down the side of Lolita’s jaw.
Quinn’s gaze snaps to the torn sleeve at my shoulder, the smear of blood across my lips, and whatever she sees there makes her mouth set even harder.
“What the hell happened?”
Cain doesn’t bother softening it. ““Found Serrano’s boys. Three of ‘em.”
Quinn’s mouth tightens, but she doesn’t waste time swearing. “Anyone see you?”
“Only one. Left the kid with a message and the others…” LC shrugs, a small, satisfied curl to her lip. “won’t be talking.”
Quinn sets the glass down, leaning her weight into her hands on the bar. “Get cleaned up. Meet me in Church in an hour.”
Cain nods, already moving toward the hall. Lolita follows. I hang back a second, just long enough for Quinn’s eyes to find mine.
“You alright?” she asks.
“Fine.” My voice sounds steady, but my pulse is still thrumming from the fight.
She studies me like she doesn’t quite believe it, then jerks her chin toward the hall. “Go. We’ll sort the rest in a bit.”
The words feel like an order, but I hear the unspoken part too, ‘You’re running hot, and I need you sharp when we talk’.
I head to my room. The door clicks shut behind me, sealing out the low rumble of voices gathering downstairs. My cut hits the back of the chair, my boots thudding to the floor a beat later.
Every nerve in my body is still alive from the ride, my muscles humming as I step toward the bathroom.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror over the sink.
I have a split lip, sweat matted in my hair, my eyes too wide, still burning with leftover adrenaline.
I splash water on my face, but the pulse in my neck doesn’t ease.
Back in my room, I drop onto the bed, letting the weight of the day press into me. Just a second to close my eyes before church, I tell myself.
The day peels away in layers, the fight, the blood, the cold ride back, until all that lingers is Dante, pressing into my mind like a bruise I can’t stop poking. Somewhere beneath it all, I’m still on those mats, sweat stinging my eyes, his hand catching my wrist, heat sparking between us.
And then I’m there again. Only this time, it’s a dream. Sweat slick on my skin, the sharp thud of fists, Dante’s eyes locked on mine, steady, reading every twitch of muscle like he knows me better than I know myself.
The air is thicker here, heavy with something that isn’t just competition.
His hand catches my wrist mid-swing, and instead of pushing me back, he holds me there.
Close. Too close. The muscles in his arm are iron under my fingers.
I should be twisting out, countering, but I’m not.
I’m breathing him in, the sweat, the note of spice on his skin, and the raw charge that comes off him like static.
His mouth curves, the barest ghost of a grin, and then, he pulls me in.
The mats are under my feet one second, gone the next.
My shoulder hits his chest, solid heat and heartbeat pounding hard against my cheek.
And then his mouth is on mine. It’s not soft.
It’s not gentle. It’s a hit in its own right, firm, claiming, like he’s been holding back and just decided he’s done.
My hand finds the back of his neck without thinking, my fingers tangling in his damp hair.
I should shove him away but I don’t. Instead, I lean in, chasing the heat, my pulse hammering in my ears.
Every muscle in me is alive, wound tight and ready to…
I jolt upright, gasping. The room is dark except for the low glow of light bleeding under my door.
My tank top is sticking to my skin, my hair damp against the back of my neck.
My heart’s still kicking like I just went ten rounds.
For a second, I’m disoriented. The dream feels too close, too real.
My lips tingle like they’ve actually been touched.
I blink rapidly, pressing my hand over my thudding heart and realize the sound is coming from the door.
A soft rap repeats from the other side, “Katana. Are you ok?”
“Shit.” I mumble to myself.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, elbows on my knees, trying to breathe it out.
It’s not like me to get worked up over anyone, much less some cocky bastard.
I don’t dream about men I barely know. I don’t lose focus like this.
And yet here I am half wishing I could fall back asleep just to pick up where it left off, half wanting to scrub the thought of him out of my head entirely.
“Coming.” I force myself to respond as Silk knocks again.
I stand, pacing across the room like movement will burn it off this nervous energy. It doesn’t.
I throw on a hoodie, yanking the hood up so I feel less exposed. Like I can put a layer between myself and whatever the hell that was.
I should be thinking about Serrano. About Briggs. About the girls who’ve gone missing. But my brain keeps glitching, spitting up fragments of the spar, Dante’s hand on my waist, the way his eyes dipped for just a second before he pulled back.
It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic.
I grab my phone off the nightstand, the lock screen lighting up with a dozen missed messages from the group thread. Mostly Quinn in all caps:
CHURCH NOW.
Great. I’m late.
Another knock, sharper this time. “Are you planning to make an appearance or should I tell Quinn you’re too busy drooling in your sleep?” Silk’s voice drips with that fake-sweet bite she does when she’s impatient. “We’re starting.”
I yank the door open. She’s standing there with one brow arched, arms crossed. “Finally. You’re late.”
“I noticed.” I shoulder past her, tucking my phone into my pocket.
I try to focus on anything else but I can almost feel the give of his ribs under my jab, the way he let me drive him back just far enough to make me think I was winning.
That’s what’s eating me. Not just the fight, but the fact that he was holding back. And that I noticed.
He’s got tells. Not many, but enough. Little pauses. Small shifts in his stance. If I wanted to, I could read him. I could figure out what he’s hiding.
Problem is, part of me already knows and part of me doesn’t want to.
Either way, deep down, I know the next move is going to involve him, whether I like it or not.