Chapter 38 #2
Bishop leans forward. “RFID chips embedded in every single one. Serial numbers cataloged in databases that update in real-time.” His index finger taps the table with each point. “The moment they're reported missing, they're worthless.”
Rafe's lighter clicks shut. “And that's assuming we'd even make it past the armed guards, the facial recognition cameras, and the floor security that memorizes every regular's betting patterns.” His eyes narrow. “Three minutes. That's the average response time.”
“Not to mention, historically speaking,” Cruz says, “people who fuck with certain casinos disappear.”
Coco finally looks at Bishop, eyebrow arching just slightly. “And yet, here we are.”
Bishop leans forward, forearms braced on the table. “Ma.” His voice drops, the word hanging between them. “This is a big leap for us. What am I missing? Why this job?”
Coco's gaze slides from face to face, lingering a half-second too long on each of us. The corner of her mouth twitches upward. “Because we're leveling up, boys.” She takes another sip of coffee, sets the mug down with deliberate precision. “Unless, of course, you don't think you can handle it.”
Bishop's jaw flexes. A muscle twitches in his cheek. Cruz and Rafe go still beside me, and I feel my own spine straighten against the chair back.
Rafe's lighter stills between his fingers. “What casino?” His voice drops half an octave, the way it always does when he's calculating odds.
“We're not hitting a casino.” Her red nail traces a path across the table like she's mapping a route. “We're taking the armored truck.”
The patio falls so quiet I can hear the neighbor's sprinklers kick on.
Cruz's throat works as he swallows. Bishop's knuckles whiten around his mug. Something cold slides down my spine, locks into place between my vertebrae with an almost audible click.
Coco continues, unhurried. “Every three months, like clockwork, Sableine fulfills their order, and a third-party security company picks it up in an armored truck. They’re vulnerable for two hundred miles.
Once they get to the distribution hub in Arizona, they’re officially registered and sent out to whatever casino.
” Her lips curve into something between a smile and a warning.
Bishop exhales slowly. “Jesus Christ.”
I lean back, drumming my fingertips against the table's edge. “An armored truck.” The words taste like copper pennies. I watch Rafe's thumb strike his lighter—click open, snap shut—the flame briefly illuminating his face before disappearing. His eyes never leave Coco.
“Six inches of reinforced steel,” I say. “Bulletproof glass. Armed guards.”
Rafe's lighter pauses mid-flip. “But no armor is perfect.” The flame catches, holds, then dies under his breath.
Cruz's voice drops to a murmur. “How'd you come across this information?”
Coco's smile spreads slow as honey as she settles back in her chair, red nails drumming once against the arm. “An old friend.”
My gaze slides to Bishop first—jaw tight, eyes narrowed to slits. Then Rafe, whose lighter has gone completely still in his palm. Cruz's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. The air between us suddenly feels burdened with unspoken history.
“Timeline?” Bishop asks.
“Three weeks,” Coco says. “Go to Sableine and scout the place. Figure out the best way to make it work.”
Silence settles. The kind that reminds you this isn’t a conversation. It’s an order dressed up in family language.
I clear my throat, glancing at my brothers. “We’re gonna need more bodies.”
Bishop’s head snaps toward me. “No outsiders.”
I lift a hand. “Those private security companies usually have a two-man escort.”
“And we need someone who can hack,” Cruz offers, like he’s thinking the same thing I am.
We need the Hales.
Rafe’s eyes flick, subtle, toward Bishop. “He’s not wrong.”
Bishop’s mouth tightens. “And your solution is what? Bringing in Bellamy?”
Cruz’s gaze slides to me for half a second, like he’s daring me.
I don’t even mean to speak. It just comes out. “It worked last time.”
Bishop’s eyes go flat. “Rafe got shot.”
“It would’ve happened anyway,” Rafe says with a shrug. “Bellamy proved to be much more useful than you thought she’d be.”
My stomach tightens at the casual way he says it. At the way he says her name.
Coco’s gaze flicks between us, sharp and calculating. She doesn’t comment. She neither approves nor denies. She just absorbs. Like she’s already moving pieces on a board none of us can see.
Bishop exhales through his nose, controlled anger making his shoulders rise. “We’re not bringing the Hales into this.”
“I trust you to make the right call. Don’t let your pride stop you from making smart choices, honey,” Coco says.
“Fine.” He nods once, because he always does.
“Clock’s ticking, boys,” Coco says, sipping her coffee.
My chair scrapes against the concrete as I stand, legs catching on the uneven patio. “I'll bring Bellamy the job.”
Cruz's chair follows with a sharper sound. The corner of his mouth twitches upward, eyes crinkling at the edges. “I'll come with you.” His voice lilts on the last word, almost musical with implication.
Cruz claps me lightly on the shoulder as we walk toward the driveway, grin sharp. “Cheer up, brother. She’s gonna say yes.”
“I know.” I swing my leg over my bike and shove my helmet on.
As the engine kicks to life, the last thing I see is Coco through the kitchen window, watching us leave like she’s already counting the money this job will bring in.
And I think, with a grim little spark of clarity: Nothing in this family changes unless it threatens the whole structure.
Which means if Bellamy is a threat, she might be the only thing that ever incites change.