SNEAK PEEK VERDICT’S VENDETTA
Chapter One
The Canton bar smelled like stale beer and bad decisions.
Verdict pushed through the front door with Cull two steps behind, and every conversation in the place died like someone had cut the power. Good. He wasn't here for small talk.
Mickey Brennan stood behind the bar, polishing the same glass he'd been polishing since they walked in. The man's hands were shaking hard enough to slosh whiskey, and his eyes kept darting toward the back exit like he was calculating whether he could make it.
He couldn't.
"Mickey." Verdict stopped at the bar, rested both hands on the scarred wood. "You know why we're here."
"Look, I just need another week—"
"You said that three weeks ago."
Cull moved to the end of the bar, blocking the path to the back. The big man didn't say anything. Didn't need to. His presence said everything—six-three of slaughterhouse efficiency, hands that knew exactly how much pressure it took to break bone.
Mickey's Adam's apple bobbed. "Business has been slow. The Ravens losing, people aren't coming out like they used to—"
"Not my problem." Verdict kept his voice level. Quiet. Verdicts didn't require volume. "You wanted protection. We gave it. Those Dundalk boys who were shaking you down? Gone. That developer trying to buy your liquor license out from under you? He found other interests. You agreed to terms."
"I know, I know, but—"
"But nothing." Verdict leaned forward, and Mickey flinched back hard enough to knock bottles off the shelf behind him. "You're three months behind. The club's been patient. I've been patient. Patience is done."
Mickey's face went gray. "What are you gonna do?"
Verdict studied the man for a long moment.
Mickey Brennan wasn't a bad guy—just weak.
Weak enough to take protection he couldn't afford, weak enough to skim when he thought no one was counting.
The kind of weakness that spread if you let it.
Other business owners watching, wondering if maybe they could slide too.
"Cull."
The sergeant at arms moved before Mickey could react, one massive hand closing around the bar owner's collar and hauling him across the bar like he weighed nothing.
Bottles crashed. The glass Mickey had been polishing shattered on the floor.
Three regulars at the corner table suddenly found their drinks fascinating.
Cull slammed Mickey against the wall hard enough to crack the paneling. "The man asked you a question three weeks ago. What did you tell him?"
"I said—I said I'd have it—"
"And did you?"
"No, but—"
Cull's fist drove into Mickey's gut, folding him in half. The bar owner wheezed, spit dripping from his lips.
Verdict watched without expression. This was the part of the job he didn't enjoy, but he didn't shy from it either. Half-measures got brothers killed. The Killers' reputation kept most problems from becoming problems—but only if that reputation stayed sharp.
"Twenty thousand." Verdict pulled a cigarette from his cut, lit it with his father's Zippo. "That's what you owe. Plus another five for making us come down here."
"Twenty-five?" Mickey gasped. "I don't have—"
"You've got a safe in your office with thirty-two thousand in it." Verdict blew smoke toward the ceiling. "You've been skimming your own protection payments to build a running fund. Probably figured you'd disappear before we noticed."
Mickey's face went from gray to white.
"Yeah." Verdict nodded slowly. "We noticed."
Cull let the man drop. Mickey crumpled against the wall, arms wrapped around his midsection, breathing in short, pained bursts.
"Here's what happens now." Verdict crouched down to Mickey's level, making sure the man could see his eyes.
"You go to that safe. You bring me twenty-five.
The other seven? That's yours. Walking money.
Because you're done in Canton. Done in Baltimore.
By this time tomorrow, you're someone else's problem. "
"You can't—this bar's been in my family for—"
"Should've thought about that before you stole from us."
Verdict stood, took another drag from his cigarette. "Cull stays here. You've got five minutes."
Mickey scrambled up and stumbled toward the back office, one hand still pressed against his ribs. Verdict didn't watch him go. Instead, he pulled out his phone, checking the message from Dredge that had buzzed through during the conversation.
Cargo issue at the harbor. Need your eye.
He typed back: Thirty minutes.
The port never slept, and neither did the problems that came with it.
Marchetti's people had been sniffing around Locust Point for weeks now—not directly challenging Killers territory, but close.
Too close. Verdict didn't like coincidences, and he didn't like developers with mob money buying up waterfront properties.
But that was tomorrow's problem. Tonight was about finishing what they'd started.
Mickey returned with a duffel bag, handed it to Cull with trembling hands. The sergeant at arms unzipped it, counted quickly, then nodded at Verdict.
"Smart choice." Verdict dropped his cigarette, crushed it under his boot. "Bus station's six blocks east. I'd start walking."
They left Mickey Brennan standing in his family's bar surrounded by broken glass and a lifetime of bad decisions. Outside, the Canton night was cool and damp, harbor fog starting to roll in from the water.
Cull secured the duffel in his saddlebag. "Think he'll run?"
"Don't care." Verdict swung a leg over his Harley, the engine rumbling to life beneath him. "He's not our problem anymore. Someone else wants to deal with a skimming bartender with more debt than sense, they're welcome to him."
They rode through Canton toward the harbor, V-twins echoing off brick row houses and corner bars where Natty Boh signs glowed orange in foggy windows. This was Killers territory—every block they'd bled for, every corner they'd fought to hold when bigger crews tried to push them out.
Baltimore wasn't a pretty city. It wasn't a kind one. But it was theirs.
The cargo issue turned out to be a container that shouldn't have been on the manifest—Stevedore had flagged it during routine inventory, and Dredge had pulled it aside before customs got curious.
Inside: enough unregistered firearms to arm a small militia, none of them belonging to anyone the Killers did business with.
"Marchetti?" Dredge asked, his calm voice cutting through the diesel-and-saltwater air of the Locust Point dock.
Verdict studied the crates. High-end stuff. Military surplus, mostly, with a few custom pieces that cost more than most men made in a year. "Could be. Could be someone else moving product through our port without permission."
"Either way—"
"Either way, it stops." Verdict pulled out his phone, dialed Beltway. "Get me everything on Marchetti's shipping contacts. Tonight."
He hung up before Beltway could respond. The road captain would handle it.
By the time they finished securing the container—some of the product would find its way into Killers armory, the rest would disappear into the harbor—the fog had thickened to a gray blanket over the water.
Verdict rode back to the compound alone, brothers peeling off to their own blocks as they cut through Fell's Point.
The clubhouse was quiet when he rolled in. Late enough that most brothers were either out working or passed out in their quarters. He parked his bike in the garage, ran a hand over the fuel tank like he was checking on an old friend, then headed for the roof.
This was his ritual. Had been since he'd founded the club, since he'd buried his father and watched his mother lose everything and decided that if the system wouldn't protect working people, he'd build something that would.
The rooftop of the Fell's Point compound looked out over the Inner Harbor—cargo ships and pleasure boats, city lights reflecting off black water, the distant glow of the steel mills that used to employ half of Baltimore before they went cold.
His father had worked those docks for thirty years.
Loaded cargo until his heart gave out and the company that owed him everything gave his family nothing.
Verdict lit another cigarette. Poured himself two fingers of Pikesville rye from the bottle he kept stashed in the rooftop access shed.
The harbor fog rolled in thicker, softening the city's edges until everything looked like a memory of itself. He could hear V-twins in the distance—Cull and Stevedore heading back from the docks, probably. The rumble of his brothers coming home.
He should've felt settled. The Mickey Brennan thing was handled. The cargo issue was contained. The club was solid, territory secure, respect maintained.
But there was something crawling under his skin tonight. A restlessness he couldn't name and couldn't shake. Like the fog was hiding something he should be able to see.
He stayed on the roof until the rye was gone and the fog swallowed even the harbor lights.
Tomorrow would bring new problems. It always did.
But tonight, Dominic Caron—the man his brothers called Verdict—sat alone with the ghosts of a city that had given him everything and taken everything in return, and waited for the next fight to find him.
It wouldn't take long.