Chapter 7 Isaiah
ISAIAH
Two weeks.
Two weeks of plastic chairs and white walls and machines beeping out the rhythm of my sins.
Two weeks of Xavier lying in that hospital bed, chest rising shallow and stubborn, while the whole fucking city leans in to see if the king is going to wake up or stay a ghost.
Two weeks of Valentina in his chair, at his table, behind his desk.
And somehow, she’s… good at it.
That might be the part that scares me the most.
The Raider house feels different now. The same chipped bricks, same scuffed floors, same patched leather cuts hanging from the hooks in the main room—but the air is wired, tight.
Conversations cut off when certain people walk in.
Laughs don’t land all the way. Everyone’s still moving, riding, hustling, but there’s this hum underneath it, like the sound before a storm hits the windows.
Half the guys look at Valentina like she’s a flame they want to stand close to and warm their hands on. The other half look at her like that same flame might be the one that burns this house down.
I don’t know which side I fall on.
Maybe both.
I shove those thoughts aside as I lean over a cracked wooden bar downtown, ring tapping against a sticky patch near the edge. The guy in front of me is sweating through his beer-stained shirt, eyes flicking between me and the door like he thinks God Himself is going to stroll in and save him.
“He said end of the week,” the man babbles, hands open like the gesture might count as collateral. “Xavier said—”
“Xavier isn’t here,” I cut in, voice flat.
That shuts him up.
A TV mutters in the corner, some muted game nobody’s watching. The rest of the bar has that tired, late-afternoon feel—working men, bent shoulders, a couple pool cues cracking in the back. Nobody’s paying us direct attention. They’re all too busy not looking.
I drum my fingers once, then let my hand go still. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous. I’m only charging you interest, not teeth.”
He swallows hard. “I can get it, I swear, I just—things have been weird on our end, with the Vipers pushing and—”
The rest of his sentence dies on his tongue. He looks like he wants to shove the words back into his throat.
My head tilts. “With the what?”
He shakes his head too fast. “Nothing, I mean, just… gossip. You know how people talk.”
Wrong thing to say to me.
I push off the bar, closing the distance between us. I’m not tall like Xavier, not built like Asher, but fear doesn’t care about stats. Fear cares about intention. I let mine show.
“Look at me,” I say.
His gaze jerks up.
“What about the Vipers?” I ask, quiet.
His lips part, but nothing comes out.
I let my hand drift down to the bar, knuckles cracking. “You hear something, you say something. That’s how this works. You owe us money and respect, not selective hearing.”
From the corner, one of ours—Dre, a prospect—shifts his weight, ready if I need him. I don’t.
The man licks his lips. “They’ve been… moving,” he whispers.
“Clarify.”
“Guys from over there, they’ve been around more. I’ve seen their patches, farther south than usual. They’re hitting spots they used to leave alone. Heard they’re stocking up. Guns. People.”
A cold line traces my spine. “Why?”
He hesitates again.
I reach out and gently tap two fingers under his jaw, a mockery of a tender touch. “Don’t make me ask twice.”
“They think the Raiders are… distracted,” he blurts. “With your boss out. They’re saying this is the time if they want ground. That Xavier might not…”
He stops himself, but the unfinished hangs heavy between us.
I step back before I do something that’ll make this floor hard to mop.
“Who’s ‘they’?” I ask.
“Just… people,” he stammers. “Guys at the shop. Street talk. No one important enough for names.”
He’s lying about that part. I clock it and file it away.
“You hear anybody mention deals?” I press. “Meetings. Or if they’re working with someone on our side?”
He looks like he’ll throw up. “No, sir. Just talk. That’s it.”
I stare him down for another long beat. His hands tremble around his empty glass.
“End of the week,” I say finally. “Like Xavier told you. You have it by then, or I come back, and I don’t bring up any ‘interest’ because there won’t be anything left worth charging.”
He nods too fast. “Yes. Yeah. End of the week. I swear.”
I turn, flicking my fingers at Dre to follow. As we step into the afternoon light, I feel the man’s exhale behind me, shaky and loud. I let him keep his relief.
For now.
We cross the parking lot toward the bikes. Dre glances over. “You believe him?”
“No,” I say. “But I believe he’s scared enough to be honest eventually.”
I swing a leg over my bike, the familiar weight of it settling under me. Dre does the same.
“You think the Vipers are really moving?” he asks.
The engine roars to life beneath me. I stare straight ahead, jaw clenched.
“I think,” I say, “if they smell blood, they’d be stupid not to.”
We ride.
The roads back to the Raider house blur, asphalt and old warehouses and the kind of empty lots where bad decisions get made. The whole time, something ugly coils tighter in my gut.
It’s one thing for us to be bleeding internally—moles, infighting, resentment that Valentina’s sitting on Xavier’s throne without having a patch of her own.
It’s another thing entirely for the Vipers to start circling.
By the time we pull into the yard, the sun’s starting to dip. The main building looms, all brick and stubbornness. Bikes line the front like a row of teeth.
Inside, the noise hits. Voices, laughter that’s a little too loud, the clack of pool balls, Jackie’s shout from somewhere in the back. It’s home. It’s restless.
I cut through the main room, nodding at a couple of the guys. Some nod back respectfully. Some glance away. One or two stare too long, the kind of look that says if Xavier doesn’t make it, they’re already picking a side.
I file those faces away, too.
Asher’s in Xavier’s office. Of course he is. The door’s cracked, light spilling out into the hallway. I knock once out of habit and step inside without waiting.
He’s behind the desk, sleeves rolled up, forearms tense as he signs off on something. Papers are spread out in careful, terrifying precision. The place feels different with him in it—less like a throne room, more like a war room.
“You look like bad news,” he says without glancing up.
“I bring gifts,” I reply. “Depends how you define bad.”
He looks up then, eyes pale and sharp. “Talk.”
I drop into the chair across from him, slumping more than I should, but I haven’t really slept in fourteen days unless you count hospital dozing.
“Was down at Murphy’s picking up from Eli,” I say. “He’s light, but that’s not the problem. He says the Vipers have been sniffing around. Deeper in the territory. Stocking up. Pushing south.”
Asher’s expression doesn’t change, but the tension in his shoulders ratchets a notch. “He say why?”
I shrug one shoulder. “Because we’re ‘distracted.’ Because Xavier might not ride again. You know. Casual bar talk.”
Asher leans back, fingers steepling in front of his mouth. “We planned on the Vipers posturing,” he murmurs. “Trying to nudge the line. We didn’t plan on them ramping up this fast.”
“We didn’t plan on Xavier getting shot at all,” I remind him.
His eyes flick up, cutting. “No. We didn’t.”
Guilt spikes under my breastbone. I shove it down.
“You think they’re getting inside info?” I ask. “They know he’s still out. That he hasn’t woken up, not really. Hospital staff wouldn’t risk that unless they’re suicidal. That leaves…”
He doesn’t need me to finish.
Our house.
Our people.
Moles.
“I’ll talk to Valentina,” Asher says.
Of course he will.
“She should hear it from me,” I counter, sitting up straighter. “I was there. I heard it.”
He gives me a look. “I didn’t say you wouldn’t be there. I said I’ll bring her in.”
Like she’s the boss and we’re the ones reporting. Because she is. Because we are.
A part of me balks at it every time, loyalties snarling and tangling together—brother, king, queen, leader, lover, God. Another part of me remembers the way she’s handled herself these last two weeks.
The council meetings where she didn’t flinch when men twice her size tried to talk over her. The way she fielded budgets and routes and crew complaints with dry patience and sharp questions. The way she asked for help without submitting, listened without giving up ground.
She’s good.
I hate how proud that makes me. I hate how turned on that makes me. I hate that both are true.
Asher stands, straightening the stack of papers like he’s lining thoughts into neat rows. “Stay,” he says. “I’ll get her.”
He’s halfway to the door when I call after him, “You think the Vipers wait?”
He pauses, hand on the handle, jaw tight. “No.”
Then he opens the door and steps out.
I scrub my hands over my face, stare at the framed chaos on the walls—old photos, maps with pins, a knife Xavier sank into the wood the night we took back a route we never should’ve lost.
Two weeks. Two weeks of sitting at his bedside while this place strains under the weight of his absence.
If the Vipers are truly on the move, we don’t have time left to indulge in loyalty or sentiment. We need something sharp. We need something loud.
We need Valentina.
The idea settles before I can push it away.
A few minutes later, voices approach. Low. Familiar.
The door swings open.
Valentina steps in first.
She walks like she owns the floor and is still deciding if she wants to keep it.
Black skirt, fitted top, Xavier’s chain tangled at her throat like a dare.
Her hair is up, but wisps have escaped, framing her face, wild enough to remind everyone she didn’t grow up here, didn’t get built in these walls—and yet she fits better than half the men who did.
Asher follows, closing the door behind them with a soft click.
“Zay.” Her eyes find mine immediately, like they always do, like there’s a wire between us. “You look like shit.”