Chapter Sixteen
The warehouse sat at the end of a dead-end road in Pleasantville, surrounded by chain-link fence and the kind of darkness that only came from being far from streetlights.
Edge studied it through binoculars from three hundred yards out. Two guards at the main entrance, trying to look casual and failing. Three vehicles in the lot—two panel vans and a black SUV that screamed "I belong to someone who thinks he's important." Lights on in the upper windows.
Nicky Vitale was inside. And he had no idea what was coming.
"Eight confirmed inside, plus the two at the door." Pike's voice was low in Edge's earpiece. "Thermal shows most of them on the main floor. One heat signature in the upper office—betting that's our boy."
"He's mine." Edge didn't leave room for argument. "Everyone else is fair game, but Nicky belongs to me."
"Understood."
Edge lowered the binoculars and turned to Angela.
She sat on his bike behind him, her face pale in the moonlight but her eyes hard as flint.
She hadn't spoken since they'd left the compound, but she didn't need to.
Everything she was feeling was written in the set of her jaw, the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands gripped the seat like she was holding herself together by force of will.
"You stay with Ghost until the building is clear." Edge cupped her face in his hands, making sure she heard every word. "When I have Nicky secured, Ghost brings you in. Not before. Understand?"
"I understand."
"This is going to be ugly, Angela. What I'm going to do to him—"
"Good." Her voice was cold enough to burn. "I want it ugly. I want him to know exactly why he's dying."
Edge kissed her. Hard. Brief. A promise and a claim.
Then he turned to face his brothers.
Ace was checking his weapon with the casual efficiency of a man who'd done this a thousand times. Ghost was already moving toward the flanking position they'd agreed on. Block stood like a mountain, cracking his knuckles. Pike was in the support vehicle, coordinating communications.
"No survivors," Edge said. "Anyone who picked up a gun for Nicky Vitale dies tonight. We're sending a message to Marco—this is what happens when you come for what's ours."
"And if Nicky wants to negotiate?" Block asked.
"He doesn't get to negotiate. He burned her shop. He left a message telling her to submit." Edge's voice dropped to something barely human. "Now I'm leaving a message of my own."
They moved.
The guards at the door died without making a sound.
Ace took one, Ghost took the other, and Edge was through the entrance before the bodies hit the ground.
The warehouse interior was exactly what he'd expected—stacked crates, scattered product, the infrastructure of a distribution network in mid-operation.
And men. Lots of men.
They came out of the shadows like roaches when the lights come on, grabbing weapons, shouting warnings that came too late.
Edge moved through them without hesitation, his pistol barking, his knife finding throats when the range closed.
Block waded in behind him, a wrecking ball in human form, and Ace covered their flanks with the cold precision that had earned him his patch.
It wasn't a fight. It was a slaughter.
Vitale's men were muscle, not soldiers. They'd signed up for intimidation duty and drug runs, not a war with men who'd learned violence in places these boys couldn't imagine. They broke. They ran. They died trying to do both.
Edge counted bodies as he moved. Three on the main floor. Two more by the loading dock. One who'd tried to hide behind a forklift and found out too late that cover only worked if your enemy didn't know where you were.
Eight men dead in under three minutes.
But Nicky wasn't among them.
"Upper office," Ghost's voice crackled in his ear. "I've got eyes on movement. He's barricading."
"Keep him boxed. I'm coming up."
Edge took the stairs two at a time, his boots echoing off the metal steps.
The upper level was a catwalk that ringed the warehouse, with a single office at the far end—glass windows, probably bulletproof given the kind of operation Nicky was running.
A man stood behind the glass, frantically shoving furniture against the door.
Nicky Vitale.
Twenty-seven years old. Eager to prove himself through violence. The man who'd decided a florist needed to be taught a lesson in submission.
Edge stopped outside the office door. Raised his boot. Kicked.
The door held.
He kicked again. And again. The barricade shifted, furniture scraping, and on the fourth kick, the door burst inward. A desk crashed to the side. A filing cabinet toppled. And Nicky Vitale stood in the corner with a gun in his shaking hands.
"Stay back!" Nicky's voice cracked. All his swagger was gone, replaced by the raw terror of a man who'd just realized he'd started a fight he couldn't finish. "I'll shoot! I swear to God I'll shoot!"
Edge kept walking.
Nicky fired. The bullet went wide, punching through the glass behind Edge, showering the catwalk with shards. Edge didn't flinch. Didn't slow. Just closed the distance with the patience of a predator who knew its prey had nowhere left to run.
Nicky fired again. Missed again.
Edge caught his wrist on the third attempt, twisted until the gun clattered to the floor, and drove his fist into Nicky's face with enough force to shatter his nose.
Nicky screamed. Blood sprayed across the office walls.
Edge hit him again. And again. Methodical. Patient. Taking his time because this wasn't about efficiency—it was about payment. Every blow was for Angela. For her tears. For the shop that had been her proof she was worth something. For the message painted on the wall telling her to submit.
"You burned her shop." Edge's voice was calm. Almost conversational. "Four years of her life. Everything she built."
He drove his knee into Nicky's stomach, doubling him over.
"You left a message telling her to say yes next time." Edge grabbed a fistful of Nicky's hair, yanked his head back. "Like there was going to be a next time. Like she was going to roll over for a coward who couldn't fight his own battles."
"Please—" Nicky's voice was wet, broken. "I was just following orders. Marco said—"
"I don't care what Marco said."
Edge threw him against the desk. Nicky hit hard, crumpled, tried to crawl toward the door.
"Ghost." Edge spoke into his earpiece. "Bring her up."
Thirty seconds later, Angela appeared in the doorway.
She looked at the blood on the walls. At Nicky's broken body trying to drag itself away. At Edge standing over him with red on his knuckles and death in his eyes.
She didn't flinch.
"This is Angela Basile." Edge grabbed Nicky's collar, hauled him up so he could see her. "The florist you tried to break. The woman you thought would submit if you destroyed everything she loved."
Nicky's eyes—swollen, streaming blood—found Angela.
"I'm sorry," he gasped. "I'm sorry, please, I didn't mean—"
"Yes, you did." Angela's voice was ice. "You meant every bit of it. You wanted me scared. You wanted me broken. You wanted me to crawl back to your cousin and beg for mercy."
She stepped closer. Close enough that Nicky could see exactly what his violence had created.
"I'm not begging." Her words fell like hammer blows. "And neither are you. Because begging won't help. Nothing will help. You burned my grandmother's legacy, and now you're going to die for it."
She looked at Edge. Nodded once.
Permission. Acknowledgment. Trust.
Edge turned back to Nicky.
"You wanted to send a message," he said. "So do I."
He drove his knife into Nicky's throat.
Not deep enough to kill instantly—just deep enough to ensure he wouldn't be speaking again.
Nicky clutched at the wound, blood pouring between his fingers, his eyes going wide with the realization that this was really happening, that the violence he'd so casually dispensed was coming back to him tenfold.
Edge watched him die.
It took longer than Tony. Longer than Carver. Nicky fought it, clinging to consciousness with the desperation of a man who'd never considered his own mortality until it was flooding out of him onto an office floor.
When it was over, Edge stepped back. Looked at the body. Felt nothing but satisfaction.
"It's done." He turned to Angela. "He can't hurt you anymore."
Angela stared at the corpse. Her face was pale, her hands shaking slightly at her sides. But when she looked up at Edge, her eyes were clear.
"Good."
They left the warehouse burning.
Not for evidence—that was long since handled—but because Edge wanted Marco Vitale to see the smoke. Wanted him to know that his cousin was dead, his operation was bleeding out, and the Outlaws were coming for him next.
The ride back to the compound was quiet. Angela pressed against Edge's back, her arms tight around his waist, her face buried in his jacket. He could feel her trembling—not from cold, but from the release of everything she'd been holding since Pike showed her those photos.
The brothers were waiting when they arrived.
Jackpot stood on the porch with his arms crossed, Rosa beside him. Ghost and Block peeled off to the garage. Ace disappeared into the shadows like he always did after violence. And Pike was already at his laptop, monitoring police scanners for any sign of response.
"It's done?" Jackpot's voice carried across the lot.
"Done." Edge killed the engine, helped Angela off the bike. "Nicky Vitale's dead. The warehouse is burning. Marco knows we're coming."
"Good." Jackpot's gaze moved to Angela. Something like respect flickered in his expression. "You okay?"
Angela straightened. Met the President's eyes without flinching.
"I will be." Her voice was steady. "When Marco joins his cousin."
Jackpot almost smiled. Almost.
"Pike." He didn't look away from Angela. "What's our timeline on the main target?"
"Twenty-four hours. Maybe less. Marco's going to know what happened by morning. He'll either run or dig in. Either way, we'll be ready."
Edge pulled Angela closer. Let himself feel her warmth, her heartbeat, the solid reality of her alive and here and his.
The message was delivered. Nicky Vitale was dead. The shore towns knew that the Outlaws protected their own.
But the war wasn't over yet.
Marco Vitale was still breathing. And until that changed, none of them were safe.
"Get some rest," Edge said to Angela. "Tomorrow, we finish this."
She looked up at him. Touched his face with fingers that had stopped shaking.
"Together."
"Together."
The message had been delivered. Now it was time to collect the debt.