Chapter 9 #2
“Fair,” Blackjack said. “On my end, I want two things. One, Shore Vipers treat any Ace on this business as friendly in your territory, as long as they’re not being stupid. Two, you help keep this quiet. No cops. No other clubs. No civilians. This stays in the family. That includes yours.”
“You get your two,” Liberty said. “On one condition.”
“What is it?”
“If I find out you’re lying to me about any piece of this,” she said, voice soft and deadly, “I won’t just go after your men. I’ll go after you. Personally. And you know I don’t make empty threats.”
A beat. Then Blackjack chuckled, low.
“Same old Riann,” he said. “You’ve got my word. No lies. I might have to keep some things close while I can confirm them, but I won’t feed you false shit. 8-Ball, you hear this?”
“Loud and clear,” 8-Ball replied.
“Jersey?” Blackjack asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m here. I hear it.”
“Good,” he said. “Because you’re the poor bastard sitting with that bag.”
All eyes in the room slid to me.
“Put it on the table,” Liberty said.
My fingers tightened on the strap before I could tell them not to. I forced them to relax. Brought the pack forward, set it on the scarred metal between us.
I unzipped it and pulled out the book.
Turnpike’s eyes widened a fraction. Rosé’s mouth tightened. Valkyrie’s gaze locked onto it like a predator watching a live grenade.
“There’s also tech inside,” I said. “Looks like drives or some encrypted bricks. Prez told me not to touch it, so I didn’t.”
“We’ll deal with that later,” Blackjack said. “Right now, tell them what you saw when you cracked that book open.”
I flipped the cover open carefully.
Neatly handwritten pages. Columns. Names. Numbers. Codes. Some typed sheets were glued in, stapled, or clipped. Some sections had tabs. Others had notes in red ink. Certain lines were circled. Certain entries had symbols next to them.
The paper kept changing under my fingers.
Different weights, different printers, ink that had aged at different speeds.
Some margins had dates and three-letter city codes ticked off one after another with little arrows drawn in between them.
This book hadn’t lived its life on one shelf.
It had been carried. Reviewed. Signed off on and moved again.
A traveling brain instead of one sitting in a vault somewhere.
“It’s a ledger,” I said. “But not just money in, and money out. It’s like a map of everything the Vincino family has their claws tied into. Legit fronts. Shell companies. Chop shops. Dock workers. Judges. Cops. Politicians. Brokers.”
I flipped to another tab and fanned the pages under my thumb. “Then there’s sections just labeled with initials. BC. RS. YK. SS. Lots of those pages mention dates, tonnage, routes, and then what I’m pretty sure are code names for shipments. Or people.”
“BC is going to be the Bolivar Cartel,” 8-Ball muttered as he leaned forward to examine it. “RS, is the Russian Syndicate. YK, is most likely the Yakuza. SS, that’s the Steel Serpents.”
“Nice of them to keep everything so organized for us,” Rosé said.
“You don’t risk moving something like this unless you got a reason,” I said.
If it was mine, I’d bolt it behind ten inches of concrete and shoot anyone who even breathed near it.
The only time I’d put it on the road is if someone important needed to see the latest pages in person. Final approval, then green light.”
“I don’t disagree with that,” 8-Ball said.
“But it gets worse,” I continued. I then flipped to one of the pages that had burned itself into my brain.
“There’s a section here that’s not about what they have.
It’s about what they want. Scouting reports.
Lists of suspected Giorlando assets. Properties.
Businesses. Names of people they think are either on the take or vulnerable.
Marked with things like ‘pressure point’ or ‘asset if flipped’ or ‘remove quietly.’”
Liberty’s jaw flexed. “The Giorlando’s are going to love that,” she said.
“From what I’ve seen so far,” I said, “The Giorlando family isn’t actually in bed with the Vincinos.
Not officially at least. This reads more like a hit list. They’re studying the Giorlandos.
Looking for cracks. Looking for ways in.
Which docks move what. Which casinos handle what.
Which union bosses can be bought cheap.”
“And the Russians?” Rosé asked. “You said RS is a section. What do they want in all of this?”
I nodded. “There are whole pages where RS and BC overlap. Shared routes. Shared shipments. Shared names. Some of those names have question marks next to them. Like whoever wrote this wasn’t sure if those people belong to the Russian Syndicate or someone else.
There’s a title that comes up a lot there.
Just ‘The Russian.’ No first name. No last name. ”
The room went still.
Valkyrie cut in. “And you think…?” she started.
“Roman’s consigliere is Vladimir Yegorovich,” 8-Ball said slowly. “They call him The Russian. Everyone does. Even us.”
“Could just be coincidence,” I said. “Or it could be a different one. This could even be his ledger, or they’re three moves ahead and planning how to peel him off to work for them.
Or he’s playing both sides already. Or they want him out of the way.
I don’t know for sure. But his title and his general description match some of the scouting notes. ”
“Of course it’s Vladimir,” Liberty muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Men in suits named Vladimir are never simple. You can’t take him at face value.”
8-Ball exhaled. “So, this isn’t just Vincino’s grocery list,” he said. “It’s a playbook. For how to hit Roman’s empire without bringing the whole city down on their head. Or at least how to try. And their main focus, or point of contact, seems to be Vladimir.”
“There’s more,” I said. I turned to one of the back tabs.
“These pages are different. They’re less about money and more about…
contingencies. Mentions of ‘secure mirrors.’ ‘Fail-safe nodes.’ ‘Dead drop data.’ A couple of line items literally have notes next to them like ‘release if compromised’ or ‘send package to mutual friends if code X is not reset in ninety days.’”
“Kill switches,” Rosé said quietly.
“Yeah,” I replied. “That’s my read too. This book might not be the only copy of this information.
These devices in the bag are probably hooked into something bigger.
Servers. Vaults. Who knows. If one of the people who runs this thing dies or disappears, it looks like there’s a plan for the ledger to get duplicated and sent out into the world as revenge or insurance.
Or certain information to be made public to bring down an empire. ”
“So, if we torch it,” Liberty said, eyes flat, “we might just set off that fail-safe. If we keep it, the people who built it will assume we have read it and will come for us anyway. If we sell it, whoever buys it either becomes a goddamn kingpin overnight or uses it as a bomb to blow up everyone on the East Coast.”
“Pretty much,” I replied. “So, pick your poison.”
Silence fell. Heavy. The kind that sits in your lungs.
Turnpike shifted. “Why not just drop it on the Feds’ doorstep?” he asked. “Anonymously. Let them freak out instead.”
“Because the minute that happens,” 8-Ball said, “everyone mentioned in that book goes rabid. Cartels, Russians, Yakuza, Philly, maybe even Roman himself. They’ll start asking why their business wound up in a Fed’s hands.
Nobody believes in coincidences at that level.
They go looking for everyone who touched it.
Even if we never wrote our names, they follow the trail.
It starts at that hot drop, then the wreck, goes through the hospital, through the junkyard, through this clubhouse, and through ours.
We would be lighting a match to every bridge we have and destroying ourselves along with everyone else. ”
“Plus,” I added, “we have no idea if the Feds already have a piece of this or not. We drop a clean copy on them, we might just push them into clearance mode.” I mimed pulling a trigger.
“No witnesses. No loose ends. No informants left breathing. That book doesn’t just make us dangerous to criminals.
It makes us dangerous to anyone who wants to keep their quiet little deals running.
We don’t know who’s connected, who’s involved, or who to trust.”
Liberty leaned back in her chair and stared at the ledger like it was something alive.
“If it were me,” she said, “if I had found that in a bike and there were no witnesses, wasn’t a part of a hot drop, and there were no hits yet, I might’ve burned it.
No trace. No one ever knows it existed. No one ever knows it vanished. ”
“That’s the problem though,” Blackjack said over the speaker.
“This was supposed to be delivered. It wasn’t.
Whoever paid for it knows that. They know we were the ones moving it.
They know the bike’s missing. They obviously know one of ours wrecked.
Whether or not they know about the contents being found that were inside of it, they’ll have to operate on assuming that someone opened it.
And due to that, every name attached to it from there on becomes a potential liability. ”
“Us,” I said. “Miami. Those on the Giorlando docks. Whoever on Roman’s side signed off on that shipment. Salvatore. Maybe even Vladimir himself. And now you.”
Liberty’s eyes flicked up and met mine. “Cute,” she said. “You brought us a bomb as a friendship offering.”
“It landed in our lap,” I said. “We didn’t ask for it. You stepped in when they tried to finish Miami in your hospital. That makes you part of this whether any of us like it or not.”
She nodded once. “Yeah,” she said. “I know.”