Chapter 11
Eleven
Jersey Boy
An hour isn’t long until someone tells you it might be the last one your President is breathing for.
We’d tucked ourselves in a quieter corner of the Vipers’ clubhouse, away from the music and the pool table and the girls. The TV was on with no sound. Some crime show was flickering across the screen like a joke. A clock above the bar ticked too loud to ignore.
8-Ball sat on a stool with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped, staring at nothing. Turnpike leaned against the wall, arms folded over his chest, one boot heel kicked back into the paneling, making it creak every few seconds. I took the other stool, phone on the bar in front of me, face down.
Blackjack had gone up into Roman’s world with Mirage, Spade, Ace, and Snake Eyes. No weapons heavier than pistols. No backup but each other and whatever history Roman still thought was worth respecting.
One-hour meeting.
One-hour deadline.
My thumb traced a slow circle on the edge of my new phone, over and over, like I could carve a groove into the glass.
Turnpike broke first.
“You don’t think Blackjack isn’t coming back, do you?” he asked, like he was slapping the thought out of the air instead of asking it.
The words dropped between us, heavy.
For a second, I saw it. Quick, ugly flashes I couldn’t control.
Roman’s guards. Guns up, no warning. Spade going down first, because he’d be smiling when it happened. Blackjack taking one center mass in that expensive carpeted room. No call. No voice on speaker telling us what came next.
Just a silence big enough to swallow the club.
My throat went tight. I flipped the phone over, even though the screen was dark.
8-Ball didn’t snap at Turnpike. Didn’t bark or throw a bottle just to bleed the tension.
He just turned his head and looked at me.
“You heard what he told you,” 8-Ball said. Calm. Gravel low. “If that call doesn’t come, this lands on us. On me. On you.”
“I heard,” I said. It came out flatter than I wanted.
“And you’re sitting here already acting like that’s a funeral notice instead of a contingency,” he went on.
I bristled. “I’m not—”
“Yeah, you are,” he cut in, but his voice stayed steady. No bite. Just certainty. “You’re running out scenarios in your head like that’s going to change the one that actually happens.”
He shifted on the stool so he was fully facing me. The scar near his left eye caught the light.
“You think we slap that Enforcer patch on anyone?” he asked. “You think you got that because you’re pretty and loud?”
Turnpike huffed under his breath, but didn’t interrupt.
“You earned that patch,” 8-Ball said, “because every time shit got uglier than it had any right to be, you stepped forward instead of back. Because you keep your head when bullets fly and everyone else starts seeing red. Because when Blackjack needs something disgusting done, he trusts you to do it without making us look like amateurs.”
I swallowed.
“You wouldn’t be sitting where you’re sitting, wearing what you’re wearing, if he didn’t already decide he could die in a penthouse and know you would help keep this family together instead of falling apart,” 8-Ball said.
“He didn’t hand you a maybe. He handed you a ‘when.’ He believes you can do it.
I believe you can do it. Turnpike over there believes it, even if his big dumb ass won’t say it out loud. ”
Turnpike shifted like he’d been called on in class. “I believe it,” he muttered. “Don’t be an idiot.”
“See?” 8-Ball said. “Unprompted compliment. Mark the calendar.”
The corner of my mouth twitched despite everything.
“This isn’t about wanting that weight,” 8-Ball said, softer.
“It’s about knowing you’re already carrying parts of it whether you wanna admit it or not.
You think you’re just the one with bloodier knuckles.
You’re not. You’re the one the prospects look at when they’re scared, too.
You’re the one Quinn trusts when the rest of us are gone.
You’ve already been leading. The patch just makes it official if it ever comes to that. You hear me?”
“Yeah,” I said. My chest burned. “I hear you.”
“Good.” He clapped me once on the shoulder, firm enough to sting.
“So, stop sitting here acting like the only version of this where you matter is the one where Alice walks back through that gate and pats you on the head. If he dies, you don’t get to fall apart.
You get to work. And you will, because you’re my Enforcer, and I don’t train idiots. ”
I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding since I left Atlantic City.
Some of the static in my head eased. The fear didn’t vanish—would’ve been stupid if it did—but it stopped feeling like it was chewing holes in my spine.
“Besides,” 8-Ball added, leaning back again, “Roman would be an absolute dumbass to clip Alice over this instead of using him. And if there’s one thing I know, it’s that Roman likes to win more than he likes to bleed people.”
Turnpike snorted. “Now you’re reassuring him with logic,” he said. “That’s cruel.”
The clock ticked on.
I picked my phone back up, but this time I wasn’t staring at it like it was a tombstone. Just a line on a board, waiting to be moved.
We made it another few minutes in that heavy, almost comfortable silence before a shadow fell across us.
Valkyrie.
“You two done trying to think your President to death in here?” she asked. “Come walk the fence with me, Devil.”
Turnpike lifted his brows. “Why him? I’m more fun.”
“You’re also more likely to punch a cop on sight,” she said. “I like you right where you are. Stationary and unarmed.”
8-Ball smirked. “Go,” he said to me.
I slid off the stool and followed Valkyrie out.
The compound felt different when you walked it on purpose instead of just breathing inside of it.
Razor wire topped the fences, glittering dull where the light hit.
Old factory walls loomed around us, graffiti ghosts clinging to brick faces.
You could see the lines of sight if you looked for them—where a rifle could rest, what angle it had over the gate, where an engine could be heard before it was seen.
Valkyrie walked with her hands in her back pockets, shoulders loose, but I’d already seen how fast that could change. Her eyes flicked to every corner, every shadow. She wasn’t just stretching her legs. She was checking her skeleton.
We cut along the fence line, boots crunching over gravel.
“Are you always this tense when your President goes into a meeting?” she asked.
“Are you always this chatty when you’re worried about your Queen?” I fired back.
She smirked. “Touché.”
We rounded a corner near the rear gate. Indigo and Medusa were posted up there again—shotgun and bat, same as yesterday, different weight to their shoulders now.
I gave them both a chin lift. They returned it.
We kept going.
“So,” she said. “You actually think he might not come back?”
I thought of 8-Ball’s voice. His hand on my shoulder. The way Blackjack had sounded on the phone, half laughing, fully serious.
“No,” I said. “I think if Roman wanted him dead, we’d already be hearing about a sudden gas leak at some casino. But I also think wanting isn’t the same as knowing.”
“Spoken like a man who’s had more than enough surprises in his life,” she said.
“Haven’t you?” I asked.
“More than my share,” she replied.
We walked a few more yards in silence. There was a spot near the old loading dock where the fence buckled out slightly, pushed by some old crash or pressure. She stopped there, pressed her fingers to the metal, testing.
“Loose?” I asked.
“Not loose enough,” she said. “But it makes me itch.”
“You ever not itching?” I asked.
“For the twenty minutes after a really good fight,” she said. “Or a really good orgasm.”
I choked on a laugh. “Jesus.”
“I said what I said,” she replied easily.
“Modest,” I said. “Saintly, even.”
“Oh, absolutely,” she said. “Ask anyone. I’m a fucking nun.”
We started walking again.
“Turnpike likes your book girl,” I said after a second.
“India?” she asked. “He does?”
“He watched her walk past like his brain fell out of his ears,” I said. “He’ll deny it.”
“I like India,” she said. “If he hurts her feelings, I’ll castrate him.”
“You go straight to the classics,” I said. “No warning shots.”
“Waste of ammo,” she said.
I shook my head, but the grin wouldn’t stay down.
“You’re different than I thought you’d be,” she said suddenly.
“How’d you think I’d be?” I asked. “Be honest. I can take it.”
She thought about it.
“Louder,” she said. “More bark. Less… spine.”
“Spine,” I repeated.
“You’re quieter than your reputation,” she said. “More watching. Less posing. I expected more peacocking.”
“You calling me a disappointment?” I asked.
“Not yet,” she said. “Impressive restraint for a man who named himself after a state.”
“I didn’t name myself,” I said. “That was a gift.”
“From who?” she asked.
“Miami,” I said, automatically. The name felt like a bruise every time I said it now.
She clocked that, filing it away. Valkyrie didn’t miss much.
“So, he’s the funny one,” she said.
“He thinks so,” I replied.
We finished the loop and ended up back near the main building. Bikes lined the lot. One of the girls—Arizona—was on the roof, camera in hand, taking shots of something.
Valkyrie’s gaze drifted to the road beyond the gate.
“If the call doesn’t come,” she said quietly, “we’re in it together.”
“Seems that way,” I said.
“Devil’s Aces and Shore Vipers,” she said. “Two nests of idiots with too much pride and too many guns.”
“You say that like you’re not proud,” I said.
“Oh, I’m proud,” she said. “Doesn’t mean I’m blind.”
We stood there for a second, shoulder to shoulder, both staring down a road that could bring anything.
The phone in my pocket buzzed.
Every muscle in my body went tight.