Chapter 13
Thirteen
Jersey Boy
War made everything louder.
Not the music. Not the bikes. Those stayed the same. It was the quiet that changed. The way people breathed. The way a pool ball cracking against another sounded like gunfire for half a second too long.
Liberty called Church ten minutes after she had hung up with Blackjack.
I’d been halfway to the bar for coffee when Valkyrie caught my arm and jerked her chin toward the hallway.
No words. Didn’t need them. Every girl who wasn’t on the gate or watching the perimeter filtered toward the meeting room with that particular kind of focused drag in their steps.
Like they were being pulled by duty more than feet.
And everyone but the bunnies had a duty to perform here.
The Shore Vipers’ Church wasn’t that much different from our own.
Table in the middle. Seats around it. Stickers and etch marks gouged into the wood. Patches up on the wall—colors retired, memorials to dead sisters, slogans about venom and family and never riding alone.
Liberty took the head chair. Rosé to her right.
Valkyrie on her left. Cobra—Road Captain—sat beside Rosé, boots planted wide, arms folded.
Indigo sat in the chair closest to the door.
Medusa, California, Arizona, Diamondback, India, Anaconda and a handful of others filled in where they could.
Every member prospect or titled was present.
I took up a spot against the back wall, close enough to be counted, but still far enough to remember I wasn’t voting stock here.
The room smelled like coffee, leather, and last night’s smoke.
Liberty let the murmur die on its own. When it finally went quiet, she gaveled in and spoke.
“Most of you heard parts,” she said. “Some of you were there. We’re going to make sure everyone’s hearing the same song before we open the floor.”
She glanced at me once, then looked at her girls.
“The Vincino family out of Philadelphia used Roman Giorlando’s docks to push a package,” she said.
“They used the Devil’s Aces as their errand boys.
They didn’t tell Roman, obviously. They stuffed that bike with a ledger—a war manual full of names, routes, money flow.
Their shit, and everyone else’s. Bolivar Cartel.
The Russian Syndicate. The Steel Serpents.
Hell, some of our streets even got mentioned.
They sent mercenaries after the bike. They tried to kill Miami, a Devil’s Ace, on our turf to try and clean it up. That dragged us in.”
Nods around the table. Teeth flashed. Hands tightened.
“Earlier today,” she continued, “we went to a junkyard to make sure what was left of that bike was dead. The owner was already strangled when we got there. Phone cord around his neck. The Steel Serpents were lying in wait between the stacks.” Her gaze slid to Diamondback.
“They wanted whatever they thought was still in that frame and to see who showed up for it.”
Diamondback flexed the bandaged arm she stitched herself earlier. “They were pissed,” she said. “Sloppy pissed. Talked too much.”
“They did,” Liberty agreed. “One of them nearly took Valkyrie’s head off. But Jersey Boy fixed that for us.”
Heads turned my way. I didn’t move.
“After we made them run and crushed the bike, we stripped one of their dead for his cut and his toys,” Liberty went on. “We found a burner in his pocket. One number saved. No name.”
She reached into her cut, pulled the phone out, and held it up between two fingers.
“I called it,” she said. “Because I wanted to know who thought they could send their dogs onto our turf.”
A low growl of appreciation rolled through the room.
“Tesauro Vincino answered.” She let the name hang. “Didn’t say hello. Didn’t ask who it was. Just said, ‘Took longer than usual. Is it done? Did you retrieve it?’”
Raven swore under her breath. Medusa’s fingers twitched like they were already around somebody’s throat.
“After I said his name, he hung up,” Liberty said. “That’s all we needed to hear.”
Cobra leaned forward, tattooed fingers drumming once on the table. “So, it’s official,” she said. “We got Philadelphia’s favorite snake sunning himself in our backyard?”
“Officially,” Liberty confirmed. “He’s using Roman’s docks to move shit in secret. And using Steel Serpents to do his dirty work. Poking at us like we’re some side road he forgot to put on his map.”
Rosé uncrossed her arms. “We’re not owed respect,” she said calmly. “But we’re not prey.”
“Exactly,” Liberty said. She looked around the room. “So, I call for war.”
You could feel it hit them again. Even the ones who’d been standing in her office hearing her say those exact words ten minutes before held their shoulders a little differently now that it was spoken in this room, and over this table.
“No half measures,” Liberty said. “The Vincinos, their Serpents, their cartel friends—anyone they send our way—they’re enemies.
We don’t start shit with civilians, we don’t touch Roman’s people unless they touch us first, and we don’t bring cops into this unless we want our names on more lists.
But if they come for us? We bite back hard enough that they remember why they shouldn’t have fucked around to begin with. ”
“Any questions?” Rosé asked.
Hands didn’t go up. Voices did.
“Birdie?” Arizona asked. “Hospital?”
“Still on Miami,” Liberty said. “Mink’s watching chatter remotely. Any cop sneezes near Shoreline or the Aces’ compound, we’ll know. No one goes to that hospital alone. Ever.”
“They started this,” Medusa said. “Can we go cut a piece out of them before they reload?”
“That’s the temper I raised you with,” Liberty said. There was something almost fond under it. “But we’re not sprinting blind into Philly. Right now, the smartest thing we can do is hold our ground, shore up our alliances, and make sure when they come back, they don’t leave.”
Medusa looked at me. “Devil?” she said. “Your Prez?”
I cleared my throat.
“Blackjack sat down with Roman,” I said. “Told him about the ledger. This war book that started all of this that the Vincino’s were trying to move. About his docks, his Russian, his sons. Roman’s not happy about being treated like a side piece. He’s going to start pulling his own threads.”
“And the ledger?” California asked, eyes sharp.
I nodded. “Blackjack wants proof he can put in Roman’s hands,” I said.
“Not the whole book—it’s too dangerous—but enough pages to show him this isn’t us trying to stir shit between the biggest families on the east coast. Just enough to tie the Vincinos to the Bolivar Cartel, and Steel Serpents.
Roman sees that while staring down at photos of a dead Serpent in that junkyard, he’s going to realize this war isn’t just hypothetical anymore. ”
Valkyrie’s gaze brushed mine, then went back to Liberty. “The sooner we can get those photos to Blackjack, the sooner Roman can start cleaning his house thoroughly,” she said.
“Agreed,” Liberty replied. “Soon as we’re done here, you and Jersey Boy take a walk downstairs. Use your key. Open the safe. Pick some pages Blackjack can use. Take the shots. Then the ledger goes right back to bed. Understood?”
“Yes, Prez,” Valkyrie said.
I nodded. “Got it.”
Liberty looked around the table again.
“From this minute on,” she said, “no one walks this compound alone after dark. Patches stay on your backs at all times unless in a cage, guns stay close, and if you see a black SUV rolling slower than traffic, you call it out before you even blink. Cobra, adjust road rotations. Indigo, gate rules are tighter. We don’t open for anyone we don’t recognize unless they’re already bleeding.
India, Diamondback, you’re on Med Ops should anyone get hurt.
Arizona, camera stays on you. I want plates, faces, tattoos, shoes.
If it can identify a man, shoot it with your lens before you shoot it with your gun. ”
Arizona nodded, serious under the sarcastic look she usually wore.
“And one more thing,” Liberty said, voice flattening.
“They hit us once. Strangled a man, sent Serpents, took a graze out of Diamondback. They lost, so they turned tail. They’ll come again.
But not before they rally. Not before they rethink.
That’s who they are. While they’re doing that, they might decide to hit the Devil’s next. ”
Her eyes met mine.
“Tell Blackjack,” she said. “Tell him to watch his clubhouse, and his people. Whatever’s coming for us will be coming for him too. It’s only a matter of time before something else happens. We’re in this together and we watch each other’s backs.”
“I’ll pass it on,” I said.
“Good.” She pushed her chair back. “Church is closed. Valkyrie, Jersey Boy—basement. Everyone else, you know your jobs. Make me proud.”
Chairs scraped back. Patches shifted. The Vipers filed out, each one moving with purpose now, not just habit. Not just duty. This was about survival now.
Valkyrie jerked her head toward the hallway.
“This way.”
The basement felt colder this time.
Concrete sweat beaded on the walls. The bare bulb over the stairs swayed just enough to send shadows sliding slowly over the steps as we went down. The smell of oil and old metal wrapped around everything, thick in the back of your throat.
Valkyrie walked ahead of me, one hand up around her neck as if to check that the key was still there.
My steps sounded too loud in my own ears.
We reached the heavy door to the safe alcove. She slipped the key from her chain and fed it into the lock. The sound of it turning was more satisfying than it had any right to be.
The door swung open with a low creak.
The safe sat there, big and black, like it had grown out of the wall.
Valkyrie stepped up, fit the key into the slot beneath the keypad—a physical override, a modernized update—and turned. The safe thunked and clicked, then yielded when she pulled the handle.