Chapter 14 #2
Long table scarred with knife marks and burn rings.
Skull-and-cards emblem carved deep in the center.
President chair at the head, Vice to his right, Enforcer seat farther down.
Patches on the walls like stained-glass windows for people who believed in torque and loyalty instead of angels and saints.
The difference was the weight of testosterone. The Shore Vipers’ Church came with heels on the table and nail polish marks on the wood. This one was all boots and beard oil.
Every patched in member was there. 8-Ball close to Blackjack. Spade, Mirage, Snake Eyes, Ace, Priest, Voodoo, Jabberwocky, and Roadkill. Everyone but Miami. Prospects even sat along the wall behind them.
I took my place standing against the back wall, off the table’s axis but where I could see everyone’s hands.
Jersey slid into his Enforcer seat like he’d never left it. A few glances flicked his way—measuring, thankful, a little pissed this shit had landed in his lap—but no one said anything. His patch said enough.
When the room quieted, Blackjack rapped his knuckles once on the table and struck it with a gavel.
“Church is in,” he said. “Listen close. I’m only going through this once.”
Silence dropped like a curtain.
“We’ve all heard the pieces,” he said. “The job out of Roman’s dock.
The wreck. The hit at the hospital on Miami.
The book pulled out of the bike. The meeting at Roman’s casino.
The junkyard. The Vipers’ yard getting lit up.
Tonight, we’re putting it in one spine so nobody walks out of here confused about who our enemies are and who’s at our backs. ”
He laid it out.
Not dramatic. Not indulgent. Just fact after fact, stacked neat.
The Vincinos using Roman’s pier without his knowledge.
Ledger in the bike. Names from Philly to Colombia to Russia written in old ink.
Steel Serpents pulling trigger duty for other men’s money.
Miami bleeding under hospital lights while some suit tried to finish what the wreck started.
The way Liberty had walked into a junkyard and found a dead owner strangled with his own phone cord and Serpents waiting in the stacks like rats.
He told them about the burner phone.
About Tesauro Vincino’s voice sliding down the line like he’d been expecting his dogs to report in.
About Liberty saying his name and Tesauro hanging up.
Jersey jumped in and told them about the blacked-out SUVs at the Viper’s gate.
About cartel guns chewing at our fence and wall.
About Anaconda’s calf and Arizona’s nearly-ventilated ribs.
About the Bolivar kid inside the yard putting a barrel to his own head and saying “For Bolivar” before he painted the outbuilding with his brains.
No one interrupted. No one made a joke. The only sound in the room was breathing and the occasional slow grind of a jaw.
When they finished, Blackjack and Jersey leaned back in their seats and let the silence breathe for half a minute.
“From this moment forward,” Blackjack said then, looking around the table, “we are at war with Tesauro Vincino, the Vincino family, the Steel Serpents acting as their mutts, and the Bolivar Cartel they’re partnered with.
That isn’t up for debate. That isn’t a question.
That’s the weather. The storm has arrived, and while we saw it in the forecast, now we’re in it. ”
Heads dipped. Some in acceptance. Some in anger.
He jerked his chin toward me.
“And while she’s under this roof, Valkyrie is to be treated as one of our own,” he said.
“She speaks, you listen. She rides with you, you cover her. If she bleeds beside you, you remember who caused it. Anyone gives her shit for the patch on her back instead of the blood she’s willing to spill on our side, they can hand me their cut and go prospect for someone else. ”
Blackjack then glanced at Jersey.
“Tell them what it cost,” he said.
Jersey cleared his throat.
“Miami’s still in the hospital,” he said. “Shoreline. Stitched and broken. Last guy who went down that hard for us didn’t get back up. Everyone remembers Anchor. This time it’s different. Miami’s fighting.”
A low murmur of agreement rolled around the table.
I didn’t know who Anchor was or his story. I recalled the cuts hanging on the wall in the main room. Maybe one of those had been his.
“The Serpent at the junkyard took a chunk out of Diamondback’s arm before we put him down,” Jersey went on.
“She’ll be fine. Stitches and a scar. Cartel’s hit at the Viper clubhouse put a hole through Anaconda’s calf.
Bullet went in and out, no bone, but she’s off her bike for a hot minute.
Arizona nearly caught a round protecting her.
It tore through her cut instead of her skin.
California got strangled by a Bolivar pig who snuck in through the side window.
She’s breathing, but she’ll be wearing his fingerprints on her neck for a while. ”
Some of the men winced. Some looked impressed. A few looked like they were filing those names away under Don’t Fuck With Our Allies.
Jersey’s voice stayed steady.
“We put a Serpent in the crusher and some cartel bodies in the dirt. They put their hands on our people. This isn’t theoretical anymore. It’s happening.”
Blackjack’s gaze slid to me.
“Your turn,” he said.
I pushed off the wall.
Every pair of eyes in the room landed on me. Some curious. Some weighing. None were dismissive. Liberty’s name bought that much before I even opened my mouth.
“We didn’t ask for this,” I said. “Not the Vipers. Not the Aces. Not even Roman by the sound of it. The Vincinos and their cartel friends decided to use our roads and docks like a chessboard and forgot to respect the pieces already on there.”
I let that sit.
“They think we’re some side quest,” I went on.
“Extras in their little power play between Philadelphia and Atlantic City. Something to clean up if we get too noisy or see something we shouldn’t have.
They tried to kill one of your own on our turf.
They tried to make an example out of us at that junkyard.
They’ve got no problem strangling a local business owner in his own office just to keep a secret or snuff out a potential witness. ”
I looked at Blackjack, then 8-Ball, then the rest.
“If the Devil’s Aces fall,” I said, “the Shore Vipers fall. The Vincinos won’t leave women on bikes breathing once they’re done with the men who now ride alongside them.
And if the Vipers fall, you lose the only backup you’ve got that isn’t tangled up in the Giorlando family tree that’s already at risk.
Allies are hard to come by. You’ve got one that you can trust. Not because we’re nice.
Because we are just as mean as you, and our Queen has already staked our lives on your side of this. ”
A few mouths twitched. Spade nodded once. Mirage’s eyes had gone very, very sharp.
“We’re not here to be a decoration,” I finished. “We’re here to make sure that when someone writes the story of this war, they don’t get to pretend you stood alone.”
I stepped back against the wall.
Blackjack looked at his men.
“Any problems with that?” he asked.
No one spoke.
Good.
“Orders are simple,” he said. “Gate’s locked down.
Nobody opens it without eyes on the road first. Watch rotations double.
No member rides solo outside daylight unless they clear it with me or 8-Ball first. Family stays away from the front door and windows if they need to be here.
Otherwise, offsite they stay. Meanwhile, we do what we always do—run our businesses, move our products, keep our books—but we do it with one eye on the horizon and one finger on the trigger. ”
He glanced around the room again.
“And from here on, everybody keeps in their heads one thing. That we are not playing defense forever.”
Before he could say more, Spade’s phone went off. He pulled it out of his pocket and touched the screen. A second later his head snapped to Blackjack.
“What is it?” Blackjack asked.
The room tensed.
“We got company at the gate,” Spade replied.
***
Night had finished falling while we were inside talking. The yard floodlights were on now, throwing harsh circles of white across the cracked concrete. Beyond the fence, the street was a strip of shadow with a few broken teeth of orange from distant streetlamps.
Black SUVs sat out there. Three, maybe four. No headlights on. No plates I could see from here. Behind them, shapes of bikes—sleeker than the Aces’, different rake. Steel Serpents colors catching stray light.
The Aces moved fast.
Men were already in position. Some behind bikes turned into low cover. Some on the roof with long guns. Voodoo had a scope to his eye and a line on any idiot who thought he could sprint the distance.
The gate stayed closed.
Blackjack walked out like he was stepping onto his own front porch, not into a live exercise in how fast men could die. 8-Ball was at his shoulder. Spade and Ace flanking. Jersey was a step behind. I fell in beside him without thinking, hand resting on the butt of my gun.
Up close, you could feel the tension humming.
One of the SUVs’ back doors opened.
A man climbed out.
He wasn’t in a cut. No Serpent patch, no club insignia. No suit either. Dark jeans, dark shirt, jacket that cost too much to be bought with honest money. Hair slicked back. Just enough jewelry to say he knew someone like Tesauro Vincino personally but not enough to look like a walking ad.
He walked up to the other side of the gate and stopped just out of reach. Hands empty. For now.
Up on the roof, I heard the faint metallic click of a safety going off.
“Evening,” Blackjack said, casually. “You lost, friend? Casino’s that way.” He jerked his chin toward the glow of Atlantic City in the distance. “Lots of better places to park then out here.”