Chapter 16 #2
I clamped my palms over the wound to apply pressure. Blood soaked between my fingers instantly, hot and slick. Too much. Way too much.
“Stay with me, kid,” I snarled. “Look at me.”
His eyes tried to focus. They were that clear, stupid blue that always looked too young even when it had seen ugly things.
“I—” he choked. “…”
“You did good. You hear me? You did good.”
Another barrage rattled the glass ring. Someone cursed and went down behind us. Dante shouted something in Italian and leaned out to fire another measured pair of shots.
Abenzio moved to cover him—and that’s when the next hit came.
The bullet caught Abenzio in the side of the head. It took a chunk of him with it. He dropped like a cut rope, his brains and blood painting the wall beside the VIP bar in a pattern that would haunt whoever had to clean this place.
My gut twisted.
Azzarello stepped slightly behind Dante. Too close. Too convenient. His aim tracked not down at the shooters but up, toward the back of Dante’s skull.
Turnpike saw it first.
“Down!” he roared.
He launched himself across the distance like someone had lit him on fire. His shoulder hit Dante’s midsection hard enough to lift him into the air. They both crashed to the carpet as Azzarello squeezed the trigger.
The round meant for the back of Dante’s head took a chunk out of a mirrored pillar beside where he’d been standing. Sparkles of glass rained down.
“Motherfucker!” Jersey snarled.
Time snapped.
Azzarello twisted, gun swinging toward the man who’d ruined his shot. Jersey was faster. He rose in a smooth, terrible motion, gun already leveled, and put two bullets center mass into Azzarello’s chest.
The traitor staggered back, his expression more offended than surprised, then toppled sideways into a cluster of empty champagne glasses. They crashed to the floor around him and the sound of shattering bottles could be heard through the roar of the ongoing battle below.
Jersey dropped back behind the table, breathing hard, eyes sharp.
“Dante!” Turnpike barked, shoving the man back down behind cover fully. “You still breathing?”
Dante blinked up at him, hair mussed for the first time in probably his entire life, red suit spattered with other men’s blood. He nodded as he looked at Azzarello’s body with a surprised look on his face. The one you make when you realize you just cheated death, and didn’t even see it coming.
“Good,” Turnpike snapped. “Now start acting like it.”
He shoved Dante’s gun back into his hand. The three of them—Turnpike, Jersey, Dante—rose and began taking shots through the jagged frames where VIP glass had once been, working angles like they were back at a range instead of in a nightclub apocalypse.
Below, the tide was shifting.
Giorlando backup had started to arrive—men in darker suits and heavier coats slipping in through side doors, guns already up and shooting toward the front doors.
The cartel boys hadn’t expected that kind of response this fast. A couple of Vincino soldiers went down with neat holes in their chests.
A Serpent caught a bullet through the thigh and started crawling for the exit, leaving a smear.
I could see the SUVs through the front windows. Blacked-out shapes in the street beyond the chaos of the entrance. Doors still open on a couple. Muzzle flashes from inside the cabins as they fired in. Engines revving.
One engine roared higher. An SUV peeled away from the curb, tires screeching. Another followed. Men dove in through open doors even as the vehicles started moving.
“Cowards!” Dante spat, firing one last shot at a fleeing shadow. The round shattered a headlight. Useless but satisfying.
The remaining shooters were cut down fast. Giorlando security didn’t play fair. Bodies hit the floor. Groans. Cries. Then, slowly, the gunfire faded to isolated pops to finish off stragglers and then nothing.
The silence that followed after wasn’t really silent. It was people sobbing. Glass settling. Sirens faint in the distance.
My world had shrunk to the boy bleeding out under my hands.
Raptor’s breath had gone ragged. Wet. Every inhale a gurgle. Blood bubbled between my fingers no matter how hard I pressed. It coated my palms, my wrists, my sleeves, his chest.
“Stay with me,” I ordered. “You hear me? That shit outside is over. You did good.”
He tried to say something. It came out as a choke.
Jersey slid in beside me. His hands joined mine for a second, adding pressure that we both knew wasn’t going to fix anything. His face was too calm. I knew that calm. It was the one you put on when you smelled death and didn’t want to show your teeth chattering.
Raptor’s eyes found his.
“Jersey…?” he rasped, voice shredded.
“Hey,” Jersey said gently. “I’m here.”
Raptor’s hand jerked, seeking. Jersey caught it.
“You did good,” he told him. Voice rough. No bullshit. “You hear me? You did good.”
Something in Raptor’s shoulders eased at that. Like all he’d needed was to hear it out loud from someone in his own club. From someone he looked up to.
His fingers tightened weakly around Jersey’s, then slackened.
His eyes went unfocused.
I kept pressing down for three more heartbeats, because sometimes denial is muscle memory. Then I felt it—that horrible shift from struggling body to weightlessness. From person to thing.
I let my hands stay where they were even after I knew it didn’t matter. I stared at his face and tried to memorize it in the worst possible light.
“Fuck!” Turnpike shouted behind us.
He sounded like someone had punched a hole through his own chest.
Giorlando men swept the floor below, shouting orders, finishing groaning threats that still had weapons in their hands.
The sirens outside faded as someone on the street got paid enough to tell them there was nothing to see here.
One of Roman’s men appeared in the VIP doorway with blood on his cuff and a look that said he already knew how this story would be packaged for the news.
“Get your people out,” he said to us. “We’ll handle the room.”
Dante pushed to his feet, red suit torn, eyes narrowed. “My club. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Father’s orders. We’ll handle it,” the man repeated. “You, your friends here, you were never here tonight. The cameras will lose your faces. The patrons saw shadows and panic, not patches or you. Understood?”
Jersey looked at Raptor’s body. “What about…” he began to ask.
“Coroner will sweep him with the rest,” the man interrupted. “We’ll pull him when it’s quiet. Take his vest. I’ll call Roman. Leave the meat. For now.”
It was cold. It was practical. It was the only way this game got played without more heat involved. Regardless of Roman’s men, the police would still want to scour this place. This was just Roman’s way of controlling the dialogue and scene for when they show up.
I hated it anyway.
We stood.
My knees wobbled when I straightened. Blood dripped from my hands onto the expensive carpet. It looked wrong there. Too real in a room that had been built entirely on extravagance.
Dante lit a cigarette with hands that only barely shook. He took a drag, then exhaled smoke and resentment.
“Vincino and Bolivar in my house,” he said. “Shooting up my club. Killing my men. Taking your guy too.” His gaze cut to Jersey, then me. “My father’s going to love this story.”
“Tell it right,” Jersey said. “Tell him you’d be dead too if Turnpike hadn’t knocked you on your ass. Saved you from your own man.”
Dante’s mouth twitched. He flicked ash onto the already ruined carpet and glanced over at Azzarello.
“I’ll make sure that part’s clear,” he said turning back to us.
We left Raptor under the club lights after Jersey removed his cut, eyes closed now because I couldn’t walk away until I’d done at least something for him.
His bike waited out back, lined up with ours. Silent. Pristine. Idiotic in how whole it still looked when its owner wasn’t coming back for it.
“We’ll send someone for it,” Jersey said quietly.
Turnpike swallowed hard. “I’ll do it,” he said. “Later.”
We rode back to the Devil’s compound with blood drying under my nails and smoke still clinging to my clothes.
The gate was already open a crack when we pulled up. Blackjack stood in the yard, 8-Ball at his shoulder, face shadowed by floodlights.
As soon as my boots hit the ground, I could see it in his eyes.
He already knew.
“Roman called,” he said. No hello. No preamble. “Word travels fast.”
Turnpike sighed. Raptor’s absence was a weight at his back.
“How bad?” Blackjack asked. He knew the answer. He still asked anyway.
“Cartel and Vincino hit Black Velvet while we were there,” I said. “Came in the front door like they owned the place. Some Serpents lurking around the edges. Dante’s still breathing. Two of his bodyguards aren’t. One was working for Tesauro and tried to put a round in the back of his head.”
“Jersey shot him,” Turnpike added. Voice tight.
Blackjack nodded once. “And Raptor?”
Silence.
I could’ve spoken. I didn’t. It felt like it had to come from Jersey.
“He caught one in the neck,” Jersey said, each word heavy. “Went down fast. Valkyrie tried. I tried. There was just too much blood. He didn’t make it.”
8-Ball’s jaw clenched. Mirage, hovering near the steps, looked away hard.
“Roman?” Jersey asked.
“He’s pissed,” Blackjack replied. “At Tesauro. At Vladimir. At the world. Not at you. He said you kept his son breathing when his own men couldn’t.
Said Raptor died as much for Giorlando blood as for Devil’s.
He’s adding that to the ledger in his own head.
” He then studied each of our faces like he was counting pieces.
“Raptor knew what he signed up for. Doesn’t make it any easier. ”
“No,” Turnpike said. His voice shook once. “It doesn’t.”
“Go clean up,” Blackjack told us. “Church in the morning. We’ll put it in the book. For tonight, get the blood off.”
Nobody argued.