Chapter 16 #4
A cut hung on the wall behind Blackjack—one of the old ones. Today, another frame waited beside it, not yet filled.
When everyone settled, Blackjack rapped the table once.
“Church is in,” he said. “We’ve added a ghost.”
No one spoke.
After a moment of silence for Raptor, he laid it out.
The hit on Dante’s club. The Vincino and Bolivar men bringing their war into the Giorlando’s world.
The Serpents slithering in the door behind them.
The traitor at Dante’s side. The way Raptor had stood his ground, landed his shot, and then took a bullet high in the neck for his trouble.
He didn’t spare the details. He also didn’t wallow in them.
“Raptor died doing what he signed up for,” Blackjack said. “He was a mouthy little shit and green as grass, but he had steel in him. He listened. He learned. He didn’t freeze up when it mattered. All that counts.”
Jersey’s jaw worked, but he stayed quiet. I could see his hand curled into a fist on the table, knuckles white.
Blackjack’s phone sat beside his hand, screen dark for now.
“Roman knows,” he continued. “He called me. Thanked our people for keeping his son breathing. Cursed the Vincinos in three languages I pretended not to fully understand. He said this war is now fully on. Giorlando stands with Devil’s Aces and Shore Vipers.
It’s not just words anymore. It’s an oath. ”
My phone buzzed quietly in my pocket. Liberty. I didn’t pull it out. I already knew Blackjack would be looping her in.
“As of this morning,” Blackjack went on, “there is no more pretending we can walk this back. Tesauro Vincino sent men into our allies’ club. He killed our prospect. He hired our enemies. He made a move in Roman’s world. He’s not getting a polite reply.”
He nodded once toward 8-Ball.
8-Ball picked up the phone and hit a button. Liberty’s voice came through the speaker, sharp and distant.
“I’m here,” she said.
“Liberty,” Blackjack said. “You’re on at Church with us.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” she replied. “Rosé told me about the club. About your boy.”
Her tone shifted—steel wrapped in velvet. Grief hiding under business.
“Didn’t know Raptor. I’m sorry he didn’t get a longer road.”
“He made it count,” Blackjack said.
“I know he did,” she replied. “And I’m telling you now—my girls and I are riding this all the way with you. Whatever Roman’s cooking up, whatever you’re planning, the Shore Vipers are backing your play. This isn’t just your war. It’s ours too.”
“Good,” Blackjack said. “Because I’ve got something to show you.”
He nodded to Spade. Spade rose, grabbed a frame leaning against the wall, and hung it in the empty spot beside the other memorial cuts. It wasn’t Raptor’s patch that would go in a place of its own when the time was right. It was a photo.
Raptor at a picnic table outside the clubhouse. Burger in one hand. Middle finger up at whoever was behind the camera. Smile wide. Alive.
The room went very quiet.
“Raptor, Devil’s Aces prospect,” Blackjack said formally. “Died in the line of loyalty. Name goes on the wall. His story gets told. We don’t forget.”
“We won’t,” the room echoed, low.
Blackjack then turned to face someone.
“Turnpike,” he said. “On your feet.”
Turnpike blinked, then stood. He looked like he half-expected to be chewed out. Instead, 8-Ball reached under the table and pulled something out. He then passed it to Blackjack.
It was a patch for his cut. Member.
“Last night you tackled a Giorlando prince out of a bullet’s path and held that position while everything went to shit around you,” Blackjack said.
“You’ve been our pain in the ass, our road dog, our smart mouth, and our loyal bastard long enough.
Not to mention you pulling that truck maneuver at the hot drop that started it all.
I kept you in prospect rags because I wanted to see what you did when the first body dropped in front of you.
You’ve answered that question ten-fold.”
He held the patch out.
“From this moment, you ride as a fully patched in Devil’s Ace,” he said. “You share our enemies. You share our dead. You share our war.”
Turnpike swallowed hard. For a second, he looked like he might say something sentimental. Then he caught himself.
“About fucking time,” he muttered, voice rough.
Laughter rippled around the table—not bright. Just enough to crack the tension a fraction.
He held the patch in his hand and stared down at it like he had been waiting his whole life for it.
Liberty’s voice came through the speaker again. “Congrats,” she said. “Try not to die too fast with it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Turnpike said.
Blackjack let it sit for a beat, then rapped the table again.
“We’re bleeding,” he said. “They wanted that. They sent a messenger to our gate and hits to our fronts. They hit our ally’s club and killed a prospect to see if we’d bow.
We’re not bowing. From here, every move we make is going to hurt them back.
The ledger stays buried, but we’re going to use everything in it.
Roman’s going to play his own hand. Liberty’s already in.
The Aces don’t stand alone. Remember that when the next shot lands somewhere. ”
His gaze cut to me briefly, then to Jersey.
“And remember this too,” he added. “We take care of our own. In life and after. That’s the only reason any of this bullshit is worth it.”
He lifted the gavel, brought it down once.
“Church is out.”
Blackjack disconnected the call with Liberty. Chairs scraped. Men rose. Some clapped Turnpike on the back. A few touched the wall where Raptor’s photo now hung, fingers brushing the frame like it might answer back.
I stayed where I was for a second, watching the boy in the picture flip off the camera forever.
A warm presence appeared at my side. Jersey. Close enough that our shoulders brushed.
“You okay?” he asked under his breath.
“No,” I said. “But… I’m here.”
He nodded. “Same.”
We stood there a moment longer, side by side, looking at the wall full of names and faces. Old ghosts. New ones.
War had taken another piece. It would take more before it was done.
But standing there—in a clubhouse that wasn’t mine, under patches that weren’t my colors, with Jersey at my side and Liberty in my ear and Roman somewhere plotting failsafes—I felt something I didn’t expect.
Not peace. That was a fairy tale.
Alignment.
They’d picked a war. They’d picked their sides.
We weren’t just reacting now. We were in it. Planning. Bleeding. Loving. Refusing to fold.
Raptor’s eyes stared back from the frame, frozen mid-smirk.
“We make this count,” I murmured. “For him. For all of them.”
Jersey’s hand brushed mine briefly, fingers tangling for half a heartbeat before letting go as the room moved around us.
“Yeah,” he said. “We will.”
Outside, the day was too bright for how the world felt.
Somewhere down the strip, The Black Velvet’s staff were still scrubbing blood off the walls.
Somewhere in Philadelphia, Tesauro Vincino was smiling at numbers and thought he understood how this game was going to end.
Little did he know, the ball was in our court now. And we were about to take our own shots.