Chapter 19
Nineteen
Jersey Boy
By the time Blackjack finished talking, Miami looked like he’d crashed his bike for the second time.
He sat in the chair opposite Blackjack, braced arm, cast on one leg that stuck out a little awkward, crutch leaning within reach. Quinn perched on the arm of his chair, fingers threaded through the back of it like she was the only thing keeping him from sliding right out of the room.
Blackjack leaned back, arms folded, watching him with that flat, steady gaze he used when he knew there was no good version of what he’d just said.
“So,” Miami said finally, voice rough. “While I was laid out getting reassembled, you idiots started a three-front war, pissed off a mafia king, brought in an all-female club from up north, and one of our prospects got killed in a glass box full of high-end bottle service?”
“That’s the CliffsNotes edition, but yeah,” 8-Ball said from his spot by the filing cabinet.
Miami stared at Blackjack like he expected him to crack a smile and say he was exaggerating.
Blackjack didn’t.
“And Raptor…” Miami’s throat worked. “Where?”
“Up high, in the neck,” I said from my place against the wall. I knew what he was asking. “Fast. Valkyrie tried. I tried. Turnpike did what he could on the other side. He went down fighting. That’s all there was.”
Miami’s jaw clenched. He looked away, down at his leg. Quinn’s hand slid from the chair to his shoulder, a small anchor.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
Nobody corrected him.
“You’re not putting that on yourself,” Blackjack said, voice even. “You were out. You didn’t choose that. He walked into that room, and the Vincinos pulled the trigger. That’s on them.”
Miami dragged in a breath, let it out slow. “Still feels like shit,” he muttered.
“Good,” 8-Ball said. “Means you’re not dead inside yet. Common problem in this industry.”
Miami huffed something that was almost a laugh.
Blackjack tapped his fingers once on the desk, drawing everyone’s eyes back to him.
“You’re updated,” he said. “You know about the gate visit. The hits. Dante. The traitor at his side. Roman’s oath. Liberty’s position. You’re caught up as far as we are.”
Miami nodded once. “So, when do we ride?” he asked. “I can stay upright. Crutch is mostly for show.”
“Not a chance,” Blackjack said.
The word landed like a punch.
Miami blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You’re back in the clubhouse,” Blackjack said. “You’re not back in the saddle. You may have left against doctor’s orders, but my orders are you will follow up with one. That cast says no. Bone says no. I say no. That’s three votes and you only get one.”
“You’ve sent people into war with worse,” Miami shot back. “You just told me some cartel boy painted a wall with his brains. I can pull a trigger sitting down.”
“And you will,” Blackjack said. “From here.”
Miami frowned. “What, you want me to answer phones?”
“I want you in the building,” Blackjack said.
“I want your eyes on the cameras, your brain on the routes, your mouth on the radio when we’re out.
You know our roads. You know our habits.
Our holes. You can see the shit we might miss while we’re busy not dying and are distracted on a run. That’s not nothing.”
“It’s a bench,” Miami said.
“It’s a position,” Blackjack corrected. “You bleed out on a sidewalk because you tried to prove you still have both your nuts, what does that get us? What does that get Quinn?” His gaze flicked to her, sharp.
“You being breathing and pissed off in here helps us more than you being noble and dead out there.”
Quinn’s fingers tightened on Miami’s shoulder. She didn’t say anything, but I watched the way her jaw clenched. She wanted him safe more than he wanted to ride. That was saying something.
Miami stared at Blackjack for a long second. Then at 8-Ball. Then at me. He saw no give in any of us and finally let his head drop back against the chair.
“Fuck you all,” he muttered.
“Love you too,” Blackjack replied calmly. “You can graduate from the bench when a doctor says your leg can handle being thrown around in a firefight. Until then, you’re home based.”
Miami didn’t agree, but he didn’t argue again either. That was as close as he came.
“Any questions?” 8-Ball asked.
“Yeah,” Miami said. “Where’s my fucking coffee? If I’m going to listen to any more of this shit, someone could at least caffeinate me.”
Quinn rolled her eyes and kissed the top of his head. “I’ll get it,” she said. “Try not to pick another fight while I’m gone.”
“No promises,” he said, but his hand came up to brush her thigh as she moved past. A little apology. A little anchor.
The debrief was over.
Blackjack dismissed us with a flick of his fingers. “Out,” he said. “I’ve got to keep playing with the ideas in my head to see if I can get them to sound less stupid. Try to make sense of what pieces might move next.”
Miami shifted like he wanted to stand, caught himself when his leg reminded him that was a bad idea to do fast. I stepped forward without thinking, hand going out. He slapped it away lightly.
“I got it,” he said. “I’m crippled, not useless.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” I muttered.
He smirked, then grunted as he pushed up onto his feet. The crutch squeaked once as he found his balance. Quinn opened the door for him when she came back, coffee in one hand.
I followed them out into the main room.
The clubhouse felt heavier and more alive at the same time. There were more bodies around than usual, more guns visible, more eyes on the doors. War changed posture. Men took up more space when they were expecting bullets.
8-Ball and Blackjack came in minutes later and peeled off toward the pool table tucked along the one wall. The green felt was scuffed and old, but the cues were straight and the balls rolled true. They started racking up like it was muscle memory. Business and distraction in the same motion.
The bar on the far side of the room had its own gravity. That’s where Miami drifted to, Quinn at his side, crutch clicking on the wood floor. That’s where I went too.
Jackal was behind the bar. He had the same towel over his shoulder, the same easy stance, the same way of watching the room without making it obvious. Badger hustled past with a crate of something.
At the far end of the bar, Tanya, Rebecca, and Valkyrie had claimed a stretch of stool space. Tanya’s laugh cut across the room once, bright and sharp. Rebecca was saying something with her hands. Valkyrie leaned in to hear better, elbows on the bar, head tilted, hair pulled back.
She looked up right as I looked over.
Our eyes caught.
There was a beat where the noise of the room thinned, just in that line between us. Her mouth lifted, a small, tired smile that still somehow managed to hit like a shot of good whiskey. Not soft. Not shy. More like an acknowledgment.
We’re still here.
I gave her one back before I could think better of it. Then I turned to the bar like my heart hadn’t just tried to climb into my throat.
Jackal slid a glass in front of Miami without being asked. Amber, but lighter than usual.
“Doctor-friendly,” he said. “Less proof. Don’t yell at me.”
“I’ll yell if I want to,” Miami grumbled, but he took a sip anyway.
Jackal dropped a drink in front of me too.
“You’re a saint,” I said.
“I’m a bartender,” he corrected, moving down the bar toward the women.
“Same thing in this place,” I muttered.
Quinn stayed on Miami’s left, one hand resting on his back, thumb moving in small, unconscious circles.
For a minute, we didn’t say anything. We just stood there—me nursing my drink, Miami adjusting to being in his own clubhouse again instead of in a hospital bed.
“How bad was it?” he asked finally, voice quieter. “Seeing him go.”
I didn’t have to ask who he meant.
Quinn didn’t want to hear the details. She got up and headed over toward the ladies.
“Messy,” I said once she was gone. “Neck shots always are. He was scared. But he listened. Did what he was told instead of panicking.” I swallowed.
Miami’s fingers tightened around his glass.
“I liked that kid,” he said. “Mouthy. Always trying too hard. Reminded me of you.”
“I was never that green,” I protested automatically.
He snorted. “You were a fucking lime, Jersey. We both were.”
I huffed, but it knocked some of the ache sideways.
“It’s not on you that he’s gone,” I said. “Don’t start building a shrine out of guilt. We were there. We walked him into it. We own that.”
“Yeah, well,” Miami said. “You ever noticed how our brains don’t give a shit about who owns what when it comes to blame? They just start handing it out like party favors.”
He wasn’t wrong.
Across the room, 8-Ball broke the rack. The crack of impact snapped over heads. Two solids dropped right off. Of course they did. Blackjack swore under his breath.
“Think Roman’s really going to make a move?” Miami asked. “Beyond swearing oaths and making speeches about blood and loyalty.”
“He said he would,” I said. “He told Blackjack he’s got fail-safes.
People close to Tesauro who are actually his.
He’s going to yank their leashes. Make a spectacle somewhere that’ll drag Tesauro out into the open.
They’re all probably sitting in some glass-walled office right now making spreadsheets about it. ”
“And we’re just… waiting?” Miami made a face like the word tasted bad. “Sitting on our hands in the meantime?”
“Planning,” I corrected. “Getting ready to kick them over when it’ll matter most. We go too early, we just annoy him. We wait too long, he gets bolder. We’re in the middle, where everything sucks.”
He grunted.
“What’s Liberty say?” he asked. “Beyond the ‘I’m pissed’ part.”
“She’s holding ground,” I said. “Compound locked down. Girls armed. Eyes on her own fronts and on the ledger. She’ll ride when we do. She wants a piece of Tesauro’s face just as much as we do.”
“Valkyrie seems… loyal,” he said, trying the word out in his mouth like he wasn’t sure if it fit someone in a different patch.