Twenty Two #2
“Enemies picked the wrong people to fuck with,” Valkyrie said.
He gave her a smile.
“You remind me of someone,” he said. “Different gender. Same eyes.”
“Should I be offended on his behalf?” Blackjack asked.
Roman looked at him and laughed.
Not the public laugh. The one I’d heard in the stories from Blackjack and 8-Ball when they’d had enough whiskey and nostalgia to start talking about their early days with him.
The sound that said the man standing in front of us had once carried a lot more of his anger in his fists instead of his bank account.
Blackjack jerked his chin toward Liberty. “You two should officially meet,” he said. “Before the night’s over.”
Roman turned fully.
“Lady Liberty,” he said. “At last.”
She stepped in, offering a hand. There was nothing delicate about it. The tattoos on her fingers caught the moonlight; the rings were more knuckle-duster than jewelry.
“Roman Giorlando,” she replied. “I’ve heard a lot.”
He took her hand. They shook like people who knew the weight in their own grip and in the other’s.
“You kept your girls ready to ride tonight. You rode all the way down here. You didn’t hesitate when it mattered. I appreciate that.”
“Figured it was time you saw the shore come together,” she said.
He huffed. “You exude leadership,” he said. “My wife will like you, I think. She has the same look when she’s about to decide whether a person is worth pouring another glass of wine for. I hope this isn’t the last time we stand on the same side.”
Liberty lifted one shoulder. “If I ever need to knock on your door, I know where to knock,” she said. “For now, it stays closed but not locked.”
Roman smiled big for real that time.
“A fair answer,” he said.
The wind gusted. Somewhere down the beach a gull cried at nothing.
Roman looked over his shoulder at the SUV that held his Russian.
The softness vanished like someone had shut a door behind his eyes.
He nodded once.
Two suits peeled away from the shadow of the vehicle. They opened the back door and hauled Vladimir out by his arms.
He made a sound that was half-groan, half-snarl. His leg buckled. They didn’t care. They dragged him through the sand, making sure to jostle every injury on the way over.
By the time they dumped him on his knees in front of Roman, his breath was coming in ragged bursts. Sweat had turned his beard into something matted and ugly. His eyes, though, were still sharp.
He looked us over.
Devils. Vipers. Roman.
He smirked.
Roman stepped in until he was close enough to touch him.
For a second, he didn’t.
Then his hand shot out.
The slap cracked across Vlad’s face, loud even over the waves. His head snapped to the side.
Roman pivoted and backhanded him the other way.
If the suits behind him hadn’t been holding him steady, he’d have gone to the ground.
Roman adjusted his cuffs like he’d just swatted a fly and turned his back on him, walking a few paces toward the waterline.
We all watched.
He stared out at the dark horizon. The moon threw a path across the surface, a broken silver line that stretched from the shore to nothing.
“When I was young,” Roman said, voice quiet but carrying, “I watched my father build something out of nothing. Brick by brick. Deal by deal. He taught me that family is everything. That without trust, money is just paper and power is just a fool’s costume.
You understand this, yes?” He didn’t turn.
“You all live by some version of that in your own little kingdoms.”
We knew he was talking to us.
Nobody argued.
“Over the years, I’ve taken men into my house,” he continued. “Into my business. I’ve trusted them with my children. My wife. My secrets.” His hands flexed at his sides. “I thought Vladimir was one of them.”
There was no dramatics in the way he said it. That made it worse.
Behind him, the Russian chuckled, low and wet.
Roman finally turned.
“You were like family,” he said. “And this is what you do with that? You tell Tesauro he can move against me? You take money from my enemies? You put a gun to my wife and daughter? You walk them into my own monument and take them as hostages in the belly of my future?” He shook his head. “Friends don’t do this to friends.”
Blood dribbled from Vlad’s split lip. He spat it at Roman’s feet.
It splashed on the leather of his shoes.
Roman didn’t flinch.
He just rolled up one sleeve another inch.
Then he closed the distance between them and punched Vladimir in the face.
It wasn’t a pretty punch. It wasn’t meant to be. It was the kind of strike a man throws when he wants to feel bone give under his knuckles.
Vlad’s nose broke with an audible crack. Blood poured out instantly. It went down over his mouth and into his beard. It looked black in the moonlight.
He bent forward, gasping, then slowly straightened. His eyes shone.
“Friends do exactly this,” he rasped. “When the friendship stops giving them anything new. When the partnership grows stale. When the king slows down and the vultures see him circling the same scraps he’s been circling for twenty years.”
He laughed, choked on it, coughed more blood into the sand.
“The whole East Coast will be on fire soon, Roman,” he said.
“More will betray you. People you’d never suspect.
They’ll put knives in your back, and you’ll never see them coming.
You’ll die thinking you were still the one pulling the strings.
And the syndicate? My connections. They will not be pleased.
They’ll want answers. They’ll come for you with torches. ”
Roman’s gaze never wavered.
“I’m not afraid of fire,” he said. “I may be older. But I’m not weak. You and Tesauro made a mistake tonight.” He lifted his chin slightly. “You touched my blood. You hurt my wife. You laid hands on my daughter. I would have forgiven many things. These are not one of them.”
Vlad grinned, teeth slick with his own blood.
“You still think this is just me and Tesauro? Our little deal. Our little betrayal. You think he’s played his cards in full? You think killing me here and going after him next will solve your war. You’re blind, old friend.”
Roman’s tone went colder than the air.
“Tesauro played his hand when he sent you into my house,” he said.
“He played it when he hit my son’s club.
When he touched the Devils. When he thought he could move against the Shore Vipers and not pay for it.
Tonight, he loses you. Tomorrow, he wakes up and realizes the ball is in my court.
He’ll soon find out that I’m not done. I will not bend.
I will not step aside. I’m going all in.
I’m taking the pot. And when I’m done, the only thing left of his empire will be a story people tell their children as a warning. ”
“If you think he’s shown you everything he has,” Vladimir said softly, “you’ve already lost this war.”
Roman stared at him another few seconds.
Then he stepped back.
“Pull him forward,” he said to his men.
They dragged Vladimir closer to the water. The sand there was colder, damp from the tide. They left him on his knees facing the ocean, his bound hands digging into the grit behind him as he tried to keep his balance.
He lifted his head, exposing his throat.
For a second, he just breathed.
Then he looked up at the moon.
“You picked a good place,” he murmured. His voice had gone almost dreamy, the accent softening at the edges.
“Look at it. The moonlight on the water. Like a road to nowhere. Waves to wash everything away. Footprints. Blood. Mistakes.” He chuckled once.
“If you must die, this isn’t a bad last view. I’ve seen worse ceilings.”
The surf hissed in and out, in and out.
Roman walked around behind him.
One of the suits stepped up, hand out. A pistol lay across his palm, metal glinting.
Roman took it.
He didn’t say anything else.
He just raised the gun, lined the barrel up with the back of Vlad’s skull, and pulled the trigger.
The sound was a crack against the crashing waves around us.
Vladimir’s body jerked and then went loose. He pitched forward, face-first into the sand, limbs collapsing under him. The tide wasn’t close enough to touch him yet, but if it was given time.
Roman lowered the gun. He stared at the corpse for a long heartbeat.
Then he handed the weapon back to his man.
“Clean this up,” he said. “I want no trace. Not a shell casing. Not a footprint that doesn’t belong to the tide. When you’re finished, dispose of him somewhere appropriate for a rat.”
“Yes, Boss,” one of them said.
They moved immediately, efficiently and quietly, starting to circle the black shape at their feet.
Roman turned away.
When he faced us again, the rage was banked. Not gone. Just pushed down into the place men like him stored it until they needed it.
“Thank you,” he said.
He looked each of us over as he said it—Blackjack, Liberty, me, Valkyrie.
“You’ve earned a night’s rest,” he went on. “Use it. Tomorrow, everyone will wake up to a different world. Tesauro will wake up and find his Russian gone, his play exposed, his leverage stolen. He’ll make new moves. But so will I.”
His gaze settled on Blackjack.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said. “Frequently.”
Blackjack nodded once. “We’ll be ready,” he said.
“I hope so,” Roman replied. “Because this was nothing compared to what comes next.”
He turned and started back toward the path where his car waited, shoes leaving clean prints that would be gone by morning.
We watched him go in silence.
When the sound of his engine finally disappeared under the noise of the waves, Blackjack exhaled.
“Okay,” he said. “Enough foreplay for one night. Liberty.”
She looked over.
“You and yours are welcome back at our clubhouse,” he said. “We’ve got beds, booze, and bad decisions. You can rest up before you ride back north.”
Her mouth quirked. “You trying to sweet-talk me into a sleepover, Alice?” she asked.