Trigger frowns. “And if they come for us first?”
Capone’s gaze sweeps the yard, meeting each of ours. “Then we bury ’em where they stand.”
The brothers nod, silent understanding passing between us. No speeches. No bravado. Just the truth. We’ve been here before, and we’ll bleed here again.
As the others drift off to prep, I linger by my bike, staring at the grease stains on my gloves.
Dagger claps my shoulder. “You good?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Liar.” He smirks. “But I get it.”
I glance sideways. “You ever wake up one day and realize the thing you ran from your whole life is waiting at your door?”
He tilts his head. “Yeah. Usually holding a knife.”
That actually makes me laugh, low and rough. “Fair point.”
He heads for the clubhouse, calling back over his shoulder, “You need a drink, brother. Or a woman. Preferably both.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Probably.”
But when I look at the windows, I see Syvannah silhouetted in the warm glow of her lamp, her hair loose over her shoulders, standing still like she’s been waiting for me to come back in one piece. Even from this distance, I can feel the pull toward her, quiet and constant, the only thing in this place that feels steady.
The only thing I want right now isn’t revenge. It’s to walk to her room, press my forehead to hers, and make sure she’s real.
Instead, I light a smoke and whisper into the rising heat, “They shouldn’t have come here.”
The words hang in the heat, steady and deliberate, carrying more weight than any threat I could shout.
4
SYVANNAH
The bikes reach me before the sound fully registers, a vibration in the glass and floorboards that travels straight into my chest. By the time the engines finally crest into full roar, I’m already standing still in the hallway, my coffee cooling between my hands. The windows tremble, sunlight slicing through the open garage doors in bright stripes across the compound. I tell myself I’m watching for trouble, though the truth is simpler. I’m watching for him.
Tiny rolls in first, dust swirling around his boots when he stops. Dagger pulls in beside him, and both their cuts are streaked with soot. Even from here, I can tell something’s wrong. Tiny’s shoulders are set too stiff, his movements too careful. Capone’s waiting for them near the garage, and whatever he says makes Trigger curse loud enough to carry.
That’s all I need to know. It’s bad.
By the time the meeting breaks up, I’ve burned through the rest of my coffee and half my patience. When Tiny disappears into the garage that isn’t attached to the clubhouse, I head toward him. Peanut darts past me on the steps, her tail high like she owns the place. Of course, she’s going to him. Everyone does.
The heat outside hits like a wall. Gasoline, sun-baked concrete, the faint sweetness of engine oil. Tiny stands by his bike, running a rag over the tank even though it’s already clean, his focus fixed on something beyond the metal, as if he’s trying to scrub something out of his own head.
“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice light even as my stomach already starts to twist.
He glances up, and a muscle in his jaw is working, telling me everything before he speaks. “Hey, yourself.”
“You okay?”
“Long morning.”
“That’s code for bad news.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he keeps wiping the same spot on the tank, the rag moving in slow circles that get nowhere. “We found what was left of the trucks.”
My breath tightens. “How bad?”