I lit up and gave him the finger. “Shut the fuck up.”
He grinned, averting his gaze. I took my chance and moved closer to Saint, pressing my face into his neck, the scent of him taking me back to the afternoon we’d spend entangled in his bed. “Come home with us later.”
Yesterday, he’d have asked me why. Now, he nodded. “I’ll try.”
It was a fair answer and all I was getting. Something happened on the screen he was watching and stole his attention from me. He jabbed it with his finger. “Here we go.”
We mobilised, covering the small yard with the secured warehouse at our backs. As agreed, Rocco St John approached the rear of the warehouse, alone and wary. We tracked his every step until he reached the gate and Nash yanked him forward, making him stumble.
Rocco caught himself before he fell and spread his hands. “Easy. I come in peace.”
I stared him down. “Why?”
Rocco widened his legs as Nash searched him, flinching as Saint invaded his space and took his phone. “I need to talk to you.”
“Why should I care? Last time we breathed the same air, you were gassing my brothers.”
“That wasn’t me. I had no idea that was going down till after it happened.”
“Didn’t do shit to help us, though, did you?”
“Come on, Cam. Would you have fought the Sambinis for me? That crazy cartel fucker?”
He had a point. I’d always had a grudging respect for Rocco. In an organisation of morons, he was the one bloke who had a fucking brain. Who thought with more than his dick and his immediate bank balance. But... yeah. He was still a Crow. No way in hell would I risk my brothers for his. “What about the hit on me? Did you know about that?”
“Youknew about that.”
“So? I didn’t know who it was. If you’d come to me, we could’ve faced it down a lot sooner.”
Rocco set his jaw. “I’m not a fucking rat.”
“Then why are you here?”
The million-dollar question.
I lit a cigarette and offered the pack to Rocco.
He declined. “That shit’ll kill you.”
No one laughed.
He sighed, conflict raging in eyes that might’ve been pretty if I wasn’t surrounded by the prettiest motherfuckers known to man. “Frank’s gone,” he said, as if we needed reminding. “And we don’t hand the presidency on democratically. It goes to a blood Crow. Always has.”
“Frank ain’t got no sons, though.”
Rocco nodded. “Right. But he had brothers—three of them. Two already croaked it years ago, but the middle one ran a nomad crew up north back in the day.”
“Crows don’t have a nomad chapter.” Saint scowled in the darkness. “And I never saw any lone wolves when I ran up that way.”
“That was deliberate. Your nomad crew is as big as any regular club. As dangerous. So the Crows stayed low key until they struck gold with your dirty chapter ten years ago.”
Dirty chapter. My blood ran cold. Sometimes I forgot the entire underworld knew about that stain on our history. “All right. You have my attention. But that chapter doesn’t exist anymore and neither does anyone who rode with them, so how does a piss small nomad crew of yours affect us now?”
“Mitchell Buchanan.”
Another chill rattled my spine, igniting the years old rage I could never seem to shift. I was in motion before the words registered, flying at Rocco.
Saint got there first, seizing Rocco by his throat and hurling him to the ground. He said nothing. Just glowered, but it was enough.