Two weeks of plastic chairs and white walls and machines beeping out the rhythm of my sins.
Two weeks of Xavier lying in that hospital bed, chest rising shallow and stubborn, while the whole fucking city leans in to see if the king is going to wake up or stay a ghost.
Two weeks of Valentina in his chair, at his table, behind his desk.
And somehow, she’s… good at it.
That might be the part that scares me the most.
The Raider house feels different now. The same chipped bricks, same scuffed floors, same patched leather cuts hanging from the hooks in the main room—but the air is wired, tight. Conversations cut off when certain people walk in. Laughs don’t land all the way. Everyone’s still moving, riding, hustling, but there’s this hum underneath it, like the sound before a storm hits the windows.
Half the guys look at Valentina like she’s a flame they want to stand close to and warm their hands on. The other half look at her like that same flame might be the one that burns this house down.
I don’t know which side I fall on.
Maybe both.
I shove those thoughts aside as I lean over a cracked wooden bar downtown, ring tapping against a sticky patch near the edge. The guy in front of me is sweating through his beer-stained shirt, eyes flicking between me and the door like he thinks God Himself is going to stroll in and save him.
“He said end of the week,” the man babbles, hands open like the gesture might count as collateral. “Xavier said?—”
“Xavier isn’t here,” I cut in, voice flat.
That shuts him up.
A TV mutters in the corner, some muted game nobody’s watching. The rest of the bar has that tired, late-afternoon feel—working men, bent shoulders, a couple pool cues cracking in the back. Nobody’s paying us direct attention. They’re all too busy not looking.
I drum my fingers once, then let my hand go still. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous. I’m only charging you interest, not teeth.”
He swallows hard. “I can get it, I swear, I just—things have been weird on our end, with the Vipers pushing and?—”
The rest of his sentence dies on his tongue. He looks like he wants to shove the words back into his throat.
My head tilts. “With the what?”
He shakes his head too fast. “Nothing, I mean, just… gossip. You know how people talk.”
Wrong thing to say to me.
I push off the bar, closing the distance between us. I’m not tall like Xavier, not built like Asher, but fear doesn’t care about stats. Fear cares about intention. I let mine show.
“Look at me,” I say.
His gaze jerks up.
“What about the Vipers?” I ask, quiet.
His lips part, but nothing comes out.
I let my hand drift down to the bar, knuckles cracking. “You hear something, you say something. That’s how this works. You owe us money and respect, not selective hearing.”
From the corner, one of ours—Dre, a prospect—shifts his weight, ready if I need him. I don’t.
The man licks his lips. “They’ve been… moving,” he whispers.
“Clarify.”
“Guys from over there, they’ve been around more. I’ve seen their patches, farther south than usual. They’re hitting spots they used to leave alone. Heard they’re stocking up. Guns. People.”