Even Capone smirks at that. “Focus, boys. I’m not paying for therapy when this goes sideways.”
Blayze chuckles. “You don’t pay for therapy anyway.”
“Exactly,” Capone says, and the tension breaks for a heartbeat. Laughter fills the room, boots scrape against the floor, and shoulders bump.
I stay quiet. Because while they talk logistics and retaliation, I can still see that warehouse wall. Still smell Creed’s paint.
The Hellhounds aren’t a ghost story anymore. They’re back and they’re mine to kill, or die trying.
The room empties in waves, laughter and footsteps fading down the hall until it’s just the sound of engines cooling outside and the faint hum of Red’s equipment shutting down.
Blayze pats my shoulder on his way out. “You did good, brother.” I nod, not trusting myself to reply.
When the last man leaves Church, Capone doesn’t move. He stands at the head of the table, eyes fixed on the map still glowing from Red’s laptop. The cigarette between his fingers burns low, with the ash hanging by a thread.
“Close the door,” he says.
I do. The soft click sounds louder than any gunshot I’ve heard.
He takes a long drag, exhales smoke toward the ceiling, and finally looks at me. His eyes are calm and dark, like deep water before a storm.
“You lied to me.” It’s not an accusation. It’s a fact dropped into the quiet.
I stiffen, words scraping my throat. “About what?”
He raises a brow, unimpressed. “Don’t play dumb. I’ve known you too long. You touch the scar on your palm when you’re hiding something.” He steps closer, the weight of him filling the room. “You hesitated when you said the wordHellhounds.”
My mouth goes dry. “Old habits, maybe.”
“Bullshit.” He plants both hands on the table. “I know that name hits you different, Tiny. You think I don’t pay attention?”
I say nothing.
He leans forward. “You were one of them.” It’s not a question.
“Was,” I correct, voice tight.
“Then tell me why they’re in my city.”
I meet his stare, the weight of every mile I’ve ridden pressing into my spine. “Because some devils don’t stay buried.”
“Cut the poetry,” Capone snaps. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
The truth sits on my tongue like glass. Creed’s name, the smell of spray paint, the way my hands trembled when I saw it. But if I tell him… the brothers will never look at me the same.
So I lie again. “No.”
Capone studies me for a long time, smoke curling between us. “You’d tell me if there was, wouldn’t you?”
My jaw flexes. “Yeah.”
Capone exhales slowly through his nose, controlled. “I trust you, Tiny. You’ve earned that. But don’t make me regret it.” The silence that follows hums with unspoken things. Finally, he straightens, flicks his cigarette into the ashtray, and nods once. “Get some rest. We’ll brief again in the morning.”
“Yes, Prez.”
He starts toward the door, pauses halfway, and glances back. “One more thing.”
“Yeah?”