Page 8 of Dragonfly

Before I can show Lincoln that, he shrugs. “Maybe it’s legit. Not every gun in Springfield has to come through me?—”

Sighing, I angle the gun so that he can see what’s been etched into the butt of the handle.

Every illegitimate gun that makes its way through Springfield has Devil’s mark. Even if he buys from Valdez or Reno, once the serial numbers are filed off, the devil horns and tail are engraved somewhere on the weapon.

So why the fuck does this Glock have a snowflake etched instead?

I don’t know, and I’ve spent more than a week searching for answers about this mark even before I found it on a confiscated weapon. Now that I’ve seen it on a gun, things have gotten a little more complicated—and it’s Lincoln’s turn to understand that.

His hand snatches out to grab it.

I disappear it back into the case before he can. “My enforcer found it. To show I’m not freezing you out, I’m letting you know, but it belongs to the Dragonflies now. Understand?”

A muscle tics in his jaw. “Keep the gun if that’s what you want. I saw enough. A snowflake… who the fuck does that belong to?”

If I knew, I would’ve dealt with this situation myself before bringing it up to him. “I thought you could answer that for me. In the spirit of our truce. Remember, it’s us against them now.”

“Yeah? Well, that’s nothing I’ve even seen before—” He pauses, eyes flashing angrily. “Wait. What are you telling me?” The hand on the table flexes, tugging on the tablecloth. “Is some other operation trying to move in our turf?”

Just for this meet, I placed the gun Vin took off the girl in the briefcase where I can keep tabs on it. As for what I have in the pocket of my suit jacket…

I reach inside, pulling out one of the baggies that’s found its way through my properties. The Dragonflies might not have a trademark nightclub like the Devil’s Playground on the West Side, but we own two concert halls, three clubs, countless restaurants, twelve bars, and more coffee shops than I can even think to number. That’s not even mentioning all the businesses on our turf that we have a hand in, either.

If it was just some outside operation trying to give Lincoln and his boys a run for their money by bringing guns into Springfield, that would be fine. But once I discovered that someone else thinks they can cut into my business…

I show Lincoln the baggie full of white crystals, knowing he’d recognize it as the dirty Eclipse giving him trouble.

Tossing it onto the table, I tap the plastic, drawing his attention to the stamp on it.

It’s a motherfucking snowflake.

Leaning back into my seat, I cross my arms over my chest, comforted by the weight of my stiletto’s sheath and holster tucked beneath my pit.

Meeting the stunned look on Lincoln’s face, I cock my head. “You tell me.”

He can’t, and that pisses me off as much as it does him.

I don’t like to get angry. Bad things happen when I lose my cool, but knowing that there’s some upstart out there who thinks they can push their drugs through my city and run their guns past Lincoln? It’s close.

We spend the rest of the meal trading intel. Lincoln vows that he’ll have at least a name for the syndicate behind the snowflake within twenty-four hours; with his genius tech guy, Tanner, on the payroll, I don’t doubt it. Then, when I can tell I’ve kept him from his pregnant wife long enough, we head out together as though half the restaurant didn’t get up to leave when we did.

Lincoln has a personal driver. Years ago, Luca St. James was the getaway driver for a small-time burglary trio in Hamilton, the next state over. When their last job went south, he hopped in his car and headed right to Springfield, figuring he could get lost in the big city.

He didn’t. He had a run-in with a couple of Sinners almost immediately, and while my intel is good, it’s not infallible. I don’t know how he managed to not only talk his way into joining Lincoln’s syndicate, but also getting the gig of driving the Devil of Springfield around the city. He did, though, and he’s been working for Lincoln ever since.

I can’t do it. And maybe it’s my control issues manifesting in a whole other way, but if I’m in a car? I’m going to be the one behind the wheel.

That doesn’t mean I’m about to climb into my vehicle without checking it over first. Vin is paranoid enough that he’ll always hop in my car to see if it’ll explode on me, but there’s a difference between being paranoid and cautious. A cautious man who makes it to forty in a hard life knows precisely how to look for signs of tampering without having to open the car first—and that’s exactly what I do.

Vin is at home with Genevieve tonight. I made sure Christopher leaves safely with his boyfriend du jour, then slip into my driver’s seat. Only then, under the pretense of checking my rearview mirror, do I search for my shadow.

The ugly, banged-up dark blue four-seater is parked along Verona Avenue, about six spots behind mine. Even though it’s dusk, the setting sun playing tricks on me, I see the silhouette in the front seat and smile.

It’s her.

How she thinks I don’t notice that she’s been following me around Springfield, I have no clue. The car might have been enough to escape my notice, but the first time I caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of my eye, I knew I’d never forget that face.

She’s stunning. With hair as black as mine without any of the silver, and pretty light brown eyes that always seem to be watching me unblinkingly, she’d probably have an easier time passing as my sister than Genevieve does. My attraction to her, though… the way she has my cock twitching is nothing like the deep affection I have for Gen.

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