Page 21 of Cook

For this come-to-Jesus meeting, whatever the reason, a number of guys from LA came down, including Angel, the fucking giant Sasquatch, and the tattoo artist, Graff. Thankfully, there were several of my guys there too. Jackyl, Tice, and Celt. There’d been a TV installed on the wall above the little dinette, and the Warden stared back at us from the screen.

We were evenly mixed, though missing a few of our officers. When it came to church, only patched members were allowed, so none of the prospects or the ol’ ladies were present. Though Wilde often let Bou interlope on club business. Given her position, her relation to Celt, and her fucking prowess with her little iron buddies littered around the shop, not a one of the officers dared complain.

My tardiness, on the other hand . . .

“Where the fuck you been?” asked Celt from the front.

“I was riding,” I lied. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in this hell of a desert I was telling them about the situation with Maddie. I hadn’t told Celt that I was in Phoenix and planned to keep it that way.

Doc and Richardson couldn’t say shit either. Confidentiality rules governed them, right? Kimmers, though, wasn’t bound by the same red tape. When I’d gotten the call from Celt about church, I didn’t have enough time to make it by noon, anyway. But then I had to make sure Maddie ate.

That was on me.

Celt crossed his arms over his broad chest and narrowed his eyes on me. His cop gun was holstered to his waist. Here, he was as the law and executioner, yet everyone else in the room was surely packing as well.

“Traffic,” I said.

“Cut it. We got other shit to deal with,” said Wilde. “Ward?”

From the TV, Ward began, “We got a message today from the Gambinos. Vicenzo, to be specific.”

Angel piped up. “What did that motherfucker want?”

The enormous man, Sas, moved to Angel’s side, staring up at the screen. “Wasn’t our message at Barton Mill clear e-fucking-nough?”

Celt leaned onto the granite countertop, putting his weight on both hands. “The Don’s still sitting behind bars, so this has to be a last-ditch effort, yeah?”

Ward rolled his lips between his teeth and waited for everyone to shut the fuck up. It took a hot second for the rumbling to die down before he said, “We got a video message. Wilde’s seen it.”

“Play it for the others,” Wilde said. “We’ve gotta figure out as a club what the fuck we doing to get the mafia off our asses?”

Everybody’s eyes were glued to the TV as our hacker rolled the footage. An old man in an opulent office with dark wood and burgundy leather came on the screen.

“That’s Enzo Gambino,” said Wilde. “Fucker doesn’t even introduce himself.”

On the screen, Gambino leaned forward, lacing his fingers, and looked into the camera. The man was old, and any of us in this roomcould take him down in a heartbeat, but he was going to sit in his wealthy office and address us.

Why?

Gambino’s message started:

Yesterday, I had to put my sister-in-law in the ground, thanks to your little motorcycle-riding gang. I can’t express the sorrow it brings me to lose our Amaranta. Perhaps you can imagine my state of mind as I film this message.

I presume you received our message about how serious la Famiglia is about your attempt to bring coke into our territory. I hope the little explosion we orchestrated conveyed our position on the matter.

The thing is, my brother’s capos and I aren’t quite sure we’ve made ourselves clear. The Gambinos run this territory, from Vegas to Phoenix to Los Angeles. Our men on the streets have orders to shoot your little bikers on sight if we see any of them so much as come near our operations again.

With your safety in mind, we suggest that you consider finding a home outside the Yuma Triangle.

The video went dark.

I swallowed hard as Angel threw his fist down on the counter. “Did that bastard just threaten us?”

Sas leaped off his barstool. “Sounded like he put out hits on all of us. Also, sounds like a declaration of war. We fucking lost hundreds of thousands in that explosion. What the fuck else do they want?”

Wilde, with his arms folded over his chest, said, “I’ve lived through too many gang wars, and my club’s not getting into that shit. Plus, the Mafia’s not like dealing with street gangs.”

The Warden came back on screen. “A written message came along in the email too, but it basically said the same thing. Death to anyone they see interfering in their drug biz or arms dealing.”

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