Page 44 of Ginger

"What kind of conversation?" Vegas asked.

"The kind that ensures he understands exactly who he's dealing with." I folded the map. "The kind that makes sure he leaves Ginger and the rest of our people alone. I don’t plan to use violence unless he gives me no choice."

"And if he doesn't listen to reason?" Vegas asked, his fingers resuming their endless drumming against the table.

I met his gaze steadily. "Then I suggest we move to the kind of conversation that doesn't involve words."

The brothers exchanged a look, a silent communication born from years of shared blood and brotherhood. Vegas finally nodded his consent.

"We'll be ready," Diego said simply. “I’ll back you up, along with Baltimore.”

“What about me?” Reno asked. “I want in on this.”

I shook my head. “I need you with Ginger. Keep her calm and distracted. I don’t need her to know where I am. Not until it’s finished.”

“Fine.” He sighed, but I knew he understood my reasoning.

Vegas dismissed everyone. They rose, disappearing through the door as quietly as they had entered.

Alone with Vegas, I flipped through the photographs one last time. Rayburn's face stared back at me from a dozen different angles—outside the café, entering the gas station, kickstarting his bike behind the strip club. In each image, he wore the same expression: a man who believed himself untouchable, superior, safe.

Tomorrow night, that would change. Tomorrow night, Mr. Rayburn would learn that in our territory, no one was untouchable. No one was safe. Not when they threatened what was ours.

I gathered the photos and notes. The plan was set. The trap was laid. All that remained was the execution—and that was the part I did best.

“Keep things clean,” Vegas said. “If you need more than the three of you to pull it off, back down and pick another day. Understood?”

“Got it, Pres.”

I leaned against the brick wall in the alley behind The Pink Kitten, my leather cut keeping most of the chill at bay as I waited. The neon sign above the back door buzzed and flickered, casting sickly pink shadows that danced across the puddles at my feet. The bass from inside thumped through the walls, a heartbeat for the sins happening within. I checked my watch. Eleven forty-five. Rayburn would be here in fifteen minutes if he stuck to his schedule. And I knew he would.

The brothers were positioned strategically—one at the mouth of the alley, the other on the roof of the adjacent building with a rifle, ready in case things went south. I didn't need to see them to know they were watching, ready to move at my signal. But this conversation needed to happen one-on-one. Man to man. Predator to prey.

I lit a cigarette, the flame from my lighter briefly illuminating my face before darkness swallowed it again. The nicotine hit my lungs, calming the rage that had been simmering since I'd heard Rayburn wanted to own Ginger.

He’d fucked up by sending those goons after her. No one threatened what was mine.

Rain started to fall, light at first, then heavier. It drummed against the metal dumpsters and fire escapes, creating a symphony of urban decay. The pavement grew slick, reflecting the neon signs and distant streetlights like a painting left out in the rain. The smell of wet asphalt mixed with cigarette smoke and the faint scent of perfume and sweat that always lingered around strip clubs.

An engine growled in the distance, growing louder as it approached. I took one last drag of my cigarette before dropping it, crushing it under my boot. Showtime.

The sleek black sports car turned into the alley, its headlights cutting through the rain. Rayburn guided it to his usual spot near the back door, killing the engine but leaving the lights on. He stepped out, straightening his jacket.

He hadn't noticed me yet, standing in the shadows just beyond the reach of his headlights. I watched him run a hand through his hair. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, placed one between his lips, and reached for his lighter.

That's when I stepped forward, the sound of my boots on wet pavement announcing my presence before the lights revealed my face.

Rayburn froze, cigarette dangling unlit from his mouth, eyes widening slightly before he controlled his expression. "Can I help you?" he asked, his voice steady despite the tension I could see in his shoulders.

"You're in a position to help yourself," I replied, stopping a few feet away from him. Close enough to strike if necessary, far enough to react if he went for his ankle piece.

Recognition dawned in his eyes. "Dark Wrath, right?" He removed the cigarette from his lips and tucking it back into the pack. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I think you know." I kept my voice low, forcing him to strain to hear me over the rain and the muffled thump of bass from inside the club.

He tried for a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I'm afraid I don't. I'm just here for some entertainment after a long day."

"Cut the shit, Rayburn." I took another step forward. "I know you think Ginger belongs to you."

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