Page 16 of Nocturne
That part is a lie.
I spent those two weeks shadowing Damon, watching him from a distance. No contact. No one knew. Not even him.
“Bro, you should’ve come with us,” Zion says, pulling off his hoodie. His black hair buzzed short on the sides now, military-style. “Italy was insane. Grace killed five motherfuckers with a goddamn katana. I was laughing my ass off.”
“What the fuck was that?” I laugh, can’t help it, it just bursts out.
Grace shrugs, smirking. “In my defense, my gun was outta bullets. The only option I had was to rip the damn sword off the wall. Otherwise, I’d be dead.”
Zion snorts and flips her off, flashing his silver grill like he’s proud of her murder record.
Being back with my friends makes me feel a little better, but the thought of seeing Damon again, right there, in front of me, hits me outta nowhere. Shuts me up instantly. And I’m pretty sure Grace notices, but chooses not to say anything.
We keep walking toward the entrance, and I realize the place is packed as hell.
The warehouse is dark, damp, with water dripping from a busted ceiling onto cracked concrete. The kind of place that reeks of old gunpowder, sweat, and shit people never let go of.
The walls are tagged up with half-faded gang symbols, and every heavy step echoes like a half-assed threat. Guns out on tables. Fingers twitching near triggers. Feels like the wrong word could set the whole thing off.
Some people are still chatting like it’s no big deal, we even hear laughs, stupid jokes being thrown around, but only between people from the same side. No one’s crossing lines. My foot stumbles the second my eyes land on Damon.
He’s on the other side of the room. Shoulders squared, fists clenched, ready for a fight. But his eyes… His eyes are worse.
Empty. Locked in. Cold.
I stare, like testing an old scar to see if it still hurts. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t reallyseeme. Just looks right through, like I’m nothing but a ghost in the crowd.
Me, Grace, and Zion push through the crowd, making our way to where Carter’s standing with a few of the higher-ranking guys from the gang. We spot some familiar faces and greet them with nods, handshakes, the usual.
A bunch of people light up when they see Grace and Zion back, cheers, backslaps, like they’ve been gone for years.
I hang back for a second, then scan the warehouse again, searching for Damon. I have to keep an eye on him. No matter what.
“This ain’t a regular night,” I hear Carter’s voice cut through the noise, he’s Damon’s boss, and just like that, the crowd goes silent.
My boss, Thomas O’Connor, stands next to him, eyes narrowed like this really is the only option left.
Carter and O’Connor are older men, probably in their late thirties or early forties. They know how to fight and play politics better than anyone I’ve ever met. And even though we’re on opposite sides, I can’t deny the power and influence they both hold, even if our motives couldn’t be more different. The respect they command in our world is untouchable.
“This is a temporary alliance,” O’Connor says, locking eyes with Carter, who gives a short nod.
“We’ve all got unfinished business. Maybe with each other, maybe with people we know. But from now on, there will be no deaths, no threats, not until every last fucker from the Midnight Echoes is rotting six feet under. They think Boston belongs to them? Yeah, fuck that. Not on our watch.”
“From now on, you’re patrolling in mixed groups,” Carter says, jumping in, clapping his hands together like it’s game time.
“Streets, clubs, restaurants, back alleys, the whole fucking city’s ours to watch.”
“Any intel, bodies, weird moves, shady shit, if it’s tied to those pricks, you bring it straight to us. No guessing. No delays. Don’t play smart, don’t play hero.”
Damon’s behind Carter, jaw tight, like he’s holding something in, rage maybe, or just trying not to explode. He looks at Vincent and Emma for a beat, then steps forward like he just decided he’s done playing background.
And just like that, he’s dead center. Everyone’seyes on him.
“The money they jacked from the race?” Damon says, voice low and sharp. “We’re getting that shit back. No matter who bleeds.”
I watch him swallow hard, like the words taste like blood.
“Nobody fucks us over and walks away. Not them. Not anyone standing in this room.”
