Page 25 of Nocturne
“Aiden…” Emma digs through her memory like she’s searching for a missing piece. “Aiden Burke.”
“So Noah was part of Midnight?”
Silence settles over the room. Vincent and Emma are both staring at me, waiting for something— a word, a reaction, anything. But I can’t speak. I’m too busy choking on everything I just found out, spinning through a thousand theories about who the fuck Noah really was.
“What are you gonna do now?” Vincent drops the photo back on the table.
“I don’t know, man.” Shit, I got no clue what to do, but I gotta move. Standing still ain’t an option.
Can’t go after that son of a bitch Aiden. No way I’m telling Carter shit either. Gotta think fast. Can’t be dumb enough to ignore the fact he was with Midnight. That changes everything.
Fuck. What do I do? Shit.
I clench my fists, try to stay rational, but the rage burns up from my feet to my head like a damn wave. Makes me dizzy. I’m so close. So damn close to catching the bastard who killed my brother. Can’t fuck this up now. I’m gonna settle this shit.
Lean over the table, grab all the photos quickly, and shove them back in the envelope. I know Emma and Vincent got their eyes glued on my back, but they don’t sayshit. Doesn’t matter. Nothing’s stopping me. I’m doing what the fuck I want, with or without permission.
“I’m out. If anyone asks, you don’t know me and you didn’t see shit.”
I open the door and face Sean, still sitting in the same spot, but now more guys around the table — drinking, smoking, a few guns laid out in front of them.
“Damon! Wait!” I hear Emma’s voice, sharp with worry. “This is suicide.”
I don’t answer.
Cross the hallway I came through, turn right, and head into the bathroom. Lock the door. Pace back and forth, heart pounding in my throat. Turn on the tap and splash water on my face, trying to shake off the tension stuck to my skin.
For a moment, I stare at myself in the mirror: shaved head, tired face, jaw tight, eyes full of hate. The black tee shows off my tattoos on my arms, running down to my hands. Dry my face with a towel, take a deep breath, open the door, and head straight outside, knowing exactly where I’m going. The first Midnight base I can find.
“Open your damn mouth, idiot!” I snap.
I can’t just punch him once. I beat him, hard, the blood dripping from his mouth like payment for every second Noah spent alone with those bastards. His skin’s already turning purple, and I don’t even care. My hands hurt, but the anger screams louder.
The wall he’s leaning against smells like old piss and mold, and the sound of my fists smashing his face mixes with a distant siren no one’s going to answer. Thewhole city feels like it’s watching from above — through the rusted fire escapes cutting across the alley like prison bars in the sky.
The ground’s soaked, flooded with trash mashed into rainwater and God-knows-what else. Overflowing dumpsters tagged with graffiti spill ripped-up bags, and the stench is rot and neglect — just like the shitty gang he rides for.
Yellow light leaks through high windows from some abandoned office building, just enough for me to see the fear in his eyes.
“Aiden,” I growl, gripping his shirt. “What was he doing with my brother?” He coughs, tries to speak — but all that comes out is blood and cowardice.
This place... this cursed alley in Boston... it was made for dirty secrets, for truths ripped out through pain. And I’m not leaving without a fucking answer.
“I…” he stammers, eyes wide, soul practically leaking out of his body. "Man, all I know is... he came from Newport.
He’s been running shit from the beginning. I don’t have much info, I swear.”
“What do you want in Boston?” I shake out my right hand — sore, red, barely under control. "I want an answer. A real one.”
“Bro, that’s all I know…” He spits blood and saliva onto the ground. "They know Boston’s a good hub, y’know?"
“What the fuck are you talking about?" I kick him in the gut. He drops to his knees.
“International trafficking, man. That’s what I’m sayin’! I swear that’s all I know. They got heavy contacts. Big names. That’s it, I swear, bro!”
I stare at him, kneeling there, chest heaving, blood still running down his face. Those words pound inside my head — “heavy contacts.” “international trafficking.” “Boston’s a good hub.”
This ain’t just street beef.
