Despite the gray skies, the sunlight outside the station feels harsh after the fluorescent lighting, but I breathe easier in the open air. My truck waits in the parking lot.
As I slide behind the wheel, my mind races with contingency plans. Detective Archer may have let this go for now, but if Sandra pushes hard enough for additional scrutiny, we could be in trouble. The cabin provides good security, but it’s only temporary. We need a more permanent solution.
My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Zeke requesting my presence at the club.
I start the engine, plotting the fastest route that will avoid traffic. The weight of Detective Archer’s questioning, Sandra’s accusations, and Naomi’s safety presses down on me like an anchor trying to drag me to the bottom of the sea.
Cigar smoke hangsthick in the air, mingling with expensive cologne and the underlying tension of high-stakes gambling. I survey the club’s main floor, transformed from nightclub to exclusive gaming den for today’s private event. All part of Zeke’s master plan to lead the local mafia organization.
Green felt drapes the tables where Columbus’s elite conduct their business through cards and dice rather than explicit negotiations. The familiar scents—tobacco, whiskey, money—trigger decades of memories. Some good, most bad.
A dealer’s crisp shuffle breaks through the murmur of conversation. Chips click against felt. Someone laughs—too loud, too forced. My gaze snaps to the sound, assessing. Just another wannabe tough guy trying to project confidence he hasn’t earned.
I make a mental note to have Eli check his background. New faces always warrant scrutiny, especially with the coalition still finding its footing.
Keep moving. Stay alert.
The mantra echoes in my head as I continue my circuit of the room. At fifty-four, I’m past my prime for this kind of work, but experience compensates for what age has taken.
I notice things younger men miss—subtle tells in body language, the way alliances shift like smoke across gaming tables, the undercurrents of ambition and resentment that could erupt into violence at any moment.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Naomi’s check-in, right on schedule. The urge to read her message immediately wars with professional discipline.Focus on the job. The text can wait.
She’s safe at the cabin, probably baking something delicious. The thought of her—flour-dusted hands, red curls escaping their bun, green eyes bright with concentration—brings an involuntary smile that I quickly suppress. Getting distracted could get us both killed.
Victor Russo raises his glass in greeting as I pass his table. The aging mobster’s hands tremble as he stacks his chips, but his eyes remain sharp. His son Nick hovers nearby, too eager to take control. The dynamic between them reminds me uncomfortably of Lucas and myself. Another father-son relationship poisoned by power and expectation.
Don’t go there. Thinking about Lucas leads to dangerous territory. To blood on floors and Naomi’s terrified eyes. To feelings I can’t afford to examine too closely.
A flash of movement in my peripheral vision snaps me back to the present. Three men in dark clothing emerge from the crowd with practiced coordination. Everything slows, adrenaline sharpening each detail into crystal clarity. The first attacker’s switchblade glints as it deploys, aiming for my kidney. A killing strike, not meant to wound.
Years of muscle memory take over. I pivot, redirecting the blade with my forearm while driving my other elbow into the attacker’s throat. The impact produces a satisfying crunch. He staggers back, eyes wide with shock, probably expecting an easier target.
Never assume the old man’s slow, asshole.
The second and third assailants converge from opposite angles, forcing me to split my attention. One swings a chain, the other brandishes brass knuckles. Professional equipment, professional moves. This isn’t random violence—it’s a message.
I duck the chain, feeling it whistle past my ear. The brass knuckles catch my arm as I block, pain blossoming sharp and immediate. Blood soaks my sleeve—mine or theirs, I can’t tell. Atable overturns as I grapple with the chain-wielder. Chips scatter across the floor like expensive confetti. Someone screams. The sound seems far away.
My size usually works against me in close quarters, but I use it to my advantage, letting momentum carry me into the smaller attacker. We crash into another table. Cards flutter through the air like dying butterflies. My opponent’s nose breaks with a wet snap under my elbow.Two down.
The third man gets in another shot before security responds, his brass knuckles hitting my biceps so hard it’ll leave a mark. Then Eli arrives like an avenging angel, all coiled violence and cold efficiency. The fight ends as abruptly as it began.
Silence descends, broken only by ragged breathing and the soft patter of blood dripping onto green felt. My arm throbs in time with my pulse. The room spins—blood loss or adrenaline crash, maybe both—but I stay on my feet. Showing weakness now would undermine everything we’ve built.
“Get them out of here,” I growl to Eli, who nods grimly. He and his team drag the attackers away to their eminent death, leaving only bloodstains and scattered chips as evidence of the violence.
Zeke materializes beside me, his expression thunderous. “Office. Now.” His clipped tone communicates volumes.
This attack is a challenge to our authority, a public demonstration that we’re vulnerable. Someone let these men in. Someone betrayed us.
“Dammit,” Zeke grumbles when we reach his office. “That cut needs stitches.”
He picks up his phone and calls the doctor he keeps on our payroll. In our line of work, we sometimes need an entire staff to heal our wounds.
Dr. Martinez arrives quickly, his medical bag ready. The doctor’s weathered face shows no reaction to my blood-soaked appearance. He’s patched me up too many times to be squeamish. I shrug out of my ruined jacket, wincing as the movement pulls at torn flesh.
“Looks worse than it is,” I mutter as Martinez examines the wound. It’s a lie and we both know it. The gash is deep. It’ll need stitches. But pride and necessity demand the pretense of invulnerability.