Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
“Necessary like… paperwork necessary or necessary like you come back bleeding but swearing it’s fine?”
There is a hint of the Jami I know and love. The woman who would stand in front of a bullet for me, not that I would ever let her. It’s the way she cares, but accepts my life including the worry that sometimes is associated with it.
“Necessary like I come back for lunch with soup,” I answer, giving her what I can. “We’re doing things different.”
Her eyes lift to mine then, clear and too brave. “Promise?”
“On everything I got.”
We breathe. Head Case’s counting is in my bones now, a rhythm I’d mock if it hadn’t saved my life three times this week. Inhale four. Hold four. Exhale four. Hold. Her shoulders loosen one notch with each box breath. My chest does too. We stay like that until the clock clicks on the half hour.
“I hate this,” she whispers, quieter. “I know I need this, though.”
“I hate leaving you,” I admit. “But this is part of bringing you home for good. This is part of our life. Leaving this part you’ve endured behind you.”
Her face flickers. She knows what I mean. The men with door codes and motel curtains drawn at noon. The handler with a ledger keeping a tally that allows ends in a negative for her. The string that led from a bar to a bed to the back of a van for an escape.
“Okay,” she replies, and this time the okay is a hard-won thing, not a surrender. “If you’re not back for lunch, I’m telling Doc to get Tank to drag you home.”
I grin. “Terrifying.” My dad adores Jami and she knows it.
“Good.” She squeezes my fingers and lets go first on purpose. That’s new. That’s strength. “Bring soup. I like the loaded potato the best.”
“I’m bringing soup,” I promise, and lean down to kiss her forehead, a press that lasts a heartbeat longer than necessary.
When I stand, the room tilts for one second like grief tried to catch my heel. I plant it, nod to Doc in the hallway, and step into the morning that smells like cut grass and threat.
The cave for sermon is the only room I know where silence feels heavier than shouting. The table’s already full when I walk in. Tripp at the head, elbows on the wood like a man about to negotiate with a war lord. Tank to his right, arms folded, eyes sharp. Red, Crunch, Karma, a scatter of brothers posted along the walls, ready for whatever comes next. I take my chair and put my hands flat so they don’t make fists on their own.
Tripp clears his throat. “Brothers.”
“Brothers,” we answer, the sound low and locked in as the unit we are.
He nods to Karma, who sits forward, that coiled-still posture he gets when what he is about to share matters.
“We did more listening,” Karma starts. “Handler we disrupted? He’s not independent. He pays tribute to a supplier out of Maryland. Those boys pay dues up the chain to the Caputo family. Not a rumor. Paper trails and mouths that like to talk when they think no one’s listening.”
The name knots the air. Caputo isn’t a myth around here. We’ve run transports for them before. They carry those mafia rules of the past. Old money, old grudges, old routes. They prefer to be a rumor until they don’t want to stay in the shadows anymore.
“How deep?” Red asks.
“Deep enough to make the handler feel untouchable,” Karma says. “Not deep enough to be irreplaceable. The family sees him as cheap labor and plausible deniability. Our move cut into two things they like: revenue and silence.”
“So we go cut a deal,” Tank responds. Not flippant; practical. “We don’t want a war. We want them to stop feeding him. If the snakes head can’t be fed, the body dies. Caputo knows the Hellions own the Carolinas.”
Tripp looks to me then pauses. I don’t usually get the floor this early unless we’re talking bricks and contracts. Today, the weight of what he’s asking lives under the table with my rage.
“I know where your heart is,” he says. “But we do this clean. You hear me, Tommy?”
“I hear you,” I reply understanding I can’t be a lone wolf. “We stop the supply. We stop him. He doesn’t get to buy her life again.”
“Or anyone’s,” Crunch adds, voice low.
Karma laces his fingers. “Caputo senior is insulated. You can’t shake that tree and get an apple. You talk to the son — Vinnie. He runs day-to-day and likes to be seen as a made man. He’ll take a meet if he thinks it keeps things smooth. He won’t if he smells a corner.”
Tripp’s phone is already on the table. “I’ll make the call,” he says. “I’ll do it on speaker so we all hear the words he chooses.”