Granite cleared his throat. “That bullet had my name on it. It was meant for me, and as always, Dutch and his stubborn fucking ass just had to take the fall.” His voice broke as if he choked on the pain, on the grief. I had seen a lot of fucked-up shit in my life, but none of it was as hard to witness as seeing Granite barely holding it together.
Crow’s boots squeaked on the tiles, his strong presence demanding our attention. “You have forty-eight hours to mourn the loss of your VP. After that, I will collect.”
He turned, and Onyx shot up to his feet. “And what is it you’ll be collecting, exactly?’
Crow turned, green orbs of power glowering directly at me. “Him.”
If this wasn’t the most perfectly fucked-up moment in the history of the Kings, I’d be on my feet and chewing his ass by saying something stupid to provoke him even further. But my mind was nothing but a pit of darkness, and I couldn’t form a single coherent sentence even if I tried.
Onyx stepped up to Crow, every line on his face painted with grief. “You shot him. In the end, you were the one who killed the fucker. You got what you wanted. There’s no reason for you to fucking collect anything.”
“He,” Crow pointed directly at me while keeping his eyes fixed on Onyx, “had the fucker all this time when he knew I was out for blood. And in my books, that’s a classic act of betrayal.”
“No.” Onyx stood firm. “You wanted blood, and you got it. You killed him. There was no betrayal.”
Crow smirked, amusement plastered on his hardened face. “Either you hand over your SAA to pay for his crime against me and my crew, or you’ll have a new war on your goddamn front porch.” Crow pushed a finger against Onyx, making a show of his dislike and lack of respect. “If it wasn’t for all the years of business between us, I wouldn’t even give you the forty-eight hours to mourn. So, bury your VP, and then hand over your SAA.” He leaned closer to Onyx, his top lip curled. “Do not fuck with me, Onyx. You’ll lose.”
The threat weaved through his words. Like poison eating away at your flesh, there was no ignoring Crow’s warning. Every man in this goddamn room knew Crow always made good on a threat. Always.
20
Neon
Just when Iwas sure I had no more tears left to cry, something happened to knock me on my ass, squeezing more pain from my soul to wet my cheeks. For a moment—just for a fucking moment—I thought I was free of him. I thought the world was finally rid of the evil that clung to Slither’s blood like a virus, and I let my guard down for one goddamn second. I allowed myself to be swept up by the freedom his demise brought me, to let the relief flow over me like I had just been given another chance at life. It was in that one second of complete vulnerability, thinking I had nothing more to fear, that Slither managed to give us one final ‘fuck-you’ by pulling that trigger one last time. And now I didn’t even know whether Dutch was dead. All I saw when Crow’s SAA dragged me out of there was blood. So much goddamn blood, it was hard to believe there was even half a chance he’d be able to get up from that.
Sitting on the sidewalk on the street across the rundown building, I wiped my face with the back of my hand before looking up at the guy who hauled my ass out of that room.
Bane. That was the name on his cut under his sergeant-at-arms tag. All these goddamn Sixes had the same look in their eyes—like they were gods sent to rule and to just do whatever the fuck they wanted.
The warm breeze ruffled his dark hair cut short at the back, longer at the front. His cold stare of electric blue remained fixed on me, blatantly not giving a shit whether I felt uncomfortable under his gaze.
I toyed with a piece of broken glass before tossing it on the asphalt. “Is he dead? Dutch?”
He shrugged, not saying a word, just fucking staring at me. Leaning against a lamppost with his designer jeans and expensive shitkickers, he sure as fuck didn’t look like any crew member I’d met. But that was what made them different, the Sixes. Or, more correctly, the Gods of Six. With their sleek Ducatis and fucking manicured wardrobe, they were all just too damn good-looking, soaked in wealth and decorated with a fuck-ton of money.
I never liked these assholes. They always gave me the fucking creeps whenever they met up with the guys at The Hangman. Behind those charismatic smiles and perfect postures hid a whole lot of wicked shit.
Rubbing my shoulders, I lifted my face to the sky. Dusk was starting to settle, the sun slowly retreating. “Could you at least try to find out if our guy is alive or not?”
“Do I look like a fucking messenger boy?”
“No, but you look like a dick.”
A smirk tugged at the edges of his mouth. “I think I might have been wrong.”
“About what?”
He glanced at me from under his lashes, those blue eyes all shiny and shit. “You might just be my type.”
“Dream on, Armani boy. Your hands ain’t dirty enough.”
He smirked, and true as fuck, chills ran up my spine. With that half-smile of his, he might as well have told me he had slaughtered an entire family with their kids and two-day-old puppies yesterday on his lunch break.
The broken door of the warehouse creaked, and Crow came out first—his demeanor that of a motherfucker who thought he owned the goddamn ground he walked on. Two more of his men flanked him, but there was no sign of Granite, Onyx, Ink…or Dutch.
I pushed myself off the ground, the pit of my stomach hollow and my skin coated in dread. Where were they? Why weren’t they coming out?
Crow crossed the road and headed directly at me, his stare making me feel two feet tall. “Are you hurt?”