Nitro made a note. “We got someone at the bakery?”
“Yeah,” said the guy with the helmet nose. “Pork Chop’s cousin does deliveries there.”
“Tell him to watch for New York plates,” I said. “If Martini’s moving fast, they won’t have time to register the car here.”
Damron’s mouth twitched. “You sure you’re not one of us, Bellini?”
I surprised myself by laughing. “Not unless you make robes in leather.”
Seneca squeezed my hand again, this time letting it linger. The room seemed lighter, like the threat had shifted from inevitable to just plausible.
The planning went on for hours. I saw my own logic reflected in the way the club planned: ruthlessly, efficiently, always two moves ahead. For the first time in years, I didn’t feel like a tourist in my own life. I felt like I was where I belonged.
We were marking up a new set of approaches when my phone rang. The number was from Yonkers. I froze, holding the phone like it might detonate.
Seneca leaned in, voice barely a whisper. “Who is it?”
“My father.”
The room went silent. Even Damron stopped talking.
I answered, thumb trembling.
“Catherine,” said the voice, thick with smoke and rage. “You know what time it is?”
“Yes, Dad.”
He spat, a sound I hadn’t heard since I was twelve. “Martinis are moving. They called in people from Atlantic City. This isn’t a local beef anymore.”
I swallowed. “I know. I’m not alone, though.”
A pause. “You’re with the bikers.”
It wasn’t a question.
“I am.”
He grunted. “Good. Better to die with people who don’t lie to your face. Listen to me, Cat. Don’t try to outsmart them. Just survive. That’s all I ever wanted from you.”
The line went dead.
I stood there, the phone heavy in my hand. The room was still, every face turned to me. For a second, I felt like the little girl again, the one who never knew if her father would come home or end up on the news.
Seneca took the phone from me, set it on the table, and said, “We’re in this together, Catherine.”
Damron nodded. “The Bloody Scythes protect their own.”
Nitro raised his glass. “To outlasting the enemy.”
I raised mine, voice steady. “To outlasting everything.”
The men cheered, loud and wild. Someone turned up the music. Nitro started wiring up the front gate. Seneca leaned in and kissed my cheek, the touch light and real. For the first time in years, I didn’t feel outnumbered. I felt ready.
Chapter thirteen
Seneca
The clubhouse buzzed like a nest kicked by steel-toed boots. Every patch brother and hang-around was up, moving at the tempo of a controlled panic. You could smell the adrenaline, the old gun oil, the stale sweat and Red Bull, all layered over the usual undertone of cigarette ash and leather. Someone had cracked the roll-up bay, and the desert air leaked in, sharpening every sound and making the night electric.
