Denver.
The past few weeks had been a blur of smoke-filled rooms, late-night calls, and the kind of tension that crawled under your skin and stayed there.
Whenever I walked into a meeting with my men, the air felt like it could ignite. Half of them were angry, half were scared, and all were looking at me for answers.
“Lay low,” one of them growled two nights ago, slamming his fist against the table. “We already got boys behind bars, and you’re still walking around like a target.”
Another spat back, “Lay low? That’s exactly what they want us to do. Look weak, lose ground.”
I sat at the head of the table, listening, watching, letting them get it out. My men had always been wild, but now the cracks were showing—paranoia eating at their loyalty.
I shut them up with one look.
“This doesn
