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Eli walks in, tapping a clear bag. I jump off the counter and slap him across the head just as Bishop reaches for it, popping it open. “What the fuck?”
“What?” Eli smirks at all of us. “Figure he could use some to get through.”
My mouth snaps closed, my fist clenching. “Yeah? Giving an 8-ball to someone who is already on edge.”
“I’m fucking fine,” Bishop snaps, pouring the powder out on the table while Nate’s rolling up a bill.
I glare at Nate. “Really?”
“Fuck, you’re so grumpy.” He tosses the rolled-up bill at my chest. “Save us some moody bullshit and take a line like you used to.”
“I’m good.” I flick it back at him. “Have fun explaining to Tillie why you’re so fucking cooked while she’s pregnant, though. I’ll be sure to spit on your grave.”
Nate flashes me a smirk. “I love you, too.”
Bishop takes the line before Nate and Eli go. Hunter turns it down, as does Cash.
Hunter flicks Nate’s head. “You do realize why Bran can’t have any, right?”
I ignore their conversation.
“He can’t exactly be high off his head during a job.”
“He wouldn’t get one tonight,” Nate answers.
“For the record.” Bishop clears his nostril. “I ain’t touching this shit again once that gavel is in my hand. I need my head clear.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” I growl. “And you, fucker.” I point at Nate. “We’re not in fucking high school anymore.”
“It’s just snow.” Nate rolls his eyes.
“Yeah?” I grin at him. “I’ll be sure to say that to you when little War comes home cooked off his head.”
He flips me off. Dropping their baby name was probably a low blow, but the amount of coke we’ve all done in our life could build a fucking snowman. Warren Riverside. The name alone sounds like fucking trouble.
The bag is put away, and our circle is tight again. Hector walks in with all of the older Kings behind him, fluffing up his suit jacket. Max, Raguel, Johan, Madison’s biological father. They’re all here. “You ready for the first phase?”
I smirk up at Hector from behind my joint. “Never been more ready.”
Hector notices Bishop clearing his nostril. “Don’t make that a habit, son.”
“It was a goodbye to the old me line.”
Hector rests against one of the counters, his tatted-up hand wrapping around it. “The first phase is the most important.” He turns to Max and nods. Max steps out from behind him, handing us all a black envelope with gold writing on the front.
“You may have noticed your group has thinned over the years, with some disappearing without a trace. They will all be at phase two of the ceremony tonight, because although you will not see them, maybe not ever again, they are still part of your generation of brotherhood.” Hector clips the end of a cigar. “Chase, Saint, Ace, and more recently, Jase.” He pauses, and I blow out a thick cloud of smoke before shrugging off my jacket and rolling up the sleeves to my shirt. “The reason why this is, is the very reason why The Elite Kings have managed to hold power in all four corners of this fucked-up world. How do you think we have people in important sectors? Because we put them there.” He pushes off the counter and points to Bishop. “This group here, who are standing here, is who you will be with until you pass it down to the next. They will be your Raguel, your Max, your Johan.”
“Your generation wasn’t always this small…” I muse out loud.
Hector smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “No.” He looks around at all of us. “You’re all well-acquainted with your duties within the club, and you’ve fulfilled them to almost excellence since.” His eyes come to mine. “Absolute excellence.”
I nod, accepting his compliment.
“Once phase two is completed, we will be back here to fulfill the final step. Open your envelopes.” He looks down to his watch, pressing the button on the side. “You have two hours to fulfill phase one.”
I tear open the envelope, finding a black piece of paper with words written in silver scribbled across.
I fold up the paper, grinding my teeth. “Are they ever going to do anything remotely cliché or normal? Or are we always just taking hits from out in left field.”
Bishop looks up at me with hooded eyes. “We’re right in our element.”
I smirk at him. “Touché.”
I gesture to the line of cars parked on the curb. “We need to all be able to get away if needed. We should all take our own cars.” I beep the alarm of my Bugatti, pointing down the line. “Even though they’re going to know it’s us.”
Bishop laughs, sliding into his Maserati at the front of the line. “Could be another band of outlaws who all roll in blacked-out Euro cars.”
Nate climbs into his Lambo, Eli in his Ferrari, Hunter in his Porsche, and Cash into his Aston. All black. Everything black, but each license plate with a crown hidden behind the numbers that is only exposed under a black light.