Page 86 of Doomed

“Not like this,” Vane insists. “This is different. It’s like she cracked something open in him.”

“Maybe we’re all fucked,” I laugh.

Truth is, I am fucked. Completely, utterly, irreversibly fucked. And not in the way I’ve spent most of my adult life—chasing nameless women through club backrooms and hotel suites. This is different. Bianca is different.

I take another swig of whiskey, letting it burn down my throat while the realization settles deeper. The parade of strippers, the endless lap dances, the women whose names I never bothered to remember—none of that matters anymore. Just her. Only her.

But I’ll be damned if I’m telling my brothers that. They’d never let me live it down.

Vane’s phone buzzes, cutting through my thoughts. He checks the screen, then answers with a curt, “What?” His expression shifts to business mode as he listens. “Lars. Yeah.”A pause. “Tomorrow works. Same location?” Another pause. “Understood.”

He hangs up and looks at Xavier. “Lars says we’re good for the exchange tomorrow. Ten AM at the warehouse.”

Xavier nods, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Cash is already prepared. Six hundred thousand in unmarked hundreds, like we discussed.”

“The carnival crew always delivers,” I say, swirling my whiskey. “Gotta give Tyson credit. For a bunch of traveling freaks, they run a tight operation.”

Vane snorts. “Remember when we first started working with them? Xavier thought they’d rip us off within three months.”

“I had concerns,” Xavier corrects, straightening his cuff links. “Six years later, and they’ve never been late or light on a shipment.”

I lean back, propping my feet on the glass table. “Plus, no one looks twice at a carnival crossing state lines. Perfect cover.”

“Genius,” Vane agrees. “They move the product in, we move it out. Clean handoff, no connection.”

Xavier checks his watch. “With tomorrow’s shipment, we’ll have enough supply to cover the east side expansion. I’ve already prepped our street teams.”

“Jenson’s been whining about needing more product in the Heights,” I mention. “Rich college kids can’t get enough of our premium shit.”

“That’s because Tyson’s crew doesn’t cut their product with garbage,” Vane says. “Pure Colombian, how we like it.”

“Speaking of,” I add, “we should send them something extra this time. That last batch they brought in was top-tier.”

Xavier considers this, then nods. “I’ll throw in another fifty grand. Good faith gesture.”

“Tyson will appreciate that,” Vane says. “Though I think Lars is the one who actually handles their end of the finances.”

I laugh. “Yeah, while Tyson’s off playing ringmaster and playing house with that mob boss’s daughter.”

“Some men don’t know how to keep business and pleasure separate,” Xavier says pointedly, his eyes boring into mine.

“Says the man obsessed with a journalist trying to expose us,” I fire back with a grin.

Xavier ignores my jab, reaching for the bottle on our table instead. “Another round,” he says, pouring three fingers into each of our glasses. The amber liquid catches the club lights, glinting like gold.

I knock mine back immediately, relishing the burn. Anything to distract me from thoughts of Bianca and the remaining fourteen hours stretching between us.

“You racing next Friday?” Vane asks, swirling his whiskey before taking a sip.

“Ravenwood Underground?” Xavier raises an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

The motorcycle race is a monthly tradition—illegal street racing through Ravenwood’s industrial district. High stakes, higher speeds, and enough adrenaline to keep even the Blackwood brothers satisfied. We’ve dominated for years, though Xavier still holds the most wins.

“You’re going down this time,” Vane smirks at Xavier. “Been tweaking my Kawasaki. She’s purring like a dream.”

“Keep dreaming,” Xavier replies with rare amusement. “You’ve been saying that for years.”

I lean forward, suddenly energized. “What do you say we make this interesting? Bring our girls to watch?”