Page 161 of Hurt

Then again, Elijah wasn’t exactly their key demographic. Most nights he ate out of a convenience store’s warmer case.

Even the impeccably dressed Roland looked out of place. His name brand suit should have fit right in, but no amount of designer labels could hide the guarded look in his eyes. Or his battered hands that he kept hidden under the table. He sat straight in the high-backed leather chair with his back to the wall, watching the front door closely.

The true measure of any restaurant was the food. Unfortunately, the Weavers were not here to taste the overpriced pasta.

Elijah fiddled with a knife and resisted the urge to loosen his tie. His thumb traced along the smooth lines of his blade, flicking against the edge experimentally to test its sharpness. He knew it was dull. He hadn’t sharpened it since the day of the Sun Down Campaign.

He wasn’t sure who named their attack on the Catacombs, or why it was necessary to call it anything but what it was, but the name was sticking. Perhaps it was the nostalgic need for humans to glorify things by giving it a more majestic name. Whatever the reason, the new name was going to stay.

Much like the new name, Elijah found himself falling into the same sentimental trap. He knew he should, but he couldn’t bring himself to sharpen the blade Noah returned to him that day. Elijah carried it around like a penance. A weight to remind him of his failure and of what they lost that day.

They called The Sun Down Campaign a win, but those who were in the Catacombs knew it wasn’t.

It had been three months since that day, and they were still picking up the pieces.

The Vega Cabal had their hands in a lot of pies—legal and illegal. The mess with Congressman Thomas had to be cleaned up and bribes exchanged. Jackson took care of hunting down the rest of the Vega Cabal members. Everyone who had ever worn Vega red was disposed of. A clean slate, he called it.

None of that even came close to Luther’s messes. It was only after his death that they discovered just how deep his betrayals went. Loyal to only himself, there were plans to double or even triple cross his allies. His twisted machinations went so far beyond what anyone could have imagined that even all these months later they were still dealing with the fallout.

Most of it fell to the new White Sand Mesa leader. Noah rose to power through murder and while he earned a lot of respect for the way he handled himself during the Sun Down Campaign, a lot of people were still not convinced. At best they thought he was too young and inexperienced to handle such a position of power. At worst, they thought he was a Weaver puppet. Noah had been spending his tenure as leader squashing uprisings and proving himself to the very people who had been so happy to have him sitting on the back burner as the heir for eighteen years.

While the Weavers had unquestionably given their support to Noah, they had taken a backseat to his struggles. Leading a gang was a trial by fire—learn or get burned. There was no learning curve or a crash course. He was surrounded by men and women twice his age, with twice his experience.

Thanks to the Vega Cabals lands the Mesas and Weavers were now almost equal in power. For the first time in years, there was a sense of peace between the gangs. Thanks to their friendship and mutual ties there was a certainty in their alliance.

Roland pulled out his cellphone and glanced down at the screen. His lips twitched in what passed as a smile. Without looking, Elijah knew exactly who he was texting. Willow had a habit of texting exclusively in emojis and Roland seemed to get a kick out of it. He interpreted her texts like an Egyptologist translating ancient hieroglyphics. With the same accuracy, too.

“He’s late,” Elijah mumbled as he returned the blunt knife to its sheath.

“Hm.” Roland put his phone away.

Roland’s mood seemed to become more irascible the longer they were away from the Weaver Estate. Taking over most of the fieldwork had kept Roland away from home longer and longer. He never complained, but he hated being away from Willow. He used to be the kind of person who didn’t care where he laid his head at night or how long he was away from home. Now, Roland was unhappy if they were even an hour later than expected. Elijah supposed that was the difference between returning to an empty home or one filled with light and sound.

The few occasions he had to go to Roland’s home had him seeing major differences. Windows were open and pictures were hung on the wall. Socks were balled up in the corners and dirty dishes left in the sink. Signs of life.

But none more than the music. At any time, Willow could be found playing. Once Elijah found her on the roof, straddling the eaves as she leaned and swayed to her music. Mostly at night when the grief became too much, and she had to express herself with her violin.

Elijah thought about that when he returned to his quiet apartment. He found it easier not to go home, preferring to take jobs that kept him away more and more.

He had no right to complain. This is what his life was. He had pushed Noah away precisely because of this.

This pain was his own damn fault.

Roland’s eyes flicked up when their guest arrived. Flanked by two bodyguards, he swept in with an affected smile on his face. His gaudy pinstripe suit didn’t suit his bland complexion and small eyes.

Roland did not stand to greet him. “Quinn Taylor.”

The lack of courtesy made the slender man stumble. “Roland. It is so good to see you after so many years. You are looking healthy.”

Roland didn’t move.

Quinn Taylor was the leader of the Southern Rockies. A smaller, but strategically placed gang that had gained much of its prominence through its expansive sex trade network. Unlike most gangs who stayed in their own territories, the Southern Rockies were spread out. They garnered permission to take over other gang’s territories sex trade with shrewd business deals and alliances. Most gangs didn’t want to deal with the headache of it, so they outsourced to Taylor’s gang. For the most part, it worked out well for both parties.

Unsure of what to do, Quinn faltered and let his hands rest on the back of the chair across from the Weavers. His bodyguards kept a respectful distance, but their hands were resting on weapons hidden from view by their jackets.

“I apologize for my tardiness,” he went on. “There was a minor issue I had to take care of.”

His apology was as fake as his tan. The man had purposefully been late in an attempt to control the meeting. A pathetic power play that might have worked on another man. The fact that he even tried betrayed his nervousness.