CHAPTER 34: SERIOUS TIME—SNITCHING

A few hours after Razor’s arrest, word slipped through the cracks.

Nick heard it from one of his own boys—shaky voice, darting eyes, like he thought he was carrying a death sentence by coming to deliver the news that one of his gang members had been arrested.

"Boss," the kid muttered, wringing his hands as he stood in the dim back room of the club, bass rattling the floorboards. "It’s Razor. They picked him up this morning. Cops came in hard. Took him straight to lockup."

Nick sat back in his chair, a half-empty glass of whiskey sweating against the scarred wood of the table. His expression didn’t crack. Not once. He just stared, letting the silence stretch, letting the kid sweat bullets.

Finally, Nick leaned forward, voice low.

"Razor got taken in..." He tapped his fingers against the glass. "And what the fuck did he do to get taken in?"

The kid swallowed hard. "I don’t know, boss. Not yet. But—they say it wasn’t quiet. People are talking. Whole block saw it go down. Cops don’t do that unless they’ve got something solid."

Nick’s jaw ticked once. He pushed the whiskey aside and stood, towering over the kid.

He stepped closer, lip curling. "Find out everything—and what he’s saying in there."

The boy bolted, and Nick sank back into his chair, dragging a hand over his face.

His gaze flicked to the glossy iPhone on the table. Adrian’s number sat in his contacts.

Slowly, Nick picked it up.

"Time to see," he muttered under his breath, "just how badly that rich little cousin of mine fucked this up."

The phone rang only once before Adrian picked up. His tone was rushed, brittle.

"Nick, I was just about to—"

Nick cut him off, voice low, edged like a blade.

"Save it. Come to the club."

"Wait, just listen to me, I—"

The line went dead.

⸻

The afternoon sun couldn’t pierce the walls of Nick’s world. His club was a fortress, elite and silent above the throb of bass on the lower floors. On the top level, his private living space sprawled low.

A wide gray sofa curved across the center of the room, framing a sleek black table dressed with a few expensive trinkets and a single potted plant. On the wall, a massive TV glowed faintly, surrounded by a halo of soft light that painted the room in warm shadows. Behind the couch, a dining area stretched long—black table, designer chairs, and a pendant light hanging like a blade over the center.

Nick sat sprawled across the sofa, a glass of liquor in hand, watching the door.

Adrian arrived minutes later, looking nothing like the well-dressed man Nick remembered. His hair was wild, shirt untucked and half-wrinkled, brows furrowed tight.

"Sit," Nick said flatly.

Adrian hesitated, then lowered himself into the chair across from him, fumbling to straighten his shirt.

Nick leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes locked on his cousin.

"Let’s not waste time. Did you—or did you not—send Razor to kill that girl?"

Adrian blinked, brows knitting. "Why are you asking me that?"

Nick leaned back, spreading his arms in mock ease, his mouth twisting into a dangerous half-smile.

"Well... maybe because Razor got his ass arrested this morning. And if that little errand of yours had anything to do with it, then of course I gotta ask. So—" His voice sharpened. "—tell me right here, right now. Did you give Razor the job?"

For a beat, Adrian froze. Shock cracked his face, chased quickly by fear. Nick saw it all. He didn’t need an answer—he already had it.

Still, Adrian rubbed a hand over his face, dragging it up to his hair and squeezing like he was trying to wring the guilt out. Finally, his voice broke.

"Yes," he muttered. Then louder, harsher: "Yes, I fucking gave him the job. And when I saw that video online, I tried to call him—tried to confirm if the driver taken in was his guy—but I couldn’t get through. I’ve been trying all damn day. How the hell did you even know he was arrested?"

Nick’s laugh was cold, humorless. He rose, poured himself another drink, and glanced at his cousin over the rim of the glass.

"Why wouldn’t I know? He was my guy, Adrian. My gang member. Anything that happens to him circles right back to me. Which is why—when I told you to back the fuck off—you should’ve listened. Instead, you went ahead and dragged Razor into your little mess. And now? The cops are looking at me. Again."

Adrian’s face twisted, caught between anger and desperation. "What the fuck did you expect me to do, Nick? I told you I needed someone, you brushed me off. I had to find a way. How the fuck was I supposed to know it’d go sideways? Razor was supposed to be good. He wasn’t supposed to screw up. Now—fuck—I don’t even know what to do. But since the cops haven’t come knocking on my door, I’m in the clear. For now."

Nick barked out a laugh, shaking his head like Adrian had just told the world’s dumbest joke. He took a slow sip of liquor, savoring it, before setting the glass down with a soft clink.

"In the clear?" His grin was all teeth. "Cousin, let me tell you something about Razor. He’s the kind of guy who clings to that old bullshit rule about not snitching. But if he’s looking at serious time?" Nick leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "He’ll snitch. He won’t give a fuck. And when he does, your name’s coming out straight."

Adrian’s throat worked, but no words came.

Nick stood, looming over him, his voice dropping to a near-growl.

"My advice? Get out. Get the fuck out of the state—hell, out of the country if you can. Do it before that arrest warrant lands in your lap. Because once it does, cousin, no one will be able to protect you. Not even your father."

He exhaled, a tired sound laced with venom. Then he jabbed a finger toward the door.

"Now. Get the fuck out of my face."