Antichrist

“Ma, have you slept?”

“Boy, you are in no position to judge sleeping patterns.” Embers crackle when she takes a deep inhale of her smoke. “Sit. We need to talk.”

“Yeah, we do…” I push through the kitchen, grabbing a mug and dropping a big fuck-off load of coffee inside.

Scraping out the chair, I finally take a seat, kicking out one leg while keeping my eyes on hers. “You first.”

“Nope.” She shakes her head. “I’m not ready. You first.”

“Bullshit. You were the one who suggested this chat, so—”

“—you need to break up Luca and Meraki.”

I groan, swallowing more coffee. “Ma, we’re not teens anymore. That ship between us sailed a long time ago.”

She studies me closely. Hated when she did this. “She sat with me, Niko. I almost got her to crack. Meraki is a woman of few words, yet I know that girl inside out, and I’m telling you right now, Nikolai, that man is not good for her. There’s something real fucking weird going on there.”

My jaw tightens. “She say something to you?”

Ma’s eyes flick over my shoulder. “No, but she didn’t need to. She came up to talk with you, but instead came down to me almost in tears, and that tough bitch doesn’t cry, but it’s also her strength that worries me because it’s why she never lets anyone in.” Her eyes hold mine, and guilt rips through my veins. “Something scared her off up there. Or someone.”

My chair scrapes as I rest my head in my palms. “Fuck.”

“What’s that mean?” Ma asks, slight bite in her tone.

I look up at her, knowing that once I say these words out loud, I can’t take them back. Not ever. “Lydia is pregnant.”

Ma winces. Actually fucking winces. “Well, that child will still be my grandchild, so you take care of Lydia, but Nikolai, that woman is not yours to keep.”

She stands from the table and empties her mug. “Going for a fucking sleep. You kids are going to work me into a coma.”

I sit for seconds, minutes. Lydia’s fucking pregnant, and what did Meraki want to talk to me about last night? She and I had the kind of bond that no amount of time could disrupt, so it’s not a surprise that we automatically fall into a comfortable kind of dynamic, not that I can afford fucking comfortable. In fact, I’m going to go as far as saying this comfort might just cost me. I need to be careful.

I have to.

Lester stumbles in, half shoving his clothes on while picking up a discarded Seven Knights shirt, shoving it over his bald head. “Fuck, brother. Getting too old for this.”

It’s after midday when the loud roar of bikes comes to a silence as we park outside a lone casino between Halsin and New York. It’s right smack bang in the middle of nowhere. Between the city and the ocean lies a back road to get to either town quickly, and right across that dirt path is this well-used casino.

“You sure this is it?” I ask while tugging at the fingers of my gloves and swinging my leg over my bike.

I shove my gloves into my back pocket as Lest looks down between his phone and the casino. The building is old as fuck, with cracked paintwork, chipped-stone path, and a Las Vegas-style sign that’s bent sideways, with half of the lights flickering and the other half not working at all.

“Yeah.” He turns back to me, looking between Goat, Fanta, and me. Until we find out whoever this motherfucker is that’s whacking off mob bosses, we have a problem. “Has to be. The only fucked-up joint on this path.”

“True.” I take the lead, knowing full well that I’m gassed up and ready to kill anyone who sets foot in my path.

A hand comes to my forearm just as my heavy military boot lands on the wood step. “It’s too quiet…”

Lester’s eyes narrow. The longer the silence stretches out, the more paranoia tends to set in.

A gunshot fires and I duck to the ground while grasping the gun from the holster clipped to my jeans, raising it up and shooting to the empty window on the side of the door.

“Lest, I thought you said you fucking handled this?” Fanta calls out while switching chambers in his gun and glaring at both of us from the hidden pocket in front of the wraparound porch.

Gunshots are still firing, yet the both of them decide to argue mid-fucking-shoot-out. Fanta and Lester are enemies from way back. They can both hold a grudge tighter than a nun’s cunt.

I duck around the corner, raise my gun up to the windowpane while reaching for my knife with my other hand, and pull the trigger. Pop! Pop! Pop! The swastika that’s inked over his forehead explodes and blood sprays against the window. Movement catches my eye on the other side, so I flick my knife and hear a loud thud as a fat body drops to the dusted ground. There’s yelling behind me and more gunshots popping off, but I’m fucking done playing this little kid game of cops and robbers. I came here to fucking talk.