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Chef’s wild attempts at a shove on me started again, his hands slamming into my upper chest and shoulders without causing any real damage.

“Brother, if that’s all you got, you probably shouldn’t provoke that young lady. She’s liable to hand you your ass and your dignity all wrapped up with one of ‘em cute little bows.”

Montana’s hand grazed the back of my upper arm, helping me to recall myself.

“Sit down,” Mark boomed, his eyes turning deadly as they anchored on his friend.

A brother named Banshee pulled on Chef’s arm, only to be violently shrugged off. Chef looked like a pouting toddler when he eventually huffed and found his seat. I smothered a laugh and moved past him, sitting on the opposite side of Banshee.

The room remained silent. Mark’s gaze still firmly pinned on Chef.

He shook his head like he was disgusted, settled into his big-back chair, and cleared his throat, “We’ve got an opportunity for big things, and I want your full attention.”

Mark glanced around the table. When he had met each of our gaze, and was sure we were focused, he elaborated.

“Big things.”

Montana snorted, but Mark carried on.

“We have an opportunity to work with a major supplier.”

“Supplier of what?” I grunted.

Mark tapped the table like he’d been waiting on someone to ask.

“Guns, coke, women. Take your pick.”

I sniffed and curled my upper lip at the thought. “I ain’t no dope pusher, and I ain’t a pimp.”

Montana made a zealous, throaty sound of agreement that never turned into intelligible words.

“Pussy,” Chef scoffed under his breath, before saluting Mark with his chin, “I’m in.”

I rolled my eyes, parking my attention on the empty seat once belonging to Victor O’Brien.

“Has anyone heard from Big Vick?”

Mark huffed, sitting up in his chair, “He’s doing fine. Now, focus… We can make some quick cash with this situation, and a capable ally.”

“We’d risk a lot, too. We move in silence right now; the law doesn't bother us,” my brother pointed out.

Chef snorted, only to repeat and stretch the word in an attempt to mimic Montana’s accent, “The laaaaw.”

Montana wasn’t loud. He wasn’t reckless, and he damn sure wasn’t easily baited. My brother didn’t have to spout threats; his stone-cold glare was all it took to convince Chef to sit back and zip it.

“Yeah, Dipshit. The law. You know the uniformed type that brings charges, court appearances, lengthy sentences, and all manner of chaos. I’m too old to sit in a cell on a goddamn RICO charge.” Montana laughed like they’d all lost their minds, “I’m not voting for anything of the sort, boys.”

“Fine, enough conversation. Let’s vote,” Mark announced, while looking pointedly toward Banshee and the man beside him.

Banshee gnawed his lip and glanced toward the door.

“She’ll still be there when we’re done, hot shot,” Mark snapped, causing Banshee to instantly avert his gaze.

“I never said she wouldn’t be,” he quietly defended.

“Fuck her,” Mark challenged.

Banshee’s gaze turned dark, but he didn’t talk back.