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?"
