Presidents don’t panic—they strategize.
I stand slowly, deliberately, and flip the chip once.
Just once.
Then walk briskly into the main clubroom. “Everyone hear that? Raid protocol!” My voice carries through the clubhouse, calm and measured.
But the effect is immediate.
The clubhouse erupts into controlled chaos—years of practice kicking in like muscle memory. Brothers move like a well-oiled machine, each man knowing exactly what to do.
Guns disappear into hidden compartments behind false panels in the walls. The small amounts of personal-use drugs, nothing major, just enough to get us in trouble, vanish into secret floor panels beneath the bar. Illegal documents, the ones that could actually bury us, go into the safe, only I know the combination to it, which then disappears behind a hidden wall façade.
Millie and Ro appear from nowhere, ushering the few club girls present into back rooms. The women know the drill, play dumb, know nothing, see nothing. They’re good at it. They’ve had practice.
Three minutes.
All contraband disappears in under three minutes.
I watch it happen with a strange sense of detachment, my mind already three steps ahead.
But this doesn’t feel right.
Raids are messy, aggressive, designed to catch us off guard.
This one’s too slow.
They should have been in here by now.
“Positions,” Ghost barks.
The brothers gather in the main clubroom, hands on their heads, dropping to their knees. This isn’t our first raid—we know how to play it. How to look compliant while giving them nothing.
Our last raid took our previous President. That’s how I got this patch. It’s when I lost Rebekka but gained the club.
Am I about to lose everything now?
Nitro kneels beside Ghost, his jaw clenched. “I fucking told you we shouldn’t have let Elizabeth in here, man.”
“Shut it.” Ghost’s voice is low, dangerous. “Not the time.”
Rolling my shoulders, I have to give Ghost props for standing up to his VP like that. I know Nitro will hate it, but Ghost has his reasons. And as I glance over at him, I thank him with a silent nod.
I remain standing, arms crossed, waiting. The poker chip stays in my pocket. I don’t reach for it, don’t flip it, don’t give any tell. Right now, I need to project strength.
Control.
Even if my gut is screaming that everything is about to change.
Then the doors burst open, officers in tactical gear flood in, weapons drawn but not raised aggressively. Instead, they are professional and efficient. “Las Vegas Police! Nobody move!”
The brothers don’t move. Don’t speak. We just wait.
More officers stream in, securing the space with military precision. But something feels off. This isn’t a hostile raid—it’s coordinated and careful. They’re not tearing the place apart, not throwing their weight around.
What the fuck is going on?
My instincts ping again, louder this time.
