“You didn’t,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “I was just reading about a hostile takeover that’s making our portfolio very happy. What’s the occasion? Run out of clean shirts?”
Humor is their default setting, the easy charm a language we all speak. This is them. My anchor. But my mother’s gaze softens as she really looks at my face, setting her book down on a side table. She sees past the grin. She always does. “You’re not here for jokes, are you, honey? This isn’t a social call.”
The joking facade I’d been wearing falls away. I nod, my expression hardening, the knot in my gut tightening. “No. It’s about Darla Graves. She’s in trouble.”
My mother’s hand flies to her mouth, her eyes wide with genuine concern. “Oh, East. That poor girl.”
My father’s grin vanishes, replaced by a hard line. His gaze is sharp, focused. “What kind of trouble?”
“The worst kind,” I say, the words tight. “Trent Moreland is in town. You know what his family is about. Frankie called me earlier. She said she has a bad feeling about it, and so do I. I think Winston is planning something, setting her up with him. I need to get ahead of it, Dad. Find a financial connection, some kind of leverage I can use to stop him before he makes his move. I need your system. The one with the deep-dive access.” Declan used to say I could turn a ledger into a confession. I intend to.
He doesn't hesitate or warn me to be careful. He just nods and leads the way to his home office. “Light a fire under the coffeepot, Carol. Looks like it’s going to be a long night.” I palm the crumpled pack, then shove it back, chewing a piece of mint gum instead. Teeth on venom.
For the next hour, the only sounds in the silent house are the soft, frantic clicking of my fingers on the keyboard and the low hum of the most powerful computer money can buy. My father’s company built its empire on data analysis, on seeing patterns others missed. He pulls up a chair beside me, a quiet, solid presence. He doesn’t look over my shoulder, but his presence is palpable there, ready to offer a search parameter or a piece of corporate insight if I need it.
I dive into the data, my mind shifting into the familiar, cold logic of numbers. I cross-reference shell corporations, pull property transfer records from three counties, and scan for red-flag transactions. A few minutes in, my mother appears in the doorway. She doesn’t say a word, just places a heavy mug of coffee—black, the way I like it—and a thick slice of her dark chocolate cake on the desk beside me. My favorite. The sweet smell of it is a stark, comforting contrast to the sterile digital world on the screen. It’s a silent gesture that says, I see you. I’m here. It’s so different from the cold, performative world Darla has to navigate that my chest aches for her. They never asked me to be different. Just to be careful.
I take a bite of the cake without thinking, the rich chocolate melting on my tongue, grounding me in something simple and human while my brain runs a thousand miles an hour. My mom’s cake and black coffee is the taste of home. Of being seen. It steadies me.
My father stands in the doorway for a moment. “Winston Graves always hated that I built an empire with my brain while his was built on his grandfather’s name,” he says quietly. “Be careful, East. Old-money snakes have deep roots and venom that’s been perfected for generations.”
“I will,” I say, not looking away from the screen.
Then I find it. Not a smoking gun. Just a thread. A property on the edge of the county, sold for one dollar from a subsidiary of Graves Industries to a holding company I’ve never heard of. But when I run that company’s registration number, a jolt of pure adrenaline shoots through me. A name buried in the incorporation documents. Trent Moreland. It’s a clean, legal transaction on the surface, but it stinks. It’s a thread I can pull.Gotcha, you son of a bitch.
I stand up, my back stiff from leaning over the keyboard. The cursor blinks. Once. Twice. Then the pattern resolves. “I’ve got it.”
My mother hugs me at the door, her embrace fierce. “You be careful,” she whispers in my ear. “And you tell that sweet girl we’re thinking of her.”
“That’s the plan,” I promise.
The ride back to the clubhouse is different. The hot, helpless rage is gone. In its place is the cold, clean focus of a man with a mission. The clubhouse is nearly empty now, the party long since over. A single harsh light burns over the pool tables, casting long shadows in the otherwise dark room. Nash is there, wiping down a cue, his movements slow and methodical. He looks up as I walk in, his expression unreadable. He was waiting.
“Find what you were looking for?” he asks in a low rumble.
I pull up a stool at the bar, the legs scraping against the floor, and slide my phone across the polished wood. He picks it up, his eyes scanning the screen with the holding company’s details. “I found a thread,” I say. “That dollar deed’s a flare. We pull every under-market transfer off Graves shells for five years—we’ll see the whole pipeline.”
He studies it for a long minute, his mind processing. He doesn’t ask about Darla, because he knows this is about her.
“This is good,” he says finally, pushing the phone back to me. “This is a start. But it’s not your fight anymore. Not alone.”
“What do you mean?”
“This is club business now, East,” he says, his gaze level and serious. His knuckles knock twice on the bar—our old signal to breathe. “You bring this to Malachi in the morning. He’s the president. He calls the shots on a war like this.” He pauses, racking the pool balls with a series of sharp, definitive clicks that echo in the empty room. “And you need to bring in Knox. My skills are for the street. Yours are for the numbers. Knox’s skills are for the shadows. He spent ten years in special ops hunting digital ghosts. If there’s more proof buried on a server somewhere, he’s the one who can dig it up.”
I look from the data on my phone to the quiet, unshakeable loyalty in my brother’s eyes. The weight on my shoulders doesn’t disappear, but it shifts. It’s not just my promise to keep anymore. It’s ours.
“Okay,” I say, a real sense of hope cutting through the anger for the first time all night. “We bring in the club.”
The hotheaded kid who wanted to kick in a door is gone. The man sitting here now is the Treasurer of the Outsiders MC, armed with a lead, a plan, and a brotherhood at his back. Nash gives a single, sharp nod of approval. The game hasn't changed. It's just finally, officially, begun.
Chapter 11
Darla
TheWillowridgeCountryClubterrace is a carefully curated performance of old-money leisure. Manicured hedges, the polite clink of ice in glasses, and hushed conversations that carry the weight of stock portfolios and inheritance. It’s a world I know how to navigate, but today I’m not navigating. I’m waiting for my execution.
My father’s orders were simple: “Be at the club at one. Don’t embarrass me.” The unspoken part hung in the air between us: Trent will be there.
