He wraps my arm carefully, respectful, like he knows this isn’t just ink. “She’ll come home,” he says. Not hopeful. Certain.
I don’t look away from my arm. “Yeah.”
This isn’t about faith. It’s about fact. She was taken. She was chained. They tried to break her. They didn’t. This is carved into me now, done by a brother, inside these walls, where promises mean something. This is me marking myself so I never forget what was stolen, and what I’m taking back.
When she’s home, when she’s safe, when her fingers trace the ink and her voice trembles when she asks why, I’ll tell her the truth.
It’s her name because she’s mine to protect. It’s the chain because it failed. It’s the flower because she didn’t.
The machine shuts off and Cole is wrapping my arm when my phone vibrates against the chair.
I don’t even look at the screen. I know who it is before I answer.
“Talk,” I say.
Riot’s voice comes through low and sharp. “We’ve got something.”
My chest tightens instantly.
“Fucking finally,” I growl. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
I hang up before he can say anything else.
Cole looks at me, hope flashing across his face so fast it almost hurts. “Well?”
“I’m not sure yet,” I say honestly, pushing up out of the chair. “But it’s the first real lead we’ve had in weeks.”
He nods, claps a hand on my shoulder once, solid and grounding. “Bring her home.”
“That’s the plan.”
I shrug into my cut carefully, the fresh wrap on my arm pulling just enough to remind me it’s there, and step out ofBlack Iron Tattoointo the open air. The sun’s already dipping, the sky bleeding orange and red over Jackson like it knows something ugly is coming.
I swing a leg over my bike, fire it up, and the engine roars to life beneath me.
Ten minutes later, I’m cutting into the club lot hard and fast, gravel spitting under my tires. I don’t bother killing the engine gently. I shut it down and head straight inside.
Church is already in session.
Mason’s at the head of the table, arms braced on the wood, expression carved from stone. Dagger stands to his right, calm and lethal, eyes tracking everything. Piston and Tank are leaned back in their chairs, tense but quiet. Switch is pacing near the wall, jaw tight. Rev’s seated with his arms crossed, leg bouncing with barely contained rage.
Riot and Ghost are at the far end, heads bent together over a laptop and a spread of maps and printouts. Every conversation cuts off the second I walk in. I take my place at the table without a word. Mason looks at Riot. “Let’s hear it.”
Riot nods once and turns the laptop so everyone can see the screen. A satellite image fills it, gray and grainy.
“We’ve been tracking shell companies since the night Perdition went up,” he says. “One of them is a logistics front based out of St. Louis. On paper, it’s boring. Warehousing. Transport contracts. Nothing flashy.”
Dagger leans in. “And off paper?”
“The spending didn’t match the business,” Riot replies. “Company cards being used constantly, but not for freight or fuel. High-end hotels. Private floors. New city almost every night.”
That gets everyone’s attention.
Ghost speaks next, voice rough. “What made it stand out was the timing.”
Riot nods. “The charges start the same night Bri was taken.”
My jaw tightens.
