“The prosecution is building a RICO case. They’re alleging that the Ruthless Devils are a criminal enterprise and that Iron used the club to facilitate drug trafficking, weapons smuggling, and money laundering.”
“Allegations aren’t convictions.”
“No, but they have evidence, including financial records, witness testimony, and wiretaps.” He pauses. “Someone gave them everything they needed to make this stick.”
My blood runs cold. “Who?”
“I don’t know yet. But whoever it was had access to Iron’s personal records.”
“What are his chances?” I ask.
“Without a plea deal? Five to ten years minimum. With good behavior, maybe out in three.”
Three years. The baby will be walking and talking by the time Iron gets out.
“What about bail?”
“Flight risk. The judge denied it. Iron’s not going anywhere until trial.”
“When’s the trial?”
“Six months. Maybe longer if we can delay.”
Six months of Iron rotting in a cell while I try to hold his club together and protect his daughter from the monster he tried to marry her off to.
“Keep working on it,” I say. “Whatever it costs, I don’t care. Get him out.”
“I’ll do what I can. But you should prepare for the possibility that he’s not coming home anytime soon.”
The call ends. I drop the phone on the desk and scrub my hands over my face.
Iron trusted me to protect Bonnie. To lead the club. To keep everything together while he’s locked up.
I’m trying. God, I’m trying. But some days it feels like I’m drowning.
A knock on the door pulls me out of my spiral.
“Come in.”
Bonnie pushes the door open. She’s wearing one of my shirts again—black cotton that hangs off her shoulders and falls to mid-thigh. Her hair’s pulled back in a messy ponytail. No makeup. Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“Hey,” she says softly. “You busy?”
“Never too busy for you.” I push back from the desk and hold out my hand. “Come here.”
She crosses the office and lets me pull her into my lap. I wrap my arms around her waist, feeling the slight curve of her stomach against my forearms.
Barely showing. But I can feel the difference when I touch her.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“Like shit. But Ghost force-fed me toast, so at least I have something in my stomach.”
“Good.”
She’s quiet for a moment, her fingers tracing patterns on my forearm. “I heard you on the phone. With the lawyer.”
“You shouldn’t be listening at doors.”
