“But the volume would be enormous,” Damian points out.
Wyatt hesitates, then snaps his fingers softly. “But the drives weren’t labeled by date. They were labeled bycontent.Stuff like ‘count nights,’ ‘deliveries,’ ‘prospects.’ Even ‘personal.’ Silas wasn’t just recording surveillance. He was sorting it and indexing it.”
Damian lets out a low whistle. “Jesus. That’s obsession-level shit.”
“More than obsession,” Jake says, eyes narrowing. “It means he wasn’t just dumping raw footage to some drop point. He was curating it. Probably flagging what mattered so whoever was pulling the strings could find what they needed fast.”
Ryder leans forward. “So who the fuck was he doing that for?”
“There was a contact,” Wyatt chips in. “The top of the ladder. They called him Mr. White. Billy said he was their insurance policy. Big meetings, black car, cash drops…” He glances at me. “And you—you knew him asthe senator.”
Four pairs of eyes turn to me.
“That’s what Billy called him,” I say quietly. “Only to me. Everyone else knew him as Mr. White, a kind of ghost benefactor. They never saw him. Billy would go to him, or sometimes the senator would come to the clubhouse but stay outside in his car. A few nights ago, Billy made me bring him drugs and cash at a hotel. I was supposed to be—” I stop, swallow hard. “A gift. But I got away. The next morning, everyone at the clubhouse was glued to the news. They said a senator had been found unconscious at the Astoria Grand. Drugs everywhere, a ledger with the O.D. named in it, stacks of cash. His name was Senator Jack Hargrove.”
No one speaks. Jake lets out a low whistle. “Well, fuck.”
Ryder runs a hand over his beard. Damian stares at me. But Wyatt blinks, then leans forward a little.
“A few nights ago?”
“Yeah.”
His brows knit. “You mean the night I was out on that run?”
“Yeah,” I say with a sigh, and manage a sad smile.
He sits back, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. “Jesus, Max.”
He closes his eyes for a second. When his hand drops from his face, his demeanor is sharper.
“Club prez took her to all of his meetings,” he says to the other men, then he looks to me for confirmation. I nod.
“I was like a prop, I guess,” I say with a shrug. “He would dress me up and then later he’d want me to tell him how great he did in the meeting. How powerful he seemed. How the other guy seemed impressed. That kind of thing.”
Wyatt adds, “They talked business in front of her. He never censored anything.”
“I don’t think he thought I understood it,” I say. “And some of it I didn’t, not at first. They used these weird coded phrases, like ‘new land paperwork’ when they meant a cash drop, ‘the boys in uniform’ when they meant cartel security, ‘the church fund’ when they meant the laundering front. But after a while you start to hear the pattern.”
The room stills around me.
Damian lets out a low breath, eyes narrowing with a kind of wary respect. “Well congratulations,” he says quietly. “You just became the most dangerous person in this room.”
CHAPTER TEN
RYDER
Never thought I was the kind of guy who wanted a woman barefoot in the kitchen. Not until Max padded in this morning, hair tied up in a messy knot that keeps losing pieces, gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt hanging too loose on her skinny frame, no socks on. Max sleepy, casual, and domestic is cute as shit.
She gives me a soft smile and thanks Damian for putting the kettle on, then drops a tea bag into her mug. When she stretches and yawns, her shirt pulls tight for a second before it settles again, reshaping over her body. No bra. The fabric peaks and drapes over the high, firm globes of her breasts, outlining everything. My cock twitches reflexively in my pants at the sight, like it’s got a mind of its own. An animal I can’t fucking tame.
Her toenails are painted a deep purple with sparkles in it, something she must’ve done back at the clubhouse. I catch myself glancing at them, wondering when she had the time. A stolen hour between hell and humiliation? But I guess in the midst of all that chaos there must be normal moments. Taking a shower, painting her toenails, fucking Wyatt—
Yeah. That thought still saws me open. Feels like every time I close my eyes I picture the two of them together, and it fucking burns me up—jealousy, possession, fury…
But there’s something else underneath it that’s almost worse.Heat. A low, sharp spark that shouldn’t be there at all.
Max’s mouth, her body, Wyatt’s hands on her. The way she’d arch under his touch, open for him…Christ.
