Jacob
Short. Respectful. No pressure. I hit send before I could second-guess myself.
?
The next few weeks fell into a careful rhythm.
Indira would email me every few days—nothing personal at first, just questions about my letter. What had made me realize I was wrong? How did I know I’d really changed? What made me think she should believe anything I said?
Fair questions. All of them.
I answered as honestly as I could. Told her about my visit to King and my mother. About watching their marriage with new eyes and realizing what I’d been raised to think was normal. About the burned mattress and the cuts sitting in my safe. I didn’t go into detail, just told her there were two. Figured she’d ask if she wanted more, but she didn’t, so I left it at that.
She never responded immediately. Sometimes three days would pass. Sometimes four. Each silence felt like a test I wasn’t sure I was passing.
On the third day after one email, I found myself in Glitch’s office doorway.
“I need a favor.”
He looked up from his laptop, expression wary. “Go on.”
“Indira’s email. Her phone. Can you—” I stopped myself, hearing how it sounded. “I just want to know if she’s read my messages. If she’s talking to anyone about me.”
Glitch leaned back in his chair, studying me with those sharp eyes that never missed anything. “You ordering me or asking me?”
The question hung in the air. Not that long ago, I wouldn’t have understood the difference. President gives an order, brothers follow it. Simple.
But I knew what he was really asking. Was I the same man who’d treated Indira like property? Or had I actually learned something?
“Asking,” I said finally.
Glitch smirked. “Then no.”
“No?”
“She’s got boundaries, Dutch. You agreed to them. That means trusting her to respond when she’s ready, not spying on her to make yourself feel better.” He turned back to his laptop. “You want to prove you’ve changed? Start by not being a controlling asshole.”
I stood there for a moment, irritation flickering through me. Then I laughed—actually laughed. “Fair enough, brother.”
“Go run your club,” Glitch said without looking up. “Let the woman think.”
So I ran my club.
The Montana expansion was moving ahead smoothly. The new warehouse outside Whitefish was operational, and the gun routes were running cleaner than they had in years. Holden had the day-to-day locked down tight, freeing me up to focus on the bigger picture.
Colt came back from a scouting trip to Kentucky with promising news.
“Louisville’s got potential,” he said, spreading a map across my desk. “Good territory, minimal competition. Found a bar that could work as a clubhouse—owner’s looking to sell, might be open to the right offer.”
“What about local law enforcement?”
“Manageable. Sheriff’s more interested in meth labs than MCs. As long as we keep our shit clean, we shouldn’t have problems.”
I studied the map, marking potential routes and territories. This was what I was good at—strategy, expansion, building something that would outlast me. It felt good to have my head in the game again.
“Start the paperwork,” I said. “Let’s see what a serious offer looks like.”
Colt nodded, gathering his notes. At the door, he paused. “Heard anything from Nashville?”
