“Opposition?” I asked.
“The Wolves sniffed around last month, but they backed off when they heard we were interested,” Colt said. Then he went quiet, staring at his phone like it held the secrets of the universe.
“Colt,” I said sharply. “You got somewhere else to be?”
He looked up, startled. “What? No, sorry. Just...” He rubbed his jaw, looking unsettled. “It’s nothing. Just someone I saw earlier.”
“Someone from Death’s Head?” Holden asked.
“Nah, just... a woman with kids. Reminded me of someone.” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. What were we talking about?”
I watched him carefully. In all the time since Colt had transferred from Death’s Head, I’d never seen him rattled byanything. The brother was solid as stone, reliable in ways that made him invaluable. But something had definitely gotten under his skin. I filed that away for later—whatever was going on with Colt needed further investigation, but not during church.
“The expansion,” I prompted.
“Right.” He focused on his notes. “Like I said, the Wolves backed off. Local law enforcement is spread thin. We could have the routes operational within two months.”
“Financial projections?” I asked Glitch.
“Conservative estimate, we’re looking at two million in additional revenue the first year. That’s assuming we only capture sixty percent of the available market.”
“Risks?”
“Standard stuff. ATF attention if we get sloppy. Rival clubs moving in if we don’t establish dominance quickly. But nothing we haven’t handled before.”
I looked around the table, seeing nods of agreement from my brothers. This was exactly the kind of opportunity we’d been waiting for.
“All in favor of expansion?”
Every hand went up except Colt’s. He was staring at his phone again, completely lost in thought.
“Colt,” I said more gently. “Vote?”
“What? Oh. Yeah, in favor.” He raised his hand absently, still distracted.
“Motion carries. Holden, I want you to do a final scout of locations next week. Glitch, you handle security assessments.” I paused. “And Colt? Whatever’s got your head twisted, deal with it. We need you sharp for this.”
He nodded, but I could see he wasn’t really listening.
After church ended and the others had filtered out, I walked to my office and opened the safe. Inside, next to stacks of cash and important documents, sat two leather cuts.
The first was Indira’s original cut-the one I’d ordered before I’d destroyed everything. Black leather with silver accents, “Property of Dutch” embroidered across the back in bold letters. A relic of my old way of thinking, when I’d believed love was about ownership.
The second cut was newer. Same high-quality leather, same expert craftsmanship, but different in every way that mattered. Instead of “Property of Dutch,” the back read simply “Indira.” No ownership implied, no possession claimed. Just her name, acknowledging that she was her own person.
The patches were different too. Instead of the traditional “Old Lady” designation, this cut had custom patches that reflected partnership rather than hierarchy. First Lady. I’d thought about having it say Queen—because that’s what she was, a fucking queen. But then I remembered my father’s road name. King. I didn’t want any association with him, didn’t want Indira carrying even a hint of that legacy on her back. First Lady worked better anyway. It meant she stood beside me, not beneath me.
It had cost me three times what the original had, but every detail was intentional.
If she agreed to be mine again, it would be as an equal. Not as property, but as a partner.
I locked both cuts back in the safe and returned to my desk, where I’d been drafting my most important email yet.
Indira,
I know we’ve been taking this slow, and I respect that. But I need to ask you something, and I want you to know I’m prepared for any answer.
Would you be willing to meet me in person? I could come to Nashville, wherever you’d feel comfortable. I’m not asking for anything more than a conversation, but I think we’ve reached the point where emails and phone calls aren’t enough.
