Who knew money could be this heavy?
She weaved through the patio crowd—leather brushing against her arms, smoke curling into her hair, the sharp scent of whiskey and sweat thick in the air. Laughter rose from a nearby table, loud and wild, and the bass thump of music bled through the walls.
The bouncer spotted her and pulled the door open.
Inside hit like a wave.
It was worse—hot, loud, chaotic. Music pounded from overhead speakers, the bass vibrating through the floorboards.Voices layered over each other, creating a constant low roar. The scent of seared meat, fryer grease, and stale beer hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint bite of cologne and cigarette smoke clinging to every surface.
She blinked, eyes adjusting to the dim, golden lighting and the haze drifting from the open kitchen. Her pulse kicked up—not from fear, exactly, but from the sheer overload of it all.
She scanned the crowd, searching for Gypsy, but the bodies were packed in tight—patches and tattoos and dark denim everywhere. No sign of him.
Brandi made her way to the bar, nudging past a guy in a cut who didn’t seem to notice her at all. She waved to Vega, who was slinging drinks like a machine.
“Hey, Brandi. How’s the ankle, doll?”
“All healed up,” she said with a small smile. “I’m looking for Gypsy.”
Vega nodded toward the far end of the bar. “Back office.”
“Thanks.”
She ducked under the pass-through, her shoulder brushing the cool steel, and followed the narrow hallway. It was quieter back here—the chaos muffled, though the thump of music still vibrated faintly through the walls.
She paused outside the office door, heart knocking once, then knocked.
“Come in,” came the sharp reply.
Brandi stepped inside. “Hello.”
Gypsy looked up from a stack of paperwork. “Brandi. Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? Food?”
She shook her head. “No. I’m fine.”
“Okay. You wanted this meeting, so… what’s going on?”
She didn’t sit. Instead, she slipped the strap from her shoulder and set the heavy duffel bag on the desk with a dull thud.
“This is the money I stole from Misha. Every penny. I’m giving it to you to pay for Quinn’s SUV.”
Gypsy stared at the bag like it might explode. “You’re telling me you never spent any of it other than that beater you purchased?”
Brandi nodded. “Not a dime.”
“If you remember I offered it to you for the orphanage,” She reminded him. It was something she’d wanted to do at Christmas.
He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under him. He hadn’t taken the money. “We took care of the church and the kids.” Any other woman would’ve burned through it in a week—designer bags, shoes, a new car. But Brandi?
She’d been scraping by, working shifts at an ice cream shop that smelled like sugar and sanitizer, living above The Coffee Bean in a room that always smelled faintly of burnt espresso, wearing secondhand clothes softened by too many wash cycles.
She had nothing.
And now he knew why.
“The insurance covered Quinn’s SUV,” he said, voice quieter now. “And that money? It’s not stolen. You earned every dime.”
Brandi shook her head slowly. “I don’t see it that way, Gypsy.”
