1
ACE
The rhythmic sound of my fingers flying across the keyboard was soothing. I leaned back slightly in my leather chair, my gaze fixed intently on the three screens arranged in front of me. The soft glow illuminated the scattered piles of paperwork that littered my heavy oak desk, each stack representing a prospective new member of the Hounds of Hellfire MC.
I paused to roll my shoulders, easing the stiffness from hours spent digging through every detail of the prospects’ financial histories. It was tedious but necessary. One of my roles as the club’s treasurer meant I wasn’t just responsible for our money but also ensuring every man we brought into our inner circle was financially clean, with no ties that could compromise our operations.
We’d always required background checks on anyone looking to prospect. But after we’d discovered a mole among them a couple of years ago, our president had our resident tech genius, Wizard, and me do deeper dives into each of them.
We were a family—not by blood but by choice. And whether or not we were single, we weren’t reckless bachelors living in aclubhouse circus. There were no club bunnies, no messy drama. This wasn’t a frat house; it was a home.
The club wasn’t always like this, though. More than two decades ago, the Hounds had a reputation for the patches being assholes with no respect for anyone and for crossing lines way past the gray zone. But shit had been cleaned up long before King patched, which was shortly before I prospected and earned my full rocker. When King became our president over seven years ago, I earned the office of treasurer and began building the financial backbone that enabled us to operate like a fortress.
Now, anyone hoping to patch had to earn our confidence before they could wear the colors. We had to know that we could entrust them with our lives and those of our families. Not to mention the details of our less-than-legal endeavors.
The Hounds of Hellfire MC could easily be seen as a group of outlaws, but we were far from the stereotypical chaotic biker gangs portrayed on TV. Sure, we operated outside conventional laws—leveraging connections, authority, and carefully placed donations to navigate around an imperfect legal system. But our brand of justice, which sometimes included violence, was precise and purposeful. Controlled until necessary. And even then, calculated rather than cruel.
Loyalty and honor weren’t just words stitched into our cuts—they were principles etched into the marrow of our bones. Any breach of the code, especially concerning women or children, was dealt with swiftly and permanently.
We had many legal businesses that kept the MC flush when combined with my wicked financial skills. However, our core business involved identity erasure and relocation—making people disappear into new lives. The operation was a good source of income, though in some cases we didn’t require payment. But those scenarios were closely guarded secrets toavoid having to deal with too many assholes with sob stories trying to get something for nothing.
Sighing, I reached for my coffee mug. The ceramic was cool against my fingertips, a disappointing reminder that it had gone untouched for far too long. The bitter taste lingered on my tongue as I took a sip and grimaced. Cold and stale—just like the rest of my fucking afternoon.
A soft ping echoed from the central monitor, and my attention snapped to the alert. A frown creased my forehead as I leaned in, my eyes scanning the series of tiny micro-probes hitting our shell companies. My gut tightened. It wasn’t theft since none of the transactions had attempted to move money, but the pattern was clear. Someone was testing our reaction times and mapping our financial perimeter.
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered, reaching up to run a hand through my hair. I traced the probe’s trail, quickly connecting it back to a regional compliance firm downtown. One of the few businesses in Riverstone not directly owned or managed by the club. The building was ours, but the company was a tenant. They had always seemed harmless enough. Apparently, not anymore.
My jaw tightened as I watched another micro-probe flicker across the screen, pinging lightly against one of our carefully shielded accounts. Not invasive. They were just testing our boundaries.
It pissed me off—like someone deliberately tapping their finger on glass, just to see if the thing behind it would react.
Honestly, the probe would most likely have been missed by anyone who wasn’t me. And it irritated me that they thought they could get this shit past me.
I’d earned my road name before I ever started handling the club’s finances.
As a prospect, I’d cleaned out plenty of the patched members in underground poker games without raising my pulse. I couldcount cards blindfolded, calculate odds mid-hand, and read betting patterns like spreadsheets.
But skill wasn’t the only reason they called me Ace. I was also lucky as fuck. It wasn’t something I relied on, but I couldn’t disagree when they called me that and said it was infuriating.
The right card at the right time, the right bet before the turn, the right instinct about when to fold.
During one of those games, Pierce—the former prez and founder of the club—had muttered, “The bastard’s an ace.” The name stuck. Not because I won every hand, but because I knew exactly which ones were worth playing. I never chased losses or gambled recklessly. I always knew when to walk away.
So trying to get this bullshit past me was a stupid fucking move.
I grabbed my phone and fired off a quick text to Wizard, alerting him to check his own digital perimeters. He was relentless—he’d spot the breach instantly, no matter how subtle it was.
Since I already had a meeting scheduled with King and our VP, I shut down my computer and secured it with my thumbprint. Then I gathered up the stack of folders, pushed back from my desk, and headed out of my office. My footsteps were heavy as I strode through the clubhouse toward King’s domain.
The club president’s office was near the back of the building, away from the lounge’s low hum and the distant laughter drifting from the bar area. It was closer to the entrance to the house built on the back, where King lived with his old lady and son.
The heavy wooden door was cracked open, low voices murmuring from inside. I knocked once before pushing the door open wide.
King sat behind his massive desk, the dark wood worn and polished to a sheen. He turned away from Blaze, who was leaning against one of the bookshelves lining the wall. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his eyes crinkled slightly in amusement when he saw me walk in. “Finally escaped from your spreadsheets?"
“Fuck off,” I retorted dryly, tossing the files on King’s desk as I settled onto one of the chairs across from him.
King shot Blaze an impatient look, ignoring his chuckle. “Background checks complete?”
