“Mr. Blackwell’s grandmother, Clara Blackwell, a resident at Sunset Manor, is currently hospitalized in critical condition. Sources tell us that Clara Blackwell has a substantial life insurance policy with Damon Blackwell listed as the sole beneficiary.”
“What the fuck?” I mumble.
Chapter Thirty
NITRO
“It gets worse,” Ghost mutters.
The reporter continues, “Investigators are looking into whether the fire was deliberately set, possibly for insurance fraud. Additionally, sources are questioning the legitimacy of Blackwell Entertainment Group and its potential connections to organized crime.”
More pictures flash across the screen, of our clubhouse, the brothers in their cuts, screenshots ripped from surveillance footage and social media.
Marley’s jaw drops. “They’re painting you as criminals. As… as a murderer!”
The reporter’s voice sharpens as the segment winds down. “We are calling on the Las Vegas Police Department to launch a full investigation. If Blackwell Entertainment Group or any associated individuals are involved in this fire, charges must be filed. Justice must be served.”
My face lingers on the screen, frozen in that polished corporate smile, while the anchor adds, “We’ll bring you updates as this story develops.”
Marley whips toward me. “This is bullshit! They’re accusing you of killing your own grandmother for insurance money?”
“Among other things.” I grind the words out, my jaw locking so tight it hurts. “Derek’s thorough, I’ll give him that.”
Ghost mutes the sound. “It’s on every local station. Social media is exploding. Your phone’s been ringing nonstop. I have it in the waiting room.”
“How bad is this?” I ask.
“Bad. Reporters are outside the hospital, outside the clubhouse. Your business office is being hammered with calls. This is a coordinated strike, Nitro. Someone fed this story to multiple outlets simultaneously.”
“Derek,” Marley growls, agitation in her voice. “He’s behind this.All of it.”
“Can we prove it?” I look at Ghost.
“I’m working on it. The digital trail from when he was digging into your identity is still there, but it’s buried deep. I need time.”
Time?
While my face is plastered across every news channel in Vegas.
While reporters camp outside, hungry for blood.
While Queenie lies here unconscious, and the world thinks I tried to fucking kill her.
“We need help,” I say, the words tasting bitter. “Official help.”
“You want to call the cops?” Ghost raises an eyebrow. “After everything?”
“Not justanycop.” I raise my brow. “Maria Moretti.”
Understanding dawns, and a slow smile crosses his face. “Sin’s mother.”
“She’s Captain now, right? She helped us take down Rourke and the Alliance. She knows we’re not criminals.” I gesture at the muted television where my face still floods the screen. “If anyone can run a proper investigation and actually prove Derek set that fire, it’s her.”
Ghost nods slowly. “I’ll talk to Sin. He can reach out.”
“Tell him to do it fast. Before this shit gets out of our control.”
Ghost dips his chin and leaves. The room falls silent, except for the ventilator and monitors. Marley’s hand finds mine again, her fingers threading through my bandaged ones.
