“I got proof.” Earl fumbles in his pocket for his phone, nearly dropping it twice.”Took a picture.”
That gets everyone’s attention. Even the college girls have stopped pretending not to eavesdrop.
“Let’s see it then,” Aaron challenges, abandoning his pool game.
Earl holds up his phone triumphantly, and people start crowding around. I stay where I am, but I can hear the reactions.
“Holy shit, that is her!”
“No way. Has to be photoshopped.”
“Look at those tits though?—”
“Twenty bucks says I could tap that before she leaves town.”
The comments get progressively cruder, and something in my chest tightens with disgust. I’ve never understood the way some alphas talk about omegas like they’re prizes to be won or objects to be conquered. Maybe it’s because I grew up in the system, saw what happened to omegas without protection, but that kind of talk has always made my skin crawl.
“Give me that phone.” Bryce Keegan—Snake’s younger brother and twice as stupid—lunges across a table toward Earl.
Earl jerks back, clutching the phone to his chest like it’s made of gold. “Get your own celebrity picture!”
“That photo’s worth money, old man. TMZ pays thousands for this shit.”
“Then I’ll sell it myself!”
Bryce grabs Earl’s wrist, twisting hard enough that Earl yelps. The phone clatters to the floor, and three people dive for it at once. Chairs screech. Someone’s beer goes flying. One of the college girls shrieks as she gets shoved aside.
“Enough.”
My voice cuts through the chaos, but nobody’s listening. Bryce has Earl in a headlock now, the older man’s face going purple. Two other Sinners are wrestling for the phone, and the whole thing is about to spiral into a full-scale brawl.
I vault over the bar in one smooth motion, grab Bryce by the collar of his leather cut, and haul him off Earl with enough force to send them both stumbling.
“I saidenough.”
Bryce spins on me, fists already raised. “Stay out of this, Romano. This ain’t your fight.”
“It is when you’re wrecking my bar.”
“Yourbar?” He laughs, ugly and sharp. “You’re the fuckinghelp. You don’t own shit.”
I don’t bother responding. When he swings, I’m already moving—ducking under his fist and driving my shoulder into his solar plexus. We hit the floor hard, bottles and glasses raining down around us. Bryce is bigger than me, but I’m faster, meaner, and I’ve been in more fights than he’s had hot meals.
My elbow connects with his nose. Blood sprays across the floorboards.
“Fuck!” He rolls away, clutching his face. “You broke my fucking nose!”
“Should’ve stayed down.”
Someone grabs my shoulder from behind. I spin, fist cocked, and barely stop myself from cold-cocking Aaron Keenan.
The VP of the Sinners stares at me with flat dead eyes. He’s got twenty years and fifty pounds on me, plus the kind of prison muscle that comes from having nothing to do but lift weights for a decade. The snake tattoo on his neck seems to writhe in the dim light.
“You’re making a habit of hitting my boys, Dom.”
“Your boys should learn some fucking manners.”
“And you should learn your place.” He steps closer, close enough that I can smell the whiskey on his breath, the stale cigarettes embedded in his leather.
