“Peachy.”
“Right. Well, holler if you need me.” She leaves, closingthe door behind her, but I know Divine’s suspicion is already working overtime. The woman doesn’t miss a damn thing.
I lean forward, fingers tightening on the keyboard. If I report this, Allura will call for a full audit. She won’t raise her voice, she won’t accuse. She’ll just sit at the table and start asking questions in that calm tone that makes everyone tell the truth.
And when Alex’s name shows up in the middle of our books, there won’t be a way to explain it cleanly.
Why didn’t you tell us you were tied to an RBMC prospect?
Why keep something like that from your own club?
Trust isn’t a word we throw around lightly, and once it cracks, it doesn’t go back together the same.
The ledger I kept since Alex died, the one I took to his grave, sits in my saddlebag downstairs. Same neat handwriting, same instinct for numbers. He taught me to double-check everything. He’d laugh his ass off at me now for hiding lies inside the truth.
I rub a hand over my face, closing my eyes. “What the hell are you into, brother?”
Outside, laughter erupts from the bar. A group of off-duty firefighters is celebrating something loud and stupid. The bass line thumps through the floor, steady as a heartbeat.
Life goes on out there. Calypso’s at the tattoo shop finishing a dragon sleeve, French is probably flirting with some poor tourist, Iris is tuning her bike near the ring, and Raven’s guarding the back fence.
All of them are living, breathing, fierce. And I’m in here talking to ghosts and spreadsheets.
I pull the printed reports from under the folder, fold them into thirds, and shove them into my cut’s inside pocket. The paper crinkles against my chest like a confession.
When I lock the office and step outside, the night air hits cool against my skin. The compound hums around me, music from the bar, a metallic clank from the ring, laughter from the tattoo parlor windows.
I light a cigarette and watch the smoke curl upward. For a second, everything looks perfect. Our rebuilt kingdom, our reclaimed power.
Then my phone vibrates. Unknown number.
The screen lights my face in pale blue. For half a second, the whole world narrows to that one glowing message:
Nice work, Treasurer. Keep the books balanced.
No signature. Just an attached image, a single line item circled in red.A.Slade Logistics LLC.
The cigarette drops from my lips. My pulse spikes, hard enough to make my knees wobble. Whoever’s behind this isn’t just in the system, they’re watching me.
I pocket the phone, grind the cigarette out under my boot, and head toward the ring, forcing my heartbeat to slow.
Tomorrow, I’ll tell the girls the accountsare fine. I’ll smile, laugh, and pour drinks. I’ll sit at Church as if nothing’s clawing at the underside of my ribs.
Tonight, I dig deeper. Alone.
Because if someone’s resurrected the name A. Slade, they didn’t just move money. They declared war. And I don’t lose.
2
REBEL
Morning hits the compound like a fist wrapped in velvet, soft-looking but hard underneath. The hillside still hums from last night’s work and whiskey. Ten acres of neon and steel stretch below. The strip club is shut down for the night. The tattoo parlor behind the old oak glows through smoked glass, ink guns whining a lullaby only sinners and artists understand. The shelter is tucked the farthest back, behind its fence. Raven stalks the perimeter like a ghost in matte black, counting cameras, exits, and heartbeats. Every inch smells of smoke, sweat, and second chances.
By the time the sun burns through the marine layer, the bar’s bay doors are rolled up, letting out the smell of coffee, fryer oil, and last night’s whiskey. The neon sign still hum in the daylight, like it doesn’t know how to shut the hell up even when the party’s over.
French has commandeered the main table in the clubhouse, receipts and glittery pens spread everywhere likeshe’s summoning financial demons. Divine’s at the bar with two laptops open, fingers flying. Iris comes back inside after checking tire pressure and chain slack for the afternoon ride, then leans against the counter, her long dark braid swinging as she flips through the fight night roster.
I walk in holding a coffee so strong it could patch drywall.
