Capone stands at the gate, cigarette between his fingers, shades reflecting the convoy of bikes guarding the perimeter. Trigger, Derange, and Knight sweep the yard, their patches catching firelight from the dying day. Daisy, Jezebelle, and Aerianna are inside with bottled water and first-aid kits, already organizing chaos into order.
Capone flicks his cigarette, nodding once. “Got your girls and kids covered, Rebel. No one gets past that fence.”
“Appreciate it,” I answer, voice rough. “Owe you more than whiskey for this.”
He smirks. “Save it for when you’ve got your money back.”
Inside, the farmhouse smells like dust and diesel. The living room’s turned into a triage. Blankets on the floor,bottles lined up, women huddled close with shaking hands. Annabelle squirms free, toddles toward Aerianna, who scoops her up and kisses her forehead. “Hey there, sugar plum. You hungry?”
Calypso sinks into a chair, exhausted, her skin pale under the fluorescent hum. Farris crouches in front of her, checking her pulse like he can will her body to behave. “You need rest.”
“Rest later,” she says, voice thin. “We make sure they’re safe first.”
I check the windows. Royal Bastards are posted in every direction, bikes forming a metal wall. Safe enough for now.
“Stay put until we clear the grid,” I tell Calypso. “I’ll get word when Divine and Carter lock the breach.”
She nods, but her eyes follow me to the door. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I lie, and step back out into the heat.
The desert hums under the engines as I pace the perimeter, scanning the horizon until the last night fades. Royal Bastards patrol in a loose formation. Torch is checking the north fence, and Knight is taking the back pasture. Capone moves like a shadow, cigarette ember glowing between updates. It’s the kind of quiet that never stays quiet for long.
Once the farmhouse is secure, I climb back into the van. The ride into the city is long, straight, and silent. The freeway stretches empty, the air thick with heat and exhaust.
I pass the glow of downtown and the smell of asphalt, my thoughts on my nephew, Levi, and every mile between what we’ve saved and what we’ve lost.
By the time I reach the clubhouse, the smog is bleeding into the sun, and the sky looks like a wound that refuses to close.
Inside, Divine’s war room glows like a storm. Screens strobe blue and green. Carter stands behind her, arms braced, eyes hollow from hours without rest.
“We stopped the infiltration,” Divine reports, fingers flying, “but the money’s gone. Every shell, every hidden account was emptied in seconds.”
Carter’s jaw flexes. “They stripped us clean.”
I steady my hands on the table. “All of it?”
“Every cent,” Divine confirms. “But I found something buried in the breach logs. A name pinged during the trace.” She glances at me. “Your nephew. Alex’s boy.”
My stomach knots. “Levi?”
Divine nods. “He’s been hidden in the foster system under a false ID. The one you arranged through the shelter three years ago. You wanted him off the grid, remember? The breach lit up his file. If we don’t move, the Vultures will find him first.”
Carter’s already grabbing his helmet. “Then we move.”
The ride north is a blur of highway and heat. The club’s black SUV hums steadily beneath us, engine purring low, air thick with sun and asphalt. Carter drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh near the pistol he keeps within reach. Neither of us talks much. There’s too much in the silence. The breach, the nameDivine whispered, the sick twist in my gut that hasn’t stopped since.
When we reach the small foster house on the edge of Santa Clarita, it looks ordinary enough. Beige stucco, patchy lawn, a swing set creaking lazily in the dry wind. Ordinary is how danger hides.
The back gate hangs open, chain-link bent where someone forced it. Carter slows, scanning the yard. “No vehicles nearby. You ready?”
“Been ready since the moment Divine said his name.”
We step out. The heat slams into us, dry and unrelenting. The porch creaks beneath our boots, and I knock once before pushing the door open. The air smells like disinfectant and canned peaches. Inside, a woman in her mid-forties with a phone in hand freezes mid-sentence. Her eyes widen when she sees my cut.
“You can’t just barge in here.”
“We can,” I interrupt, low and even. “Where is he?”
