Twenty men. Armed. Dug into a ranch two valleys from where my nephew sleeps.
I stand. "Thank you."
"What happens to me?"
I look at him over my shoulder, he can’t be much younger than me. "That depends on my brother. But you've been helpful. That counts."
I walk out into the morning sun. The ranch is waking up. The horses calling from the paddocks, Lola's cooking drifting from the main house, Wyatt's laughter carrying from somewhere near the round pen.
This is what we're protecting. What I’d lay down my life for. Family.
I pull out my phone and call Hunter.
"He talked. The Greeks killed a Milano in LA, a brother. That's why they're here. LA got too hot, so they bought Ranch 42 as a staging ground. They want in with Enzo. They're trying to build an army to take back Los Angeles from the Italians. So they’re bringing in Greeks here, putting pressure on us to fold so we work with them."
Silence.
"Fuckin' Greek restaurant. I’ll call in Enzo, see how he wants us to play this. If it’s an LA territory war, it ain’t our issue. But if they’re going to make a run for our land, then it fuckin’ is," Hunter mutters.
"You keep saying that Greek restaurant thing. What does it mean?"
"Nothing. Don't worry about it." His voice shifts. "Don't touch the Greek again. I'm sending Romeo for the phone data. I need to make calls."
"Copy."
"This stays between us and Colt. Nobody else."
"Understood. Jett? You gave him a big job."
He chuckles.
“Let’s see what he does with the task first.”
I hang up, leaning against the barn wall. The sun is warm on my face, and for a second, I let myself just breathe. I don’t get a chance to do that much. Just enjoy the peace.
Then Jett's truck comes tearing up the drive, dust billowing behind it, horn blaring, country music rattling the windows. He skids to a stop in front of me. The window rolls down.
He's wearing sunglasses, a cowboy hat, and for some reason, the most offensive shirt my eyes have ever seen.
"Get in, dick face. We're going kidnapping."
I stare at him, my brain catching up with what I’m looking at. "What the fuck are you wearing?"
He looks down at the shirt. Bright orange. Palm trees. Flamingos. "What? It's my undercover look."
"Undercover as what? A divorced dad at a pool party?"
"It's called blending in, Ace. I'm meeting this reporter at a diner. I can't show up looking like…" He gestures at me. At my hat, my boots, my belt buckle, my entire existence. "Like that. I'll spook them."
I’d love to look inside his brain and see what is really going on in there.
"Jett, you're six-three, covered in scars, and you've got a black eye from the bar fight. No shirt on earth is saving you. If anything, it’s going to get more attention or possibly a psych evaluation."
He adjusts his sunglasses. "Are you coming or not?"
I shake my head. "Can't. Colt's got a shipment coming in an hour. Guns. I told him I'd meet him at the south drop."
Jett's face shifts. The grin stays, but his eyes sharpen. He knows what the shipments mean. They're the backbone of the operation, the product moving through our territory under Enzo's flag, distributed through channels that don't exist on paper, protected by men who don't exist on record. My job islogistics. Making sure the right crates get to the right trucks and the wrong people don't see any of it.
