Chapter Two
WILL
The Next Morning
Heavy thoughts don’t let me sleep for shit.
I wake before my alarm with that familiar pressure already sitting in my chest, the kind that makes real rest impossible, no matter how exhausted I am.
The number hits me first, before my feet touch the floor, before traffic noise starts bleeding through the window and reminds me I’m still in the city instead of out on the road where my head works better.
Twenty-one days.
Three weeks from now, I’ll stand in front of my brothers and receive the thing I have been building toward for two years.
My patch.
The fact of it pulses through me like a second heartbeat, low, constant, and impossible to ignore. I reach up and press the heel of my palm flat against my sternum, feeling it thump. That ticking pressure, the weight of everything I still have to get right before then.
I shower, dress, and make it out into the club room earlier than usual, expecting the place to feel still half-asleep.
It doesn’t.
The air inside carries that low, restless energy that sets my nerves on edge before I even figure out why. Voices murmur near the kitchen, coffee brews somewhere, and boots move across hard concrete with more purpose than a normal morning deserves.
I head for the side entrance and push the door open.
The cold Nevada air hits me first, then the sight of the lot.
Bikes sit clustered in uneven lines, dust still clinging to chrome from last night’s run.
A couple of the brothers move between the garage and the yard, coffee in hand, shoulders tight, conversations cut short beneath the tension hanging between them.
No one is laughing.
No one is busting balls.
Church ran long after we got back from the mine.
Long enough that sleep became optional. Long enough that whatever those two men were doing out there at that mine hasn’t left anyone’s mind yet.
And now Church is picking back up again.
The whole place feels as if it’s braced for impact, as if we’re waiting for something to make the next move.
Three weeks.
The thought presses back in, sharp and insistent.
Three weeks until I earn my patch.
Three weeks to prove I belong here when things stop being routine and start turning real.
I push through the door into the Chapel, where Ghost is already at the table, his laptop open in front of him, toothpick in his mouth as per usual, and a mug steaming at his elbow.
His eyes snap to me the second I walk in, which is pure Ghost. The man notices everything without ever looking like he’s paying attention, soaking up information so fast and thoroughly it’s honestly a little fucking unsettling.
He gives me a nod.
I give him one back.
Sin’s at the head of the table with his arms folded, staring at Ghost’s screen with that dead-still focus he gets whenever something pisses him off enough to turn dangerous.
His poker chip moves between his fingers in a slow, steady rhythm, and I’ve been around long enough to know that little habit means somebody’s about to have a very bad day.
“Morning,” I say, moving to my place by the wall.
Sin glances across at me. “Grab coffee. We’re waiting on Deek.”
I push back off the wall again and head for the counter, where the pot’s still half-full, burnt-dark, and strong enough to strip paint.
I grab a mug from the rack, rinse out whatever yesterday left behind, and pour until the surface trembles near the rim.
Steam curls up, carrying that bitter, familiar smell that means the day’s already started, whether you’re ready or not.
I bring it back to my place against the wall, and I lean back with one leg bent and my foot flat on the wall.
I haven’t earned my place at the table yet. Honestly, I am lucky to even be in this church meeting as a prospect at all.
Nitro comes through from the corridor a few minutes later, broad-shouldered and unhurried, dropping into the chair on Sin’s left with an easy authority.
He eyes the coffee in my hand, then stands, moves to the counter, pours himself a coffee without looking at the mug, and sets the pot back down.
The whole motion is so automatic that it barely registers as movement.
Koa comes in first, then my father, Bear, drops into the chair across from me, carrying that same heavy presence he’s always had, the kind that fills a room without him needing to raise his voice or demand attention.
Dad’s never been a man who talks to hear himself speak.
He lets silence do the work for him most of the time.
When he looks at me, it’s one of those long, steady looks that sees entirely too much. No questions asked, out loud, and no pressure attached. Somehow, that makes it worse.
I hold his gaze for about two seconds before I look away, taking a sip from my mug, because dealing with my father’s eyes before caffeine should probably count as a hostile working environment.
The door slams open hard enough to rattle the windows, if this room had windows, and Deek storms in carrying pure chaos with him.
“Shit, sorry.” He drops into his chair like he owns the damn clubhouse, sprawling out with a reckless comfort that suggests sitting properly has always felt deeply optional to him.
“Tiff called. You know how she gets when she’s got something to say. ”
We all glance at each other because none of us has ever heard of ‘Tiff’ before.
But that’s not unusual. He always seems to have some ‘new girl’ on rotation.
He moves toward the coffee, picks up the coffee pot, finds it empty, and turns it upside down over his mug.
Looking as though he’s just been personally wronged.
“Who finished the coffee and didn’t make more?
Name yourself. Own it. This is a safe space. ”
“You’re late,” Nitro says, moving back to his seat. “The coffee doesn’t wait on you.”
“The coffee should wait on me. I am the road captain after all. I determine the pace of this club’s movements…
including caffeination.” He moves for the machine.
“Also, Will, your girl was still at that communal kitchen at midnight. Tiff saw the lights on when she drove past. Either she’s baking or summoning something,” he says, plonking back into his seat with the weight of a ten-pound bull.
“She’s not my girl, Deek. Plus, who the fuck is Tiff, and how does she know Millie?”
“She’s not your girl… yet. And you know, Tiff, she’s the girl I’ve been seeing for the last week,” Deek replies, addressing the coffee machine, and the words land with a precision that is entirely accidental, which somehow makes them worse.
“I give Tiff two more days… max,” Koa jabs.
The rest of us chuckle when Deek shrugs like it’s actually the most probable outcome.
Dad doesn’t say a word.
But his silence has weight. The kind that tells me he knows exactly what’s going on and has already decided not to call me on it yet.
I take another drink of my coffee and pretend my life isn’t actively unraveling across this table.
“Okay.” Sin’s voice cuts across the room, and every head turns his way automatically. “Ghost, walk us through what you pulled.”
Ghost turns his laptop to face the table.
On the screen is a partial license plate, the dashcam footage grainy but workable, the sedan caught in the mine’s perimeter lights for less than three seconds before it rockets onto the highway and vanishes.
Beside the footage is a registration document, and below that, a corporate filing page.
“Plates are registered to a holding company called Meridian Asset Consulting, LLC,” Ghost says, his voice flat and controlled in that way that tells me he’s already had whatever reaction he was going to have about this and buried it deep.
“Shell company. Filed eighteen months ago in Delaware. The registered agent is a law firm in Phoenix with no physical office and an address that maps to a UPS store. I dug through four layers of ownership before I hit a wall, and the wall is clean. The kind of clean that someone paid for…” He pauses, then his eyes find mine across the room.
“The filing structure is consistent with Hidden Hand Alliance operational methodology. Same pattern we saw with the front companies they used in the casino operation. Different names, same architecture.”
The words land differently from across the room.
Ghost is still talking, something about ownership layers, about the Phoenix law firm with the UPS store address, but my ears have snagged on the thing he said thirty seconds ago and haven’t let go of it yet.
Hidden Hand Alliance.
I watch Sin from my position against the wall.
Prospects don’t sit at the table for Chapel. Most nights, we don’t even make it this far. We stay outside the room, catching what we can through half-open doors and raised voices, learning the shape of decisions secondhand, piecing together what matters from what leaks out.
I’ve been doing it for two years. Long enough to know what each of these men looks like when something lands hard. But this, seeing it from inside the room, close enough to catch the shift as it happens instead of hearing about it after, this is different.
What I’m watching right now isn’t a hard landing.
It’s something else.
Sin goes dead still.
Not the kind where he’s trying to hold his temper back. I know what that looks like. Anger in Sin always moves somehow, in his jaw, his hands, the way tension locks through his shoulders.
This is different.
Colder.
The kind of stillness that usually means somebody’s about to get hurt.
Nitro speaks first, which is usually how it goes. “We put their leadership in handcuffs on live television. Lorenzo’s in federal custody. Dante too.” His jaw works. “How the fuck is this the same structure?”