Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
DAGGER
I’m hunched over my bike, tightening a bolt on the engine casing, trying to focus on the steady rhythm of my work. It’s the only thing keeping my head from spinning. Chloe’s face keeps flashing through my mind—her voice, her words, the way she looked at me last time we talked. It’s like a damn itch I can’t scratch, but I shove it down and focus on the task in front of me.
I glance up and see Tank stepping into the garage. His broad frame fills the doorway, and I immediately know this isn’t going to be a casual conversation.
I stiffen, my hand pausing mid-turn on the wrench. Tank walks in, his boots heavy on the floor, and stops a few feet away. His arms are crossed, his face hard, and I brace myself. If he swings, I’m not sure I’ll dodge it—not that I’d blame him if he did.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he looks me dead in the eye. “Look,” he starts, his voice low and firm. “Chloe’s like my little sister. If you don’t want her, stay the hell out of her life. But if you do... and you hurt her, I swear to God, I’ll beat the shit out of you. You’ll wish you were dead.”
I set the wrench down and straighten, meeting his glare head-on. “I get it,” I say, my voice rough but steady.
Tank nods once, relaxing just a bit. “Good.” He steps back slightly, his tone shifting. “Now, brother to brother, we gotta talk.”
I wipe my hands on a rag, raising an eyebrow. “What’s going on?”
Tank looks around, making sure no one else is nearby, then steps closer. “It’s the Russians,” he says, lowering his voice. “They’re getting greedy. Want more product for less cash. Mason’s been pushing back, but they’re starting to make threats. Talking about finding another supplier.”
I frown, tossing the rag onto the workbench. “The Russians are our biggest client,” I say, my tone clipped. “If we lose them, it’s gonna hit us hard.”
“No shit,” Tank says, leaning against the wall. “Mason’s doing his best to hold the line, but they’re not used to hearing ‘no.’ If they walk, they’re not just gonna disappear quietly. You know how they operate. They’ll make it messy.”
I run a hand through my hair, trying to process. “We can’t let them pull out,” I mutter. “Not unless we’ve got someone else lined up. Mason got a plan?”
Tank shrugs. “He’s working on it. Got a meeting with their rep later this week, but from what I’m hearing, it’s not looking good. They’re pissed, and they’re making moves.”
I exhale sharply, my jaw clenching. “Damn Russians. Always pushing their luck.” I glance back at him. “What do you need from me?”
Tank meets my eyes, his expression serious. “Be ready. If this goes south, Mason’s gonna need every brother on the same page. This isn’t gonna be a quick fix. Could get ugly.”
I nod, the weight of his words sinking in. “Got it.”
Tank claps me on the shoulder, his grip firm. “Good. And don’t forget what I said about Chloe.”
I grunt, my tone softer this time. “I heard you.”
He holds my gaze for a moment longer, then turns and walks out, his heavy boots echoing in the garage.
I pick up the wrench again, gripping it tightly, grateful to have something— anything —to focus on besides the mess I’ve made of my life. Work, I can do. I’m damn good at it. Bikes, deals, the club—that’s where I shine. And if nothing else, I can remind everyone, including myself, why I earned that VP patch in the first place.
I put the wrench down, my head buzzing with thoughts I can’t shake. The bike isn’t going anywhere right now—not until I get some answers. Wiping my hands on a rag, I head toward Mason’s office.
The door is cracked open, and I see him sitting behind his desk, his elbows on the surface, his hands clasped in front of his face. He looks like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Mason always has that air of control, but today it’s slipping, just a little.
I knock lightly on the doorframe. “Got a minute?”
He looks up, his eyes sharp but tired. “Yeah, come in.”
I step inside, closing the door behind me, and lean against the wall. “Tank just filled me in,” I say. “How can I help?”
Mason exhales, leaning back in his chair. “It’s a shitshow, Dagger. Russians are squeezing us. They want more for less, and if we don’t give it to them, they’re threatening to walk.”
I nod, crossing my arms. “We could find new buyers,” I suggest, “branch out. Maybe make a deal with the Italians.”
Mason’s eyebrows shoot up, and he lets out a short, humorless laugh. “You really want to do that? Bring the Italians into this? You know what that could mean.”
I shrug, keeping my tone even. “Yeah. I know. It might mean starting a war. But if the Russians are pushing us this hard now, what’s to stop them from pulling this same shit six months from now? We can’t let them think they’ve got us by the balls.”
Mason rubs a hand over his face, considering. “You’re not wrong. But you know as well as I do, dealing with the Italians isn’t just a business decision. It’s politics, history, old grudges. One wrong move, and we’ve got a hell of a lot more than a supply problem.”
I push off the wall, stepping closer to his desk. “Isn’t that what we’re trained for?” I say, smirking.
Mason chuckles, but there’s no real humor in it. “Yeah, maybe. But that doesn’t mean I’m looking to dive headfirst into a damn bloodbath. We’ve had too much of that the last few years.”
I nod, appreciating the weight of his position. “Fair enough. But we can’t sit on this. If the Russians walk and we don’t have a backup plan, we’re screwed. They’re our biggest buyer for a reason. We lose them, and the whole operation takes a hit.”
Mason leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “You got any other ideas?”
I scratch my chin, thinking. “We could leverage their competition. The Russians hate losing face. If they think someone else is sniffing around for what we’ve got, they might reconsider walking away.”
Mason’s eyes narrow, his mind clearly working through the idea. “Risky,” he says. “But not a bad angle. They hate looking weak.”
“Exactly,” I say. “We don’t even have to make a real deal with anyone else—just make it look like we might. Put some pressure back on them.”
Mason sits back, nodding slowly. “Alright. I’ll think on it. We’ve got that meeting later this week. If it comes to it, we might run with your plan.”
“Let me know what you need,” I say, turning toward the door.
“Dagger,” Mason calls after me.
I stop and glance back.
“Good thinking,” he says in a gruff tone.
I nod once, then leave, my mind already turning over the possibilities. It’s a risky move, but sometimes risk is the only way to get ahead. The club’s future is riding on this, and I’ll be damned if I let it fall apart.
I’m elbow-deep in grease, working on a stubborn bolt when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I wipe my hands on a rag and pull it out, Mason’s name lighting up the screen. I answer immediately.
“Yeah?”
“Need you at the meet with the Russians,” Mason says, his tone flat, no room for questions.
I pause, tension already tightening my chest. “When?”
“Now. Clubhouse.”
“Got it.”
He hangs up, and I toss the rag onto the bench, grabbing my cut and throwing it on. This isn’t a call you ignore. I swing my leg over the bike, fire it up, and tear out of the garage toward the clubhouse.
When I roll up, the guys are already there. Mason’s leaning against his bike, arms crossed, his face carved from stone. Tank, Hawk, Piston, and Sledge are gathered nearby, checking weapons and talking in low tones.
I kill the engine and walk over, nodding at Tank. “What’s the deal?”
Mason looks up, his voice calm but sharp. “Russians want to talk terms. Same bullshit as always, but this time, they’re starting to push hard. We’re riding out to remind them who they’re dealing with.”
Tank snorts, tucking a knife into his boot. “Remind ‘em why we don’t take their shit.”
Hawk checks the clip on his pistol, sliding it back into his holster. “They’re getting cocky,” he mutters. “Think they can lean on us ‘cause they don’t see the consequences.”
“They’re about to,” Mason says, pushing off his bike. “Let’s ride.”
We mount up, the sound of our engines roaring to life as we peel out of the lot in formation. The ride’s short, but the tension builds with every mile. By the time we pull up to the old warehouse on the east side, the adrenaline’s pumping. The place is perfect for a meet—isolated, no cameras, plenty of exits if shit goes sideways.
The Russians are already there, their black SUVs lined up like they’re trying to make a statement. Their head guy, Dmitri, stands by the lead vehicle, flanked by a couple of his goons. He’s dressed sharp, like he always is, with an expensive suit and that cold look in his eyes that makes him impossible to read.
We park our bikes in a tight line and dismount, falling in behind Mason as he leads the way. Tank and I stay close to him, while Hawk, Piston, and Sledge hang back slightly, keeping their eyes on the surroundings.
Dmitri takes a drag off a cigarette as we approach, blowing the smoke out slowly. “Mason,” he says, his accent thick but his words deliberate. “Always a pleasure.”
Mason stops a few feet away, his hands resting casually at his sides. “Let’s skip the bullshit, Dmitri. What do you want?”
Dmitri’s lips curl into a faint smirk. “I assume you’ve had time to reconsider our terms.”
Mason’s jaw tightens, but his voice stays calm. “Your terms are a joke, and you know it. We’re not here to bend over. If you want our product, you pay what it’s worth.”
One of Dmitri’s guys steps forward, but Dmitri holds up a hand, stopping him. “Careful, Mason,” he says, his tone smooth but cold. “We’re not just another client. You should be more... accommodating.”
I step in, my voice low but sharp. “You came to us for a reason, Dmitri. You know our supply is the best, and you know nobody else can match what we bring to the table. You walk away, you lose.”
Dmitri shifts his gaze to me, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You think we have no other options?”
“No,” Mason says, cutting in. “But I think you’ll regret taking them. You walk, and you’ll be explaining to your boss why you’re stuck with shit quality and a blown budget. You ready for that conversation?”
Dmitri chuckles darkly, taking another drag of his cigarette. “You have balls, Mason. I’ll give you that.”
“Balls and brains,” Mason says, his tone flat. “Take the deal or leave it, but if you walk, you’re the one who’s gonna lose face.”
For a moment, the tension is thick enough to choke on. Dmitri stares at Mason, the smirk fading slightly as he weighs his options. Finally, he flicks the cigarette to the ground and crushes it under his shoe.
“Fine,” he says, his voice clipped. “For now, we keep the deal as it is.”
Mason nods once. “Good call.”
Dmitri turns to his men, signaling them to fall back. Before climbing into his SUV, he glances over his shoulder. “I trust we won’t have this conversation again.”
Mason’s eyes narrow. “Not if you stick to your end.”
The Russians pull out, their vehicles disappearing into the distance.
As the sound of their engines fades, Mason turns to us. “Good work,” he says, his tone still sharp. “But this isn’t over. They’ll push again. Be ready.”
Tank grins, cracking his knuckles. “Let ‘em. I’m always ready to remind these assholes who’s in charge.”
I glance back at the warehouse, my fists clenching and unclenching. “Next time, they might not walk away so easy.”
Mason nods, his expression hard. “Next time, we’ll be ready.”
We mount up, the weight of the encounter settling over us as we ride back to the clubhouse. The Russians got their message, but I can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t the last time we’ll be hearing from them. Not by a long shot.
When we roll back into the clubhouse, the sound of laughter and music spills out before we even step inside. The girls are already here—Carlie, Jenny, Sophie—all busy setting up for the members-only party tonight. Tables are being wiped down, decorations thrown up haphazardly, and snacks laid out. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s got our stamp all over it.
And, of course, Chloe’s here. Why wouldn’t she be? She’s part of this club, part of us.
She’s standing by the bar when I notice her reaching for a case of beer stacked against the wall. Before I even think about it, I’m walking over, grabbing it out of her hands before she can lift it.
“I got it,” I tell her firmly, holding the case like it weighs nothing.
Chloe turns to me, her eyebrow arching, her lips tugging into a half-smile that’s as much amusement as it is annoyance. “I can handle it,” she says, shaking her head and rolling her eyes.
“Go sit down and put your feet up,” I say, nodding toward one of the couches. “You need to rest.”
She crosses her arms, leaning her weight onto one leg, her smile turning into a full-on laugh. “I’m not broken, Dagger,” she says. “I’m pregnant. There’s a difference.”
I shrug, shifting the case of beer in my arms. “Either way,” I say, smirking, “you’re not hauling cases of beer around. Go sit.”
Chloe sighs dramatically, but her eyes are still laughing. “Fine,” she says, throwing her hands up in mock surrender. “I’ll take a break.”
She turns and heads toward one of the couches near the corner, plopping down and kicking her feet up onto the table. Sophie walks by, glancing at Chloe and then at me.
“What’d you do?” Sophie asks, grinning.
“Got her to listen for once,” I say, setting the case down on the bar with a thud.
“That’s a miracle,” Sophie teases, winking at Chloe.
Chloe throws a pillow at Sophie, laughing. “Don’t get used to it.”
I glance at Chloe, still sitting there with that stubborn glint in her eye, and I can’t help but smile to myself. She can argue all she wants, but I’m not letting her overdo it. Not on my watch.
After hauling the last case of beer into the storage room, I grab a bottle of water and a bag of pretzels from the bar, wiping the sweat off my brow with the back of my hand. As I scan the room, my eyes lock on Chloe.
She’s still sitting on the couch, but she’s not alone. Hawk’s there beside her, leaning in slightly, talking to her. They’re laughing about something, their conversation easy and light.
But it’s not the way they’re talking that gets to me—it’s the way Hawk’s looking at her. Like she’s the only thing in the room. His eyes linger on her, his smile soft, and it makes my chest tighten.
Jealousy flares hot and fast, but I push it down, gripping the water bottle a little tighter than I should. I walk over, my boots heavy against the floor, and Hawk notices me first. His expression doesn’t change, but I can tell he’s clocking my every move.
I stop in front of them, setting the water and pretzels down on the table in front of Chloe. “Figured you could use a snack,” I say, keeping my voice even.
Chloe looks up at me, surprised at first, then smiles. “Thanks,” she says warmly.
Before I can say anything else, Hawk grunts and stands up, his eyes briefly meeting mine. “I’ll see you later,” he says to Chloe, his tone gruff but not unkind.
She nods, still smiling as she watches him walk away. Then her attention shifts back to me, and for a moment, the air feels thick, awkward. I shift on my feet, not sure what to say.
“Thanks,” she says again, breaking the tension. Her smile is softer now, but it still manages to cut through the haze in my head.
“Not a problem,” I say, shrugging like it’s nothing. But it’s not nothing—not with the way Hawk was looking at her, and not with the way my chest tightens every time she smiles like that.
I glance at the couch, debating whether to sit or leave, but Chloe pats the cushion beside her. “Sit,” she says, like she’s reading my mind.
I lower myself onto the couch, trying to ignore the faint trace of Hawk’s cologne still lingering in the air. Chloe opens the pretzels, popping one into her mouth and offering me the bag.
I shake my head. “How are you doing? How are you feeling?”
She pauses, the question clearly making her think. “I’m good,” she says finally. “Tired, but good. Oh, and I found a place for me and the baby.”
Her words hit like a gut punch. I feel it, sharp and immediate, but I keep my face steady. “Yeah?” I ask, forcing a small smile. “That’s great. Where’s it at?”
She beams, clearly excited. “It’s a little two-bedroom house, not far from here. Cute place, fenced-in yard. Perfect for me and the baby.”
It stings—her building a life without me—but at the same time, I can’t help but feel proud of her. She’s doing what she needs to do, and she’s doing it on her own terms. “When are you moving in?” I ask, keeping my tone even.
“In a couple of days,” she says, reaching for another pretzel.
I nod, leaning forward slightly. “I’ll be there,” I tell her. “And don’t even think about lifting anything heavy.”
She grins, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Yes, sir,” she says, throwing a mock salute.
I roll my eyes, laughing under my breath. “You’re a pain, you know that?”
“Yep,” she says, popping the “p” and smirking.
Her sarcastic energy, her fire—it’s one of the things I love most about her. But I keep that thought to myself, just sitting there for a moment, watching her laugh. She’s strong, and she’s doing what she has to for her and the baby. And no matter what, I’m going to make sure she knows I’ve got her back. Always.