Chapter 1
The Bay is clear today. No fog. Sunlight fractures off the water and pours through the floor-to-ceiling glass of my corner office, turning the conference table into a slab of gold. I can see all the way to Sausalito, past the bridge, into the Marin Headlands.
The real estate agent who showed me the place made me wait two days for this view. Said the forecast promised sun.
I knew it was a ploy, but equally, I don't make decisions in the dark.
I sit at the head of the table, fingers steepled like the angles of San Francisco rising behind my reflection in the glass. This is a city that worships power dressed as innovation.
But I know what power looks like without the disguise.
My sleeve has ridden up. The ink on my forearm peeks out — black lines, old vows, older sins. I tug the starched white cuff back into place.
"It's another strong partnership," I say to my business development team. "Private sector leads are trending up. Keep carrying your weight, and the bonuses will reflect that."
I stand before anyone else does.
Chairs scrape softly. My team nods, moving. They file out with laptops and polite ambition, the heavy wooden door sealing behind them.
Just as I'm about to sit down at my desk, my intercom buzzes.
"Rio, your three o'clock is here. Breast Cancer Now."
I press the button to reply. "Send them in."
I don't usually take charity meetings. This cause is my one exception.
A moment later, there's a subtle knock on the door.
"Come in."
In walks a woman built like trouble.
Long, dark hair falls to her waist in waves that catch the light like satin.
Her skin is olive and warm, the kind that looks as good pressed against bare sheets as against boardroom glass.
Strong brows frame eyes a mesmerizing shade of green, but it's not the color that catches me off guard. It's what's behind them.
She isn't soft.
And she doesn't look impressed, which for someone who's probably only in her mid-twenties and about to ask me for money — or help raising it — isn't what I'd expect.
Beautiful women aren't rare in my orbit. I've had models, heiresses and influencers sit in that chair and try to charm their way into my calendar.
None of them has ever looked at me like this.
But the last woman with fire in her eyes that I let into my life ended up in a coffin.
I don't do fire anymore.
She doesn't introduce herself. Most people rush to shake my hand.
She just stands there.
Taking her in from head to toe, she isn't dressed like a typical corporate type.
Boot-cut jeans hug her thighs. She wears designer cowboy boots — expensive ones.
A black Chrome Hearts tote hangs at her hip, expensive leather everywhere, even in the cut of that waistcoat-style top, but then she threw on an oversized blazer as if to make it all look more professional.
How does a mid-twenties charity worker afford leather that costs more than most people's rent?
Trying to put her at ease, I gesture toward the table. "Let's grab a seat…"
I move first, assuming she'll follow.
She doesn't. Instead, she reaches behind her and locks the door.
Her eyes cut back to mine — green, unsettling, hard to look away from.
"I'm not from Breast Cancer Now."
I knew that the minute she locked the door. I step back to my desk, never breaking eye contact. She doesn't look away either. Brave.
My mother's death isn't a secret. She found my one weakness and used it to get in this room with me. I don't take kindly to anyone testing my soft spots.
I press the intercom. "Terry, send security up. I have a question about the alarms."
"Got it, boss."
She swallows hard. She doesn't look away but she wants to.
I fold my arms over my chest. "You have two minutes."
"My name is Delilah Cross."
Her words land like a blade sliding between ribs. Cross. There's only one Cross I've ever registered in my world. And it wasn't in this world, it was in the old one.
Cross. Marcus Cross. President of Iron Covenant. Rivals of the Black Ridge MC.
That was a world I left more than a decade ago. A world meant to stay buried, miles from Echo Valley. Rio Mendez never existed there. Jackal did. And he died when I walked away.
She could be a different Cross. But the leather on her says she isn't.
My heart picks up pace in my chest, but I keep my tone flat. "What can I do for you, Miss Cross?"
She studies me like I'm the villain. "I need your help. At least two women have been groomed and trafficked. I need you to find them and take down the organization bringing them in."
It's not the first plea I've heard. People see GhostEye take down criminal networks and assume we can save everyone. I wish we could. We can't.
"You need to take that to the police," I say.
Her eyes narrow as if my refusal makes me a monster. She folds her arms over her full chest. "I can't go to the police."
"Why not?"
She arches an eyebrow. "Because my father, the president of Iron Covenant, has more deals with cops than you have with them."
My lungs lock. This is Marcus's daughter?
Ice runs down my spine. I need this woman out of here.
It's too close to everything I left behind.
I don't know why she's outing her dad's motorcycle club and trying to get GhostEye on his tail, but I don't want it anywhere near me.
She needs the cops. Not me. Especially not now.
My old MC president at Black Ridge died six months ago.
Ray was a man of his word. It's been years, and never once has he outed me.
And his son, Luther, whom I think a fuck load less of, has yet to call me.
A part of me has been hoping Ray took my legacy with him six feet under, our agreement dying with him.
I can't afford to shake anything loose now when it might finally be over.
"I get the problem, Miss Cross." I try on my most empathetic tone, though it's not my forte. "I want to help, but we don't take on cases this way. We serve corporations. Government agencies."
We don't run one-on-one rescues. And we don't freelance for the daughter of a ruthless MC president.
I stand and move around to her side of the desk as if ready to usher her out the door.
"The police will help you." Maybe. I
know what I'm saying is partial bullshit.
Her father was always known for his generous payouts and not-so-generous punishments for law enforcement who dared stick their noses in his business.
He's put hits out on plenty of cops. I don't assume he's mellowed or gone straight between now and then.
But what she's saying could be, and probably is, total bullshit, too.
I highly doubt Delilah Cross knows everything her dad gets up to. Drugs, maybe. It's pretty easy to spot dealers in a club. But trafficking? He's not letting his daughter into the dungeons, if there are any. Are there?
If this is true, she'll need to bypass her local station. "If you're worried it will end up with dirty cops, try the Feds."
She laughs dismissively, and it makes me realize she's smarter than I think. He probably has some Feds sewn up his sleeve, too.
The mood shifts her green gaze. "You're it, Rio." She pulls a manila folder out of her seven-thousand-dollar tote and lifts it. "You're the one who's helping me."
She places it on the desk and slides it toward me; along with it, the scent of her perfume. Coco Mademoiselle. Spoiled princess…
I open the folder, expecting evidence on her dad, something about the women, but I freeze. Inside are photos of me. A younger version. Leather cut on my back. Standing beside a bike I haven't seen in years. The Black Ridge patch stitched proudly across my shoulders.
I hesitate for only a fraction of a second, then somehow, despite Delilah fucking Cross pulling the pin on a grenade that's been sitting for years, despite the destruction this could cause for not only me, but everyone in my family, I swallow the fear and replace it with fury.
She's trying to fucking blackmail me into helping her?
Sure as shit, on my desk are photos and a few documents that Ray kept on me — his insurance policy when I took my exit.
I knew their secrets. He knew mine. The photos were his insurance in physical form, one copy only.
He assured me. I thought eventually the line between Black Ridge and me would go numb.
But when Enzo's tech turned into something bigger, developing into GhostEye, Ray started calling in the odd favor here and there.
A name. A location. I delivered because Ray still had this goddamn manila folder.
Now, the leash is on my desk, in Delilah Cross's hands. Ray would never have handed that over lightly. Iron Covenant and Black Ridge were enemies last I heard. However it happened, one thing is clear.
Jackal didn't stay buried. And Delilah — maybe others — knows he became something.
I close the folder, resting my palm on top of it. "Where did you get this?"
"Why would I tell you that?" She shifts her weight from one of her shapely hips to the other.
Silence stretches between us. She's waiting for a reaction. A crack. A denial. I won't give her either.
But how does she even have these? Did Iron Covenant raid Black Ridge HQ? Did she seduce someone over there? Luther? Is this woman even Marcus's daughter? Dread seeps into my marrow. None of this died with Ray.
It only got bigger.
My mind spins with possibilities. All of them are stealing the ground beneath me, opening it up like a wound in the world I built, about to swallow me whole.
She won't get away with this.
"Tell me, Delilah." A vengeful tone simmers, just contained. "Are you reckless or desperate?"
She raises her jaw defiantly. "I'm dealing with reality," she says. "Something you've apparently been avoiding for years… Jackal."
She says my road name like she's tasting it. Fuck.
This is reality, alright. Or maybe karma, more like it.