Chapter 6
"Tina, wait." She doesn't, of course, because we're home. She squeezes past my legs and trots straight inside, nails clicking against the kitchen tile.
Dad's at the counter, phone pressed to his ear, beer in one hand, vape resting near his fingers. He doesn't look up when I walk in.
"Yeah," he says into the phone. "Midnight. Not eleven. Midnight."
Tina goes straight to her empty bowl and scratches at it. She's hungry.
"Hey," I say, not really to him, just into the room.
He glances in my direction for half a second and nods. "Hey." He hangs up and throws the phone down on the counter.
I'm starving. I skipped lunch because Mrs. Hargrove showed up forty minutes late with her matted golden retriever and asked me to upgrade to a full de-shed treatment.
By the time I finished, there wasn't even a moment to grab anything before the next appointment.
And in between all of that, I was on the internet gathering up every detail I could on Beatriz and Isabel.
Last night with Rio made me see he wasn't bluffing in his office the first time I saw him. He's three steps ahead of me. Of course he is. He's been playing these types of manipulation games for years. Just like my father has.
Tina scratches at her bowl again. I crouch and run my hand over her head. "Come on, Tina. Bedroom." She looks at me, then back at the bowl. Sorry, pup. Not with him in here.
I can't wait until I don't share a kitchen with this bastard anymore.
A couple of years ago, when Mom died and I started Velvet Leash, Dad offered to pay rent on an apartment near the clubhouse.
It sounded like heaven to be away from him, but I'd already hatched my plan to save and move out.
And I figured, shitty as it was to stay here, it meant saving more pennies.
So I pretended to be grieving, to be unsure, to be insecure… anything to convince him that I needed to stay here for some mental health reason. Really, I need the cash. Dad was okay with it. He likes paying my bills. It keeps things simple for him.
Tina gives me sweet eyes, begging for food, but she'll have to settle for a treat in the bedroom until he leaves.
"Come on, girl."
The sigh that leaves her is so damn cute, but she obeys and follows me a few steps toward the hallway when my dad stops me.
"Poker night." The soft thud of his beer bottle hits the counter. "I'll be late."
I don't turn around. "Okay."
"Don't wait up."
I wasn't planning on it.
I make my way further down the hall as if I'm not desperate for him to leave so I can have the place to myself, all the sounds of his welcome departure drift toward me.
His keys swipe and jingle against the granite.
Boots clunk across the tile. The back door shuts, and a few seconds later, his engine roars to life, that deep, familiar sound I've heard since I was a kid.
I stand there until it fades down the road, swallowed by the early evening, and only then do I turn back.
Tina beats me to the kitchen. I grab a sachet of her favorite food and fill her bowl. She dives in like she hasn't eaten in days.
"Gremlin," I murmur, watching her eat and snort like a pig.
It's so cute.
Then I open the fridge and figure out how to face another "man" meal. Technically, there's always food in here. Cold cuts. A block of cheese. Cooked chicken. Protein shakes. Beer.
Nothing I actually want.
Dad gets fed most days at the clubhouse or eats at restaurants, gets takeaway, or his girlfriend cooks for him. All he really has at the house is breakfast and the occasional sandwich. He knows I eat his food, but rarely thinks about what I'd like.
Fair enough. I'm twenty-five.
But every dollar I don't spend is a dollar I keep. So, I eat sandwiches.
But if I don't find Beatriz and Isabel, I'll be finding out what kind of grub they serve at Black Ridge.
My stomach tightens. I have three weeks until my wedding day. Until being married stops being a vague understanding and starts becoming a reality.
I take a Tupperware from the back of the fridge, hoping it's one of Lacy's home-cooked meals. She sometimes sends Dad home with leftovers. Ugh. Curry. I like curry, but hers is nasty. I dive back into the depths of the cold box.
I can't find anything in here…
The thought shifts and sharpens.
I can't find anything.
I need to find something.
My mind drifts back to Rio last night, his hauntingly handsome face and the distrust in his eyes. He doesn't believe me, and honestly, I don't blame him. On paper, I look bad. Engaged to Luther. Daughter of an evil MC president.
I walked into his world and asked him to believe my father is trafficking women.
And asking is putting it politely.
But I can't tell him I'm in an arranged marriage.
I can't tell Rio Mendez I'm planning on running away.
Rio already has massive leverage on me with that recording from our second meeting.
Every detail I share with that man is something he could feed back to my dad , and make me burn that manila folder.
He doesn't need my life story to act. He needs proof that I'm telling the truth and that those women are in trouble.
As much as I know Rio would wave a magic wand if he could make me go away, I saw it in his eyes. He looked for them. There's an opportunity there I have to seize.
My gaze drifts down the hallway without me meaning it to. Dad will be gone until at least one or two this morning. I close the fridge and stare out the kitchen doorway toward the living room.
Tina crunches kibble behind me, the house settling into silence now that the engine is gone.
If I'm going to find proof that those women entered Iron Covenant but never left, it isn't going to be in the fridge.
Maybe there's something in this house?
The one place Dad has always insisted I never go is his bedroom. Is that where he keeps his darkest secrets?
I wipe my hands on my jeans and walk out of the kitchen and into the double-height living room. It's opulent and masculine. A giant wrought-iron chandelier hangs from the ceiling. Oak everywhere. Heavy beams. Polished floors. My dad's dominion.
I gaze up the stairs. Can I really do this?
When I was younger, I imagined his room to be the gates of hell. I never wanted to go in there. I don't now. But something is calling me…
I climb the sweeping staircase slowly, and with each step, I tell myself he'll probably catch me snooping.
He's made it clear in a thousand quiet ways that it is his domain and his alone.
Even when my mom was sick, she was moved into the guest room so I didn't have to go in there.
But people only need privacy when they're hiding something.
Right?
At the top of the stairs, I pause and look down the hallway toward his closed door. What if he has surveillance in there? He could. He absolutely could. No. That would be strange. Bugging his own bedroom? Installing cameras? It feels paranoid, even for him.
Going in there is a risk. Staying out is a risk, too.
Rio might find something about Beatriz and Isabel on his own. He might. But that doesn't mean he'll help me. I couldn't read him yesterday. He's such a closed book, the kind of man who doesn't blink first. A perfect, chiseled poker face.
I need more intel. I have to get more.
I walk down the hallway and stop outside my dad's door. My hand hesitates over the handle like it might burn me. But I draw in a deep breath, turn slowly and step inside.
The room smells faintly of leather, cologne and the fruity scent of his favorite vape flavor. The furniture is all dark mahogany, the bed massive, the headboard carved with bespoke Harley detailing like a throne for a king who never leaves his territory. Everything matches.
Dread slides through my veins as I take it in.
Suddenly, Tina appears in the doorway and lets out a sharp bark. I jump so hard my heart slams against my ribs.
"Tina, oh my God," I hiss, pressing a hand to my chest. "You nearly killed me."
She makes a small whine and steps inside.
"No. Go. Out." I shoo her toward the hallway. Even one dog hair in here could give me away. Even one strand of my own. I'll have to cover every track I make.
When she finally disappears, I close the door behind me and move to the dresser. The top drawer slides open smoothly. Nothing but clothes. Surprisingly neatly folded. But then again, my dad wears the same thing every day. It's practically a uniform. Black t-shirts. Identical jeans. The same belts.
Belts that make me shudder.
I quickly close it before memories of my mom being here, too, emerge. Since she died, I've mostly been able to bury them, but damn, do I want to take those belts out and burn them.
I close the drawer and open the next. More of the same. I'm afraid to shuffle things around; it's all so neatly arranged. There's nothing here.
I move to the bedside table instead. The drawer sticks slightly before opening, and inside is a small box tucked toward the back. A jewelry box? I pull it out and lift the lid. Gold catches the spotlights from above.
There's a pile of jewelry inside. Not my mom's. Not Lacey's. Mom and Lacey both wore silver, simple pieces. This is different. There's a lot of gold, cheap, faddy fashion jewelry. Throwaway pieces. Things girls wear out at night or buy when they want a new look next season.
Ice slides into my veins as I lift the first necklace.
Then another. Bracelets. Earrings. None of it belongs to anyone in this house.
Was he sleeping with a bunch of younger women and keeping these as mementos?
The thought makes me sick but not anywhere near as disgusted as the next thought that floods my mind.
Could these belong to other women from Chile?
My heart pounds harder with every piece I move and then stops completely when I see a particular necklace, not like the others. A locket.