Chapter 16 East
East
There are too many eyes on her.
The room buzzes with the electrifying energy of the fight playing out on the big screen, but every glance towards Darla feels like a weight pressing down on my chest. No one’s doing anything wrong—just guys half-watching the middleweight title match, beers in hand, blood and sweat replaying on the screen.
I don't even catch the names of the fighters. My focus is a laser. I can’t pull it away from her.
Each glance from the men in the room lands like a warning bell.
Even when it's nothing, just the familiar habit of men clocking a woman, it doesn't matter. It registers deep within me. I can’t help the visceral reaction that tightens my gut and makes my hand clench, making my instincts to protect stay alert.
Darla’s curled into the corner of the couch, knees pulled up, arms wrapped around her middle as if she’s trying to hold herself together.
Her hair is still damp from the shower; I know Candace helped scrub the auction off her skin.
She looks so small in one of my long-sleeve tees and sweats, but she’s still sitting like they’re clinging to her—like she’s drowning in the weight of them.
Frankie’s posted nearby. She’s not sitting, not talking. Just hovering. It’s that protective orbit she always creates, head tilted like she’s listening for something we can’t hear, ready to spring into action if necessary.
I lean against the inside corner of the bar, glass in hand, watching everything and nothing. Malachi, Knox, and Nash are all with me, clustered at the end of the bar, our own silent, watchful guard. The fight on the screen is just noise. My real focus is her.
“This makes two,” Knox says, his voice low, cutting through the manufactured noise of the cheering crowd on TV.
Malachi doesn’t answer right away; he just narrows his eyes, contemplating.
Knox presses on. “Two fathers. Two daughters. Same endgame.”
Nash shifts on his stool, arms crossed. “Candace’s dad tried to sell her off for debt. Now Graves is trying to sell Darla off in a marriage contract.” His tone is matter-of-fact, but the underlying tension is palpable.
Malachi exhales through his nose, frustration evident. “That’s not a coincidence.”
“No,” Knox agrees, his voice tightening. “It’s a pattern.”
My jaw clenches. I take a slow sip of whiskey, eyes never leaving the couch. Trent’s still breathing, Winston still has his claws in the city, and I’m supposed to just sit here and do nothing.
“We need to figure out how deep this goes,” Knox says, glancing around as if searching for answers in the chaos of the room.
Malachi’s jaw tightens, determination etched in his features. “Then we trace the pattern. Start with who’s connected.”
“I already started,” I say, my voice low and rough.
All their heads turn to me. “I went to my parents' place after she ran to Frankie’s.
Used my dad's system to look for a connection between Graves and Moreland.” I take a pull of my whiskey.
“I found a thread. A shell corp called the Vassallo Foundation links the two of them. I was going to bring it up at the next meeting, but… things got complicated.” My eyes flick toward the couch where Darla sits, the unspoken chaos of the last few days hanging in the air.
Malachi gives a sharp nod, his expression grim. “Good. It’s a start.”
Behind us, a soft voice cuts in. “Power protects itself. And it feeds on silence.”
We all turn. Frankie is standing right behind us, her pale hands folded in front of her. She doesn’t startle anyone; she just appears, calm as lake water amidst the storm, as if she’d been part of the conversation all along.
“People like Graves don’t work alone,” she says, her voice steady and firm. “They never do. And they don’t just wake up one day and decide to sell their daughters.”
Malachi gives her a long look, not of disbelief, but simply waiting to see if she’s finished.
Frankie’s eyes flick toward Darla, then back at us. “Start looking at who benefits. Not just who pays.”
Candace slides in beside Malachi, her hand brushing his arm in a gesture of solidarity. “She’s right,” she adds, her eyes scanning the room as if the threat is lurking in the shadows.
Then Ruby bounces up next to Knox, her glitter eyeliner catching the light like a spark. “You want dirt from people who eat foie gras and vote against school lunches? I got you,” she says, her tone chipper but her words sharp.
Candace tips her chin at Ruby, curious. “You’re still on those guest lists?”
“My dad’s a judge,” Ruby replies, unapologetic. “They can’t uninvite me without pissing off half the golf course.”
Knox arches a brow, intrigued.
Ruby grins wider, leaning in like she’s sharing a secret.
“Let me crash a brunch or two. You’d be amazed what rich people say when they think I’m just the flaky redhead with daddy’s money.
” She winks at Nash. He doesn't react, but I see the corner of his mouth twitch, a barely there smirk he fights to suppress.
Malachi nods once, slow and deliberate. “Use it.”
She salutes with two fingers and spins back toward the bar, her energy infectious.
Knox turns serious again, glancing at me. “We keep her safe until we know more.”
“She’s not going anywhere,” I mutter, my voice low but firm.
He looks over at me, eyebrows raised. “You volunteering to babysit?”
“She’s not a loose end,” I reply, my voice laced with conviction.
Silence stretches between us, filled only by the sounds of the fight and the clinking of bottles.
Knox tilts his head, a curious expression on his face. “No one said she was.”
“She’s family,” I say, the words ringing with finality.
That lands in the air between us.
Malachi’s dark gaze pins me, assessing. “That official?”
I nod once, the weight of history hanging in the air. “It is now.”
They don’t ask why even though they don’t know the full history. They don’t need to. Maybe they wonder. Maybe they feel the tension in the way I watch her. But the call’s been made.
Knox gives a short nod. “Then she’s in.”
Nash claps a heavy hand on my shoulder, solid and reassuring. No words needed. Frankie exhales like she’s been holding her breath, her eyes searching for answers.
Malachi doesn’t say a word. Just glances once toward the couch, then back to me. “Then we keep her close.”
That’s the plan.
Except Frankie’s already walking toward me with that look on her face that means she’s about to light a fuse.
She stops in front of me, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. “She’s coming with me tonight,” she states, firm as a law.
My gut clenches. I know what this is about.
Frankie’s loft is a sanctuary. I get it.
But it’s also a second-floor apartment with a flimsy lock on a side street.
It’s not a fortress. My house is. It’s a simple tactical fact.
If Winston or Trent come looking for her, where do I want her to be? Behind my walls, with me.
Frankie’s goal is to make Darla feel safe. My goal is to keep her safe. The two are at war, and my jaw tightens.
She says it like it’s fact, like it’s already done and my opinion’s just background noise she’s letting finish before she moves the scene along.
“No.” My voice cuts through the tension. “She’s not.”
Frankie’s jaw tenses, her frustration simmering. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting. I’m telling you she’s not going with you.”
“She already said—”
“She hasn’t said shit since she came downstairs,” I snap, unable to contain my anger.
Frankie flinches, just barely. It’s like I hit a nerve I wasn’t aiming for, and the air between us thickens.
I lower my voice, more measured now. “You don’t have the space. You don’t have the locks. And you don’t have the full picture.” I’m not just worried about Trent. I’m worried about Graves. About the whole damn rotten system I just found a thread of.
“I have her,” Frankie says, stepping closer, her eyes fierce. “I’m the only one she’s talked to. I’ve been there.”
“And you know what happened that night,” I cut in, urgency fueling my words. “You know what I promised.”
Frankie stills at that, the weight of our shared history hanging heavy between us.
Behind us, the clubhouse remains deceptively casual—TV still roaring with cage fight blood, bar stools creaking, bottles clinking—but the voices have dropped.
Knox is listening without looking, Malachi’s expression unreadable, Nash watches me like he’s waiting for the aftershock, and Candace leans back, arms folded, observing.
Only Frankie and I understand the depths of this conversation. Only Nash truly gets it.
“You think I didn’t give a damn?” I ask, voice sharp now. “You think I ever stopped carrying it?”
Frankie exhales, tired. “She’s not a responsibility, East.”
“No,” I say, my conviction hardening. “She’s a promise.”
A beat of silence hangs in the air.
Then—
“I never said I was going with Frankie,” Darla cuts in. Her voice is quiet, but crisp. Final. We all turn to her.
She’s standing now, one hand still braced on the couch like she’s anchoring herself. Her blonde hair still damp, shoulders tight with tension. But her eyes? Steel.
“I’m going with East,” she declares, her tone firm. “So unless anyone wants to argue with me about my own damn life, maybe stop making it a group project.”
Frankie’s face shifts—frown tightening, but respect settling in just beneath it. She walks to Darla, laying a hand lightly on her shoulder. She says something low, too quiet to catch, but the warmth in her eyes shows it’s supportive.
Darla doesn’t flinch. Just closes her eyes for a moment, then nods, the resolve hardening in her. Frankie turns back toward the rest of us, her demeanor shifting as she adapts to the new dynamic. Then Ruby bursts in again, like she’s been waiting for a cue line.
“Okay, so guess who just texted me?” she announces, her energy infectious.
Frankie arches a brow, curiosity piqued.
“Sloane,” Ruby says, her eyes sparkling. “Green light’s on. Time to go mess with Trent.” She bounces on her heels, glitter eyeliner catching the overhead lights. “I’m thinking some noise complaints. A few pain med swaps. Maybe a ghost sighting or two. You in?”
Frankie hesitates, glancing between Ruby and Darla. Then her gaze lands on me.
She steps close again and lowers her voice, urgency in her tone. “Give her space. But don’t let her drift too far. She’ll convince herself she’s safest alone.”
Before I can ask if that’s a warning or a prophecy, she’s gone, following Ruby out the door like they’ve got spells to cast and retribution to deliver.