Chapter Fourteen
Justice
The meeting runs long. Too long. Creed’s pacing the room like a caged animal, every step echoing in frustration. The air’s thick with tension and stale smoke.
“Where the hell is my update?” Creed snaps, slamming a hand down on the table. “Our bent cop was supposed to call two hours ago.”
Reaper flicks his ash into an empty bottle ,he looks lazy on the outside but he’s watching Creed closely. “He’s probably waiting for things to cool down. feds have been crawling all over the docks.”
“Excuses,” Creed growls. “We pay that bastard enough to risk a little heat.”
He stops pacing, jaw tight, and looks between us. “Another source who is loyal to us shared some news.”
Reaper straightens. “What now?”
“Hector.” Creed spits the name like poison. “They swear they saw him down at the docks.”
The room goes still.
Reaper frowns. “Is the source reliable? Hector is supposed to be done. Dead.”
“They’re someone we both know, and it seems Hector has risen.” Creed’s voice drops low. “And before anyone asks, no, he’s not working with Ivanov. He’s got a bone to pick with the Russians after what they did to Camilla. If he’s back, he’s not here for business. He’s here for revenge.”
I lean forward. “You think he’s coming after us?”
Creed meets my stare. “I think Hector blames everyone who survived. Especially us.”
That sinks in. Hector was Camilla’s right hand in the Diablos before it all went to hell. He’s smart, vicious, and was loyal only to her. With her gone, there’s no leash left.
Reaper exhales smoke through his nose. “If he’s gunning for Ivanov, he’s bound to draw attention. Feds will follow the bodies right to our doorstep.”
“It’s why I wanted that cop moving faster. Now we’ve got a pissed-off ghost in our backyard and the Bureau sniffing.”
“Then maybe you call Ivanov,” I say, before the thought can die. “Sit down with him. Tell him everything. Show him the photo of his man with the feds, tell him about Hector.”
Creed goes quiet for the first time, his eyes slide to Reaper. A look passes between them. Years of alliances and debts and old violence flicker in that glance. They can speak without saying a word.
Reaper’s mouth quirks into a half-smile.
He nods slow. “Not a bad idea.” He fishes a cigarette from his pack, taps it on the table, then leans forward and lowers his voice until it’s barely a whisper. “Let him come here. If things don’t go the way we want? I’ll gut him and leave him for the gators.”
The words hang there, grim, final, and unmistakably serious.
Creed’s jaw works, then he straightens and says, “Fine. I’ll make the call. But we move smart. No heroic bullshit.”
Creed’s pace picks up again as he shifts to another problem like a man juggling too many fires.
“And another thing,” he says, voice tight.
“Those women we pulled, Jet and the rest, are a liability. If the police or, God forbid, the feds come knocking, having survivors from a rival club under our roof? That draws heat. That’s leverage. ”
I feel Creed’s words in my chest. “She’s been through hell,” I say.
“She’s a target.” Reaper’s voice is blunt, unblinking as he leans forward. “You know what we should do. Drop them somewhere safe, hand them cash, a bus ticket. Get them far enough away so they aren’t our problem.”
The suggestion lands like a blow. The room goes quiet, but the idea has teeth.
Creed holds up a hand before I can answer.
He meets Reaper’s stare, then turns to me.
“No,” he says firmly. “We don’t turn survivors into strangers on the road.
That’s not who we are.” He slows his voice so everyone in the room feels it.
“They stay. Under our roof. Under our rules. Extra watch, tighter security, no one out alone until further notice. We mitigate the risk — we don’t punt the problem onto someone else. ”
Reaper snorts, displeased, but the edge of his reply softens when Creed adds, “If the heat rises, we re-evaluate. But we don’t do the coward’s thing.”
Reaper sighs, irritated. “At least ask them if any of them want to leave. Tell them about the feds, let them make up their own minds.”
“And if they want to stay?” I ask.
Creed’s gaze hardens, then finally, with a reluctant nod, he sets the boundary. “Then they can stay. But we tighten everything. No exceptions. If the heat turns up, we move to Plan B.”
Later that night, the compound’s quiet. I’m wired after church, and I’m halfway through a bottle when I hear it, soft footsteps outside my door.
A knock follows, hesitant but steady.
“Come in.”
The door opens just enough for her to slip through. Jet’s wearing one of Devil’s T-shirts, hair damp from a shower.
“I heard you,” she says quietly.
My pulse skips. “Heard me what?” I ask, not rising from my position on my bed.
“Talking to Creed. You were defending me.”
I shrug, trying for casual. “He’s just doing his job.”
“So were you.” She moves closer, arms folded across her chest. “Why?”
The truth’s right there on the tip of my tongue, but saying it would make it real.
“You’ve been through enough,” I say instead. “You don’t need the club turning into another cage.”
Her mouth twists like she’s fighting a smile. “You think that’s what this is?”
“It’s what it could be.”
She steps closer until she’s standing right in front of me. “I wanted to say thank you.”
“You don’t owe me that.”
“Maybe not. But I wanted to anyway.”
I can smell her shampoo, clean and sweet against the smell of whiskey in the room.
She hesitates, then reaches out and bends to touch me lightly on the arm, but it’s enough to set my pulse off like a fuse. I stand and place the bottle on my dresser. Take a deep breath and face her.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she admits softly. “Trust someone. Be near someone without feeling like I’m about to break.”
“Then don’t force it,” I say. “Just breathe.”
Jet opens and closes her mouth, then says, “Goodnight, Justice.”
She hesitates at the door, eyes flicking between me and the floor like she’s fighting herself.
“Justice,” she says softly, “stand still.”
Before I can ask why, she steps in closer, close enough that the scent of her hits me, clean skin and something wild underneath. She rises on her toes and presses her mouth to mine.
It’s soft. Quick. But it feels like the world stops moving.
Every instinct screams to pull her closer, to taste more, to take what she’s offering, but I don’t. My hands stay clenched at my sides, my cock goes hard and the control it takes damn near shreds me from the inside.
When she pulls back, her eyes search mine. And I wonder if she’s regretting the kiss or my lack of a reaction or one hundred other things.
But I don’t give her any of that.
“Goodnight, Jet,” I manage, voice rougher than I’d like.
She nods once, lips parting like she wants to say something, then turns and slips out the door.
The silence she leaves behind hums like the aftershock of a detonation.
I drag a hand through my hair, jaw tight.
She’s a line I shouldn’t cross.
And yet, I already have.