Chapter Eleven
Emerson
Ronan’s disappeared like a damn ghost—no heads-up, no trace, just gone.
Off chasing shadows and fists, chasing her.
The underground fighter the crowd keeps chanting for as if she’s some kind of legend wrapped in blood and silk.
Cupcake. A ridiculous name for someone that dangerous, but there’s something about her.
Something that’s got him unraveling by the second.
He’s been unpredictable for weeks, but ever since we laid eyes on her at The Underground, it’s like something inside him cracked wide open.
I can see it in his eyes, in the way he moves—more restless, feral.
Like he’s caught between the present and something clawing up from the past. And if I’m not mistaken, Rowen’s feeling it too.
He pretends to be stone, all cold logic and indifference, but I know him.
I see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens when the name Cupcake echoes through the crowd.
We were all betrayed.
All three of us were scarred by the same fire, the same lie, the same girl.
But that life? It’s long dead. Buried beneath ash and the silence we were forced to shoulder. We don’t talk about it—not truly. We’ve walled it off, layered it under years of anger, distraction, and women who never even came close to reaching the pieces of us that burned away.
So why does this girl—an elusive fighter, a stranger in theory—feel so damn familiar?
None of this should matter. At least not right now. Ronan disappearing, this girl, the way old memories are clawing their way back to the surface—it’s noise. Dangerous, familiar noise. I shake it off the best I can and turn my focus back to Rowen, grounding myself in the moment we can control.
“What’s the plan?” I ask, my voice low, steady, hoping he has more clarity than I do. “We have no clue where Ronan went. What’s our next move?”
Rowen doesn’t answer right away. His jaw tightens, muscles jumping as if he’s biting back something cutting. Then a low grunt slips out, heavy with irritation—and something deeper beneath it. Disappointment, maybe.
He’s pissed.
Not just because Ronan ditched us without a word, but because once again, we’re left to clean up the mess while our brother chases ghosts.
Dean and Bryce’s empire is falling apart piece by piece, and the three of us are supposed to be the ones stepping in, steadying the ground beneath it before it collapses.
But with Ronan off chasing Cupcake—or whoever the fuck she is—we’re down a man.
Rowen mutters something under his breath that I don’t catch, but the tone is clear. He’s annoyed. Resentful even. Not because he doesn’t understand Ronan’s obsession, but because it feels like abandonment. Like we’re standing in the ashes while his twin plays hunt-the-ghost on his own timeline.
Rowen finally turns to face me, his expression stripped clean—blank, emotionless.
Whatever he’s feeling, it’s buried beneath that icy exterior he wears like armor.
His voice matches it, flat and cool. “Ronan’s on his own tonight.
Let’s hope he gets whatever the hell he’s working through out of his system. ”
It’s the closest thing to letting go that Rowen ever manages with his twin, but the tension in his jaw tells me he’s anything but relaxed. The silence between us stretches for a beat, the weight of Ronan’s absence settling heavy in the space he left behind.
Still, Rowen doesn’t waste time dwelling.
He shifts gears with clinical efficiency, moving on to the next step like it’s just another box on a checklist. “We hit Stanley’s dealerships next,” he says.
“Start there. Figure out why this guy mattered so damn much to Dean and Bryce—and why they’re suddenly scrambling like rats on a sinking ship. ”
It’s the right call. Clean. Logical. This is how Rowen operates when everything starts to unravel—secure what you can, control the rest. I nod my agreement, and we head to where his car is parked.
He grabs a duffel from the back, slams the door shut harder than necessary, and climbs into the passenger seat of mine without looking back. I don’t ask if he’s good. We’re way past that kind of surface-level check-in.
I pull out of the lot, tires gripping the road with purpose, the engine humming low and steady beneath us.
Once we’re back on the road, Rowen pulls out his phone and dials his dad’s number.
He doesn’t say a word to me, just puts it on speaker and drops it into the cupholder between us.
It’s deliberate. His way of making sure I hear everything as it happens.
No filtering. No interpretation. Just facts, straight from the source.
That’s how Rowen handles things when the world starts to tilt out of balance.
The line clicks, and Dean answers with a clipped, “Yeah?”
Rowen doesn’t waste time; he gets straight to the point. “What was Stanley’s connection to the business?” His tone is flat. Not accusatory. Not emotional. Just controlled ice. “You want me to clean up this mess, but I don’t even know what—or who—I’m supposed to be cleaning.”
There’s a pause on the other end. A heavy one.
I can practically hear Dean weighing his words, calculating how much to reveal.
He’s always respected Rowen’s directness, even if he hates being forced to give up control.
The silence stretches just long enough to confirm he’s considering a lie—then drops it.
“He’s a new partner,” Dean finally says. “We’ve been testing a route through the dealerships. Stuffing certain units in the trunks during transport. Girls, mostly.”
My stomach turns, but I keep my eyes forward on the road. I don’t need to look at Rowen to know he’s pissed. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. But I catch the slightest shift—his jaw tightens, and there’s a flash in his eyes, fast and sharp like a flinch that doesn’t quite make it to the surface.
Rowen speaks calmly, but there’s steel behind every word. “You keep me and my brothers in the dark again, I won’t be the one cleaning up. I’ll be the one tearing it down.” He doesn’t wait for a response. “We’re checking his properties. I’ll report back when we’re finished.”
Dean mutters a terse, “Fine,” before the line goes dead.
Rowen ends the call and stays frozen for a beat. His hand closes around the phone, knuckles bleaching white, his grip so tight I almost expect the screen to shatter. The tension rolling off him feels volatile—like a bomb ticking down to detonation.
Finally, he glances at me, his voice low but heavy with meaning. “They’re getting deeper into the skin trade.”
I nod slowly, already feeling the burn in my chest. “Yeah. We need to finalize the plan. Before we lose control of what’s left.”
Rowen doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. We both know it’s not just about damage control anymore.
Someone out there is moving faster than we are—taking these bastards down before we even get close. Whoever they are, they’ve already stripped away layers we’re only just starting to uncover.
We might not know their faces yet… but it’s clear we’re chasing the same endgame.
We’re only a few blocks out when the world detonates without warning—a thunderous blast that slams into the car like a sledgehammer.
The windshield rattles. The chassis groans.
My heart rockets as fire rips across the sky in a violent, breathtaking bloom.
A fireball erupts just ahead, turning night into a stuttering wash of orange and heat.
Even from this distance, the air ripples with it, and for a split second everything hangs suspended—weightless, unreal, like the world forgot how to breathe.
I slam on the brakes, and the car skids to a hard stop in the middle of the road. Neither of us has to say it—we both know we’re not going any closer. Not until we understand what just detonated. Not until we’re sure it isn’t a trap waiting to pull us in next.
“What the fuck!” I yell, almost at the same time Rowen does, our voices overlapping as we stare out the windshield, wide-eyed.
Flames twist upward in a chaotic spiral, licking the sky, thick smoke curling into a black, choking tower that blots out the stars. The blast keeps echoing, bouncing off the surrounding buildings until the city itself is coughing on the violence.
Rowen keeps his eyes locked on the blaze ahead, jaw clenched, shoulders coiled tight. Whatever hit Stanley’s property wasn’t chance. It wasn’t chaos. It was deliberate. Precise.
And whoever’s behind the hits?
They’re not slowing down.
They’re making a point.
Loud.
Unmistakable.
“Shit,” I mutter, eyes still locked on the inferno lighting up the skyline just a few blocks ahead. “How much do you want to bet that’s the dealership?”
Rowen lets out a humorless chuckle, glancing sideways at me with a tight smirk. “Not a bet I want to take, brother.”
Neither of us moves, still parked dead center in the street, our car idling as we watch smoke billow into the night like a goddamn beacon.
Part of me—hell, most of me—is tempted to just sit here and watch it all unfold.
Whoever’s behind these attacks is working fast, brutally, and efficiently.
Part of me wants to let them keep going, just to see how far they’ll take it…
and if they’ll get to Dean and Bryce before we do.
But Rowen’s already pulling out his phone, thumbing in the number without hesitation. Dean picks up almost immediately, voice sharp, impatient. Rowen doesn’t waste time. “Building’s gone,” he says flatly. “We were a few blocks away when it blew. Didn’t even make it onto the property.”
Dean starts cursing on the other end, a rapid stream of profanities threaded with frustration and something heavier beneath it—panic.
“We haven’t checked the other sites yet,” Rowen adds, calm but pointed. “But if I had to guess, they’re probably already gone too. Whoever this is, they’re organized. They’re not just making noise—they’re cutting through every piece of your supply line.”
There’s a pause. Then Dean mutters something under his breath, voice lower, like he’s trying to hold himself together. “You need to figure out who the fuck is behind this. We can’t afford more hits like this.”
Rowen tilts his head slightly, eyes still on the blaze. “Any names come to mind? Anyone with enough hate—and balls—to make a move like this?”
Dean sighs. “You know as well as I do, we’ve made plenty of enemies over the years. Could be a rival. Could be someone we burned and forgot about. I couldn’t even begin to narrow it down.”
Of course he can’t. Dean’s burned so many bridges he’s practically made a career out of it.
Then something shifts in his tone. “I talked to Ronan earlier,” Dean says, almost offhandedly. “Told him about Stanley. Figured he’d already looped you in.”
I glance over at Rowen just in time to see a muscle tick in his jaw. But he plays it cool.
“Right,” Rowen says evenly. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t mention that Ronan never answered him. Doesn’t correct Dean’s assumption that we’re all still on the same page, that we’re working as a unit. We both know we’re not—and Dean probably wouldn’t handle the truth well.
The call ends a moment later. Rowen lowers the phone without a word and rests it in his lap, his grip so tight around it I hear the faint creak of plastic.
He doesn’t say anything at first, and neither do I. We just sit there in the flickering orange glow, watching one more piece of the empire crumble.
Whoever’s doing this isn’t just throwing punches, they’re cutting arteries.
Rowen breaks the silence first, voice low, flat as he stares at the distant fire still clawing at the sky. “Screw this,” he mutters. “Let’s go blow off some steam. Hit the club. Forget the rest of this night ever happened.”
I glance at him again, raised brows. “Seriously?”
He finally turns to me, that tightly wound tension still sitting heavy across his shoulders.
“Yeah. What are we supposed to do—sit here and wait for the next explosion? Ronan’s off chasing ghosts, our fathers are lying straight to our faces, and someone’s dismantling the business faster than we can keep up.
” He exhales sharply. “So yeah. One night off. One drink. A little distraction isn’t going to kill us. ”
It’s not like him to back off, even for a moment.
But I understand it. We’ve been pulled tight for so long that every breath feels wired to a fuse.
And with fires breaking out all around us—some real, some not—it’s starting to feel less like coincidence and more like a countdown.
Like we might be next to go up in flames.
Still, I hesitate. Part of me wants to be the voice of reason—to remind him we’ve got work waiting, leads to chase, loose ends that need locking down before everything spirals out of control.
But the truth is… I’m exhausted. Not just in my body, but deeper than that.
The kind of tired that settles into your bones and makes everything feel heavy.
Maybe a couple hours of noise and neon wouldn’t be the worst thing.
Against my better judgment, I release a slow breath and lift one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Screw it,” I say. “Why not?”
Rowen gives a single nod, sharp and decisive, like he’s been waiting for me to say yes. I drop the car into gear and turn us away from the burning wreckage behind us. The night isn’t over yet, but maybe for a few hours we can pretend the world isn’t collapsing around us.
Even if we both know it is.