Chapter Twenty-Three
Max
“Everything in place?” Muerte asks.
How the hell am I going to get a message to Spike?
Fuck.
“Yes, boss,” I say, voice steady, emotions locked behind the same dead-eyed mask I’ve worn since the day I stepped into this hellhole.
Muerte studies me. “You good with this, hermano? Still got soft spots for those bikers?”
I meet his gaze without blinking. “You promised me the club,” I say flatly. “Once they’re out of the way, I get full ownership. That was the deal.”
“They’re nothing to you, huh?”
“Never were,” I lie. “They didn’t even let me rise past Prospect Leader. Didn’t trust me then. Why should I care now?”
All a damn lie.
I asked for that position. I was good at it. I earned every damn ounce of respect I had… Until I lost it all in a single night.
Muerte chuckles, raising both hands like I just accused him of stealing my bike. “Just checking.”
I nod, slowly. Controlled. My fingers twitch toward the Glock in my jacket pocket.
It’d be easy.
One shot. Center mass. Drop him right here on this fancy-ass floor.
But I wouldn’t get out alive. Not with his men posted at every door. Not with half the cartel within shouting distance, itching for blood and a promotion.
So I smile.
Cold. Empty. Believable.
But inside?
I’m counting minutes.
Seconds.
The bodies I’ll stack like firewood when this ends.
And the bullet I’m saving just for him.
“Your mamá dying was the best thing that happened to us both,” Muerte says casually like he’s talking about the weather.
My jaw tightens.
She took out a massive loan from Los Fantasmas. Spent her whole damn life trying to pay it off. When she died, her debts became mine.
I didn’t betray the Shadows…not the way they think. But I did hand over buyer info from the club’s database to keep myself off a kill list.
Still makes me a traitor.
My debt should’ve been paid by now. But Muerte’s men got greedy. Sloppy. One drug run tipped everything sideways. Spike caught the scent. And I had to vanish before they put me in the ground.
This fucker ruined my life.
But he’s ruined a lot more than mine. There are others. Innocents. Collateral. One of them? Spike’s little sister.
So yeah. I’m the traitor in their eyes. The bastard that sold out his brothers. Fine.
I’ll play the long game.
I’ll wear the shame.
I’ll carry the cross.
Because if that’s the cost to take Muerte down and keep the club… my brothers…their women, and their kids, safe?
Then burn me at the stake.
Just let me take the bastard with me when I go.
“According to Aaron, little Abigail has an appointment off-compound tomorrow at one. We’ll take her quietly.
No mess, no witnesses. Once she’s secured, we send a message.
Not to demand a ransom… but to deliver a body part.
Something personal. Something unmistakable.
Maybe her pretty hair still attached to her scalp. ”
He pauses, thoughtful. Calm as death.
“That will bring Spike to his knees. And when he comes crawling to save her, broken and desperate?” He smiles. Slow, deliberate, like a man savoring the scent of blood. “Then we attack.”
“She won’t be alone,” I say before I can stop myself. The words come too fast. Too natural. I hate giving him anything about the club. “They never let one of their women leave the compound without a guard. Abby’s will most likely be Tank.”
Fuck. I shouldn’t have said that.
His eyes narrow. “The big guy?”
I nod once, jaw locked, hoping he doesn’t pick up on the heat behind my voice.
“Hm,” he muses, like he’s planning dinner. “We’ll equip our men with tasers. Quiet, quick, low profile. Enough to drop him without drawing attention. Then take him out with a silencer while he’s down.”
He claps me on the shoulder like a proud father.
“Good job, boy. You’re going to make an amazing president. With me running Palm Springs, and the Shadows in my pocket? We’ll be unstoppable.”
Not. Fucking. Happening.