Chapter Seven
Max
“Have a seat, brother,”
Spike says as I step into his office.
I sit, heavy and resigned. No point pleading my case, no point begging for another chance. It was only a matter of time before they came together and decided letting me back in was a mistake. I’m not trusted enough to be a Shadow anymore, and we all know it.
Tank, Maverick, and Foster sit scattered around the room, silent, their eyes on me. The weight of it presses harder than chains.
“I wanted to talk to you about something before I bring it up at the meeting,”
Spike says, leaning back in his chair.
I nod, bracing for the verdict.
“As you’re well aware,”
he says evenly.
“Muerte is dead.”
The name hits me like a fist. Muerte. The reason for all of this. The reason my life went sideways.
My mother borrowed money from him. Stupid, desperate, and when she was killed, her debt fell on me. A debt I could never afford even with the amount of savings I have. I cut a deal, thinking I was clever. I slipped him information from the Shadows’ books…buyers, shipments, contacts…in exchange for my freedom.
But it was never freedom.
The deal was supposed to be for two years. Two years of selling pieces of my soul, as long as none of my brothers got touched. But when the time came, he claimed I owed interest. One more year. Another round of betrayal.
And I did it. Until I couldn’t anymore.
I slipped from the Shadows’ mainframe one last time, knowing it was the end. Either way. I was done. Ready to die if I had to. Maybe part of me even wanted them to catch me. I was sloppy, reckless. Skip found the trail first.
I had no choice but to run. If I stayed, they’d kill me. And maybe I deserved that. But before I could let it happen, I had to clean up my mess.
Muerte had to die.
He’d threatened my family. My club. If I didn’t keep feeding him, he’d destroy everything. I even offered him every single penny I own. Hundreds of thousands of dollars, but he said no. That wasn’t the type of payment he wanted.
In hindsight, I should’ve gone to Spike. Should’ve trusted him, trusted them. But I didn’t. Couldn’t. Then Riley and Asher came into our lives. Now we had something precious to protect, and there was no way in hell I was going to let Spike’s new family become targets of an enemy the Shadow’s didn’t even know they had. The risk was too high. So instead, I went under.
It should’ve taken years to get in close. But Muerte welcomed me almost immediately when I told him I’d had to leave the Shadows or die. Idiot thought I was a gift dropped in his lap.
The deeper I got, the clearer it became…Muerte might’ve been the face of Los Fantasmas, but he wasn’t the one pulling the strings.
And that’s when everything really started to unravel.
I needed to figure out who was really in charge. Who was responsible for the horrors Los Fantasmas always left behind?
Muerte dealt in drugs, weapons, and money. That much everyone knew. But the whispers were that his partner was worse. Same trades, only bigger, bloodier. His main grab was skin. Muerte would lure tourists down into Mexico, make them vanish, and his partner would profit.
The idiot was a barrel of information when he wanted to brag, but when it came to his partner’s name, he clamped his mouth shut. Always.
But in the end, it didn’t matter. The truth came out. The Shadows got their hands on him. And Bones…cold, brutal Bones…carved the information out of him.
Literally.
Tank was the one who actually put him down. I’ll admit, I’m still sore they didn’t let me have my turn at the bastard. But dead is dead. The result was the same.
Except it wasn’t. Not for me. Because Muerte’s death didn’t give me back what I lost. Didn’t erase the stain on my cut. Didn’t quiet the voice in my head that says maybe I don’t deserve to wear it anymore.
And, once Spike speaks his truth…maybe I won’t be.
“Word just got to me that he’s been replaced,”
Spike says, his voice calm but carrying the weight of a gavel.
For a second, I just stare. Not shocked at the news, but at the fact that this wasn’t the verdict I’d braced for. I’d been ready for the blow that would cut me loose for good. Instead, Spike leans back in his chair, broad arms crossed, the scars on his knuckles stark against his tan skin, his dark eyes steady on me.
“I’m surprised it took them this long,”
I admit, clearing my throat, trying to shake off the jolt of relief.
“It was only a matter of time before Los Fantasmas started tearing each other apart to see who would be the next leader.”
“That’s the thing,”
Spike says, his tone flat, unreadable.
“It’s not just anyone… Foster?”
Leaning forward, Foster slides a tablet across the desk toward me.
I lower my eyes, and a photo fills the screen. A man in a tailored suit, gold cufflinks catching the light, dark hair slicked back with too much precision. Rugged, self-assured. Late twenties, early thirties at most. He’s got the kind of face that says he doesn’t just walk into a room…he owns it.
“Who is this?”
I ask, frowning.
“That’s Damián Cortez,”
Tank growls, arms crossed over his chest.
The name slams into me. Damián Cortez. The ghost behind the Ghosts. The name Bones carved out of Muerte with his bare hands.
“What is he… thirty-three?”
My voice scrapes.
“He’s too young to be lording over an entire cartel. Especially one as big as Los Fantasmas.”
“Thirty,”
Foster corrects.
I shake my head.
“How the hell is he in charge of anything?”
“His grandpa was the founder of Los Fantasmas,”
Spike says, leaning forward now, his dark eyes sharp.
“His old man got clipped ten years ago. Grandpa groomed him to take over.”
“He’s a fucking monster,”
Tank mutters from the wall, his jaw tight.
“Worse than his grandfather ever dreamed.”
“How do we even know this?”
I ask, though I already have a guess.
Foster pulls the tablet back with a smirk, his fingers dancing over the screen.
“Let’s just say I’ve got me some magic fingers.”
I huff out a humorless laugh, though my chest twists.
Damián Cortez.
The real monster has finally come out to play.
“Why bring me in here before the meeting?”
I ask, leaning forward.
“I thought this was about my status. I was ready to accept I’d been booted.”
“What?”
Spike’s head snaps up, his glare sharp enough to cut.
“Damnit, Max. Is that why you’re always so withdrawn? You think we’re just waiting to kick your ass out?”
“It’s only a matter of time,” I mutter.
“I asked you in here to make sure you were good with it first,”
Spike says, his voice like steel.
“I know it’s a sore subject, and I didn’t want to blindside you. Stop being a fucking idiot.”
“We get why you did the shit you did,”
Tank says, his arms crossed tight.
“Yeah, we were pissed. But we fucking get it, man. You’re our brother. You’re wearing that cut for a reason. Stop sulking and get over the damn pity party.”
“What Tank’s trying to say,”
Maverick adds, his voice calm where Tank’s is sharp.
“is that your place here is solid. You’re a Shadow, brother. One who was willing to give his life to save everyone else.”
Tightness burns in my chest, my throat thick. I shift in my seat, uncomfortable with the weight of their words.
“Says the Outlaw to the Traitor,”
I mutter bitterly.
“Says the President,”
Spike shoots back, eyes narrowing.
“to his fucking Prospect Leader. And his brother.”
The silence after that is so heavy that I feel it in my bones.
“Now,”
Spike leans forward, his gaze pinning me in place.
“are you good with this topic before we take it to the war room?”
“I think I should be the one asking you that question,”
I say, my voice low, rough. My hand tightens on the arm of the chair without me meaning it to.
“This is the bastard who’s ultimately responsible for your sister’s capture. For the deaths of her friends.”
Spike’s jaw flexes. A growl rumbles out of him, raw and dangerous.
“Yeah. Don’t think that hasn’t been on my mind every damn day. Between that, and his plans to sink his claws into Palm Springs…running his skin business out of my fucking compound? His days are numbered.”
Silence hangs heavy, thicker than smoke. Tank’s arms stay crossed, but I see the storm in his eyes. Abby holds Tank’s heart. Even if he doesn’t realize it yet. Even Maverick’s jaw ticks; the calm only skin-deep.
Spike pushes back his chair, the leather groaning under his weight as he stands.
“Let’s take it to the war room. Time to bring the rest in on this conversation.”
I rise, the name Damián Cortez still burning in my head like a brand.
***
“What do we do with this information?”
Skip asks ten minutes later, his boots kicked up on the table like this is any other conversation.
“Do we go after him? Or wait for him to come knocking on our door?”
“We don’t have the manpower to take on someone like Cortez,”
Knuckles says, his voice steady but grim.
“Even if every chapter came together, that’s what…three hundred men? Against thousands.”
“That we know of,”
Crusher adds, leaning forward, arms braced on his knees. His tone is harder, darker.
“We’ve got some idea of what Los Fantasmas looks like on the ground. Most of their guys are nobodies. Foot soldiers, addicts, desperate men who can be bought or broken. But Cortez? We don’t know who else he’s got backing him. Could be hitters, mercenaries, or politicians. Hell, whole armies just waiting for the right moment to strike.”
The room goes quiet for a beat, the weight of it settling in.
“This is bigger than us,”
Crusher continues.
“We run the risk of losing everything if we go head-to-head with Los Fantasmas.”
“We run the risk of losing everything if we don’t,”
Spike cuts in, his voice sharp as steel. His hand slams against the table, rattling bottles.
“Muerte already told us this bastard wants to use our compound as his home base. What do we do…stand aside and let him waltz in? Sure, maybe it saves a few patches in the short term. But at what cost?”
His gaze sweeps the table, landing on each man in turn.
“This asshat kidnaps women and sells them. You want to risk the women in your lives? Because I sure as hell don’t. My wife and our sisters are safe inside these walls right now. The second we step aside, that safety vanishes.”
The room is quiet, heavy. His words burn in my chest because he’s not wrong.
“Cortez’s dealings are far more monstrous than we were led to believe,”
Foster says from his seat. His tablet is set aside, and he looks each of us in the eyes as he speaks.
“I’ve been digging into this man from the moment we got his name. He’s doing more than selling skin. He’s taking victims, having them raped on camera, and posting the videos online for others to watch…for a price. I had planned to pull up a link, just to give you all a small taste of what’s had me sick the past few weeks, but I don’t want those images in your minds.”
Foster hesitates, struggling with some internal conflict, before finally looking back up.
“Those recordings are not of men raping women. They’re of men raping little girls.”
The room goes dead quiet.
Tank’s chair groans under the force of his grip, knuckles white as bone. Skip mutters a curse under his breath, low and vicious. Maverick leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes dark like he’s staring down the devil himself.
Spike doesn’t flinch, but his jaw works, a muscle ticking as the silence stretches.
Me? Images of a little girl I only just met flash in my mind. Blonde hair, brown eyes, a heart too beautiful for this world. Bree. Her smile had lit me up last week, brightening a darkness I didn’t even realize I was carrying… until now.
In a blink, that image twists. Her laughter is gone, replaced by fear. A camera lens pointed at her, helplessness in her eyes.
The thought is so vile it makes my stomach turn. I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing it away, shoving it back into the shadows where it belongs.
“We have to stop him,”
I growl.
“No matter the cost.”
“Foster,”
Spike says.
“I need you to keep digging. I want to know everything there is to know about Cortez. Even his favorite fucking color.”
Nodding, Foster leans back in his chair, his mind a million miles away.
“Before we go on, there’s something we need to address,”
Spike says.
“Max is a fucking idiot.”
The room hums their agreement, a low chorus of grunts and chuckles. I can’t decide if I want to smile or punch them all.
“Thanks, brothers,”
I settle on, dry as hell.
“We’ve all noticed you haven’t been yourself since you got back,”
Spike goes on.
“I figured it was because of all the shit you went through with Muerte. And I’m sure that’s a big part of it.”
He turns toward the rest of the table, his voice harder now.
“But what I just found out is that he doesn’t feel like he deserves to be here, and he’s been waiting for us to kick his ass out.”
“Ah, that’s why he’s an idiot,”
Skip smirks.
I narrow my eyes.
“If you didn’t know the reason, then why’d you agree?”
Skip sighs dramatically, clutching his chest.
“I felt the truth in my heart.”
Maverick doesn’t even blink.
“One of these days, someone’s gonna shoot you.”
“Patch tried last week,”
Skip says, eyes wide with mock innocence.
“All because I added a little pink to his bike. The man needs some color in his life.”
“Anyway,”
Spike sighs, dragging us back on track.
“We met up without you yesterday, Max, and voted on something we’ve been discussing for weeks now.”
A frown pulls at my face, but I bite back the words on my tongue. If they aren’t kicking me out, then what the hell did they need to vote on?
“I need someone in charge of all the chapters here in Palm Springs,”
Spike continues, his tone steady, deliberate.
“Someone I can trust to run each one with precision and fairness. I need a Regional Commander.”
“Isn’t that what Tank does as your VP?”
I ask, confusion twisting my gut.
“All chapter leaders report to him daily.”
“And now they’ll report to you,”
Spike says.
“Tank’s going to be busy starting a new chapter outside Palm Springs, and I need his focus there until it’s up and running.”
I blink.
“We’re spreading?”
“That’s right,”
Spike nods.
“I’m pulling a few men from the South, East, and West chapters here to build the Arizona chapter. Runner will take the gavel as President.”
He pauses, his gaze sweeping the table.
“Unless, of course, one of you wants to step up and claim it.”
The room stays quiet for a long beat before the grumbling starts.
Bones snorts first, his scar pulling tight as he leans back in his chair.
“Arizona’s a fucking oven, and Sunny would be miserable. I’ll pass.”
Skip waves his hand like he’s swatting a fly.
“Too many scorpions. I’m not living anywhere I gotta check my boots every morning.”
Foster shakes his head, lips curling.
“Nope. Wi-Fi out there is trash. You won’t catch me in the desert with dial-up speeds.”
Knuckles crosses his arms, glaring.
“I ain’t leaving my roads. My routes, my rules. Arizona ain’t mine.”
Crusher shrugs, but his eyes are sharp.
“Not interested. Got music here, got family here. Don’t see a reason to trade it for sand and cactus.”
Tank leans forward, his voice low but firm.
“I’ll help get it on its feet, make sure the brothers know what they’re doing. But I ain’t leaving Palm Springs for good. This is home.”
Maverick smirks faintly, arms crossed.
“Ain’t joining your club, Spike.”
All eyes land on me, the last one left. My throat’s tight, but I force the words out.
“No thanks. I barely feel like I belong here. I’m not about to run a chapter somewhere else.”
Spike’s lips twitch into a grim smile, like he expected nothing less.
“Then it’s settled,”
Spike says firmly.
“Tank will help them get started, and Max will become our Regional Commander.”
“What about the prospects?”
I ask before I can stop myself.
The thought of giving that up twists in my gut. I’ve always liked bringing in new blood, training them, watching them earn their patch.
“Can’t do both?”
Skip smirks, leaning forward on his elbows.
“Is our widdle Maxipoo too overwhelmed?”
“Were you dropped on your head as a kid?”
I shoot back.
“Most definitely,”
Skip grins.
“By my dad. Man was bigger than I am.”
I snort. Skip’s damn near the size of Tank…broad, muscled, built like he could break steel with his bare hands. But his wild, smartass personality makes him come across like some small, annoying twink that won’t stop yapping.
“The prospects will still be your responsibility,”
Spike says.
“What about your tattoo shop? Still got Mike running it?”
“Yeah,”
I admit, rubbing the back of my neck.
“Not sure if it’s something I want back into or not.”
Spike nods, glancing down at his phone. A grin cracks his face.
“Looks like my son’s cranky and wants his daddy.”
Even with all the weight in this room, that grin softens it. Just a man, a father, eager to get back to his boy.
“Max, I want a meeting between all chapter leaders tomorrow. Have them meet here at the compound.”
“Who’s taking over for Runner?” I ask.
“That’s up to you, Regional Commander,”
he smirks.
“I don’t give a fuck who you choose, because I know you’ll pick the right man.”
No pressure. None at all.
“Alright, go home, brothers. See you tomorrow.”