Chapter Twelve #2
“We need to buy the block,” I say as the men approach us. “Set up security on all the buildings and have a detail on her at all times.”
Spike nods, and I can see his eyes are working through ways to keep his baby sister safe, just as Maverick and his brother stop in front of us.
“Gentlemen,” Stefano greets.
“Stefano,” Spike accepts the man's outstretched hand. “Maverick. Let’s head inside.”
I force myself to switch gears and focus on the immediate problem at hand.
Still, as we move toward the clubhouse, my gaze drifts to Max’s house. The windows are lit. Curtains drawn. From the outside, it looks like any normal evening on the compound.
It’s not.
Prospects are scattered across the grounds, pretending to be casual. One leans against the wall, scrolling on his phone. Another walks slow laps past the houses. Two more stand near the pool talking.
To anyone watching from a distance? Just a bunch of bikers killing time.
To me?
A perimeter.
No one strays too far from our precious family.
No blind spots.
No weak angles.
I nod at Mike as we pass. He’s planted in Max’s porch rocker like he hasn’t a care in the world, boot propped up on the railing, hat tipped low. Lazy. Relaxed.
But I see the way his eyes track movement without moving his head.
Good.
Inside that house is Riley. Asher. Sunny. Lila. Eli. Micah. Bree.
And Abby.
My chest tightens for half a second.
Safe.
They’re safe.
I tear my attention away and step into the clubhouse behind Spike.
The air shifts immediately. Lighter outside. Heavier in here.
Stefano doesn’t hesitate. He walks in like he owns every room he enters. Not arrogant, just certain. Maverick moves at his side, similar posture but looser, more relaxed.
This is his second home, after all.
We all follow Spike into the war room and take seats around the long table.
Spike doesn’t waste time as he addresses the room.
“As you’re all now aware,” Spike says, voice carrying easily through the war room, “this is Maverick’s brother, Stefano.”
Stefano inclines his head once.
Luckily, telling them apart isn’t going to be an issue. Maybe it’s because we’ve been around Maverick so long, but the differences are there if you know where to look.
“Stefano runs New York in my stead,” Maverick says smoothly. “A few months ago, we decided to increase our weapons inventory.”
“We prefer our business conducted quietly,” Stefano adds, voice calm and precise. “The less attention drawn, the better for everyone involved.”
“So when the idea came up to purchase clean guns,” Maverick continues, “I chose to keep the Shadows out of it. I didn’t want your name anywhere near ours. I have enemies. Powerful ones. The last thing I wanted was to bring them to your doorstep.”
“I located a broker,” Stefano says. “He informed me he wouldn’t have a fresh shipment for several months but recommended another source with… impressive success rates. Had my stubborn brother told me about you gentlemen beforehand, I would have known to vet that recommendation more thoroughly.”
“Mistakes were made,” Maverick says simply. “Now someone either knows…or suspects…we have a relationship. And they’re willing to exploit it.”
“By using the Shadows to take the fall if something happened to us because of your negligence,” Stefano finishes evenly. “So. What have you learned about the guns?”
“Half the shipment is garbage,” Spike says flatly. “Metal’s weak. Failure points in places that’ll get men killed. And not the men with the barrel pointed at them, but the ones holding it.”
Stefano’s expression doesn’t shift, but something colder moves behind his eyes.
“And the other half?” he asks.
“Clean,” Skip answers from where he’s leaning against the wall. “Which tells me this isn’t sloppy manufacturing. It’s deliberate. Not a bad batch.”
Stefano steeples his fingers, much like Maverick does when he’s deep in thought.
“Someone wants blood,” he says calmly. “Yours… or ours?”
“Possibly both,” Foster adds.
Spike leans back in his chair, jaw tight.
“Our supplier’s from New York,” I remind them. “Your territory.”
Stefano’s gaze sharpens.
“And you think I would sabotage my own shipment?” he asks mildly.
“No,” I answer. “I think someone wants you to believe we did.”
Maverick exhales slowly.
“If someone is trying to fracture our relationship,” he says, voice smooth but edged in steel, “they are either very brave… or very stupid.”
“Or desperate,” Bones mutters, arms crossed. “What does someone gain by starting a war between the Italian Mafia and our club?”
“A war,” Skip says, “not to boost your ego, Maverick, but the Shadows would lose.”
No one laughs.
Because he’s right.
We’re lethal. We’re disciplined.
But the Moretti empire?
They’re generational. Political. Embedded. Judges on payroll. Senators at dinner tables. Entire ports that answer to their name.
We run territory…They run systems.
Thank fuck Maverick is on our side.
Spike doesn’t bristle at Skip’s honesty. If anything, he nods once.
“Correct,” Maverick says evenly. “If we went to war, you would bleed quickly.”
Spike’s eyes flash, but he stays silent.
“And we,” Stefano continues, “would bleed slowly. Expensively. Publicly. Which means someone profits while we dismantle one another.”
“Arms dealers?” Foster suggests.
“Competing suppliers,” Skip adds.
“Cartels,” Bones says darkly. “Remnants of Los Fantasmas looking for payback.”
Maverick’s expression turns to stone at that name.
“Or,” Stefano adds quietly, “someone seeking access to California without Shadow’s interference… while keeping New York distracted.”
“New York holds my largest numbers in America,” Maverick adds. “If someone wanted to hit the Moretti Family hard, New York is the place to do it.”
“And, as far as everyone knows,” Stefano adds. “Maverick’s home base is in New York.”
“With my brother’s face always there, it wasn’t hard for that rumor to stick,” Maverick adds.
“Well,” Spike says, pushing to his feet, palms flattening on the table, “our next step is obvious. We get a hold of our New York supplier and get some fucking answers.”
“In the meantime,” Maverick says, posture shifting into something eerily similar to his brother’s, stapled fingers and all. “I’ll send out quiet feelers. See if there’s talk in the underground circuit about the Italians and a motorcycle club out of Palm Springs doing business together.”
“Or,” Foster says mildly, “we give them what they want.”
Every head turns toward him.
“Explain,” Spike orders.
Foster folds his hands together. Calm. Clinical.
“Whoever did this wants tension between us. They’re waiting to see if it worked.” He glances between Maverick and Stefano. “So we let them believe it did.”
“How?” Stefano asks.
“We stage it,” Foster replies. “Controlled chaos.”
Maverick’s eyes sharpen. “Go on.”
“We arrange a fake exchange in New York between your people and some random no-name group,” Foster continues. “Make it loud. Gunfire. Ambulances. Enough noise to catch attention. Then we leak the rumor that several of your men were killed because of defective Iron Shadows guns.”
The room goes very still.
“You want us to let the world think we sold bad product that got Italians killed?” Skip asks.
“I want whoever orchestrated this to relax,” Foster says. “To think their plan succeeded. That we turned on each other. That blood was spilled.”
Stefano studies him.
“And what happens when they believe that?” he asks quietly.
“They move,” Foster answers. “They reach out. They celebrate. They reposition. People get sloppy when they think they’ve won.”
Spike’s jaw tightens. “And our reputations?”
Maverick waves a hand slightly. “Reputations can be repaired. Wars cannot.”
Stefano nods once. “In New York, rumors spread faster than bullets. If word gets out that my men died because of faulty guns, someone will talk. Quiet inquiries will turn into bold ones.”
“Competing suppliers might approach you,” I add. “Trying to ‘help’ fill the gap.”
“Exactly,” Foster says, already ten steps ahead. “Or someone reaches out to the Shadows directly. Offers us a better deal. Cleaner product. Faster turnaround. Either way, this smells like a supplier trying to climb the ladder by using one of our names as the rung.”
Bones’ mouth curves into something dark. “Then we follow the money.”
“While freezing real inventory,” Skip says. “No shipments. No exchanges. Nothing leaves our hands until we know who’s playing games.”
Spike’s gaze shifts to Maverick.
Maverick’s shifts to Stefano.
“Controlled scene,” Stefano says finally. “No actual casualties. Trusted men. Quiet hospital chatter. Enough noise to be convincing.”
“I’ll handle the staging in New York,” Maverick replies smoothly. “A warehouse. A few ‘injured’ men transported. Nothing fatal. But believable.”
“And we make sure the rumor spreads the right way,” Foster adds. “Defective Shadow’s guns. Italians furious. Tension building. Let it circulate in the right circles.”
“Not too loud,” Stefano cautions. “Just loud enough to reach the ears that matter.”
Spike looks at me.
“Thoughts?” he asks.
I don’t answer right away. I let it settle. Let the angles line up.
“We need to contact our buyers,” I say finally. “Before the rumor hits.”
A few brows lift.
“Once word starts spreading that the Palm Springs Shadows are pushing defective guns, it won’t take long for half a dozen pissed-off crews to show up at our gates demanding blood. And they won’t care that it’s a setup. They’ll care that their product might get their men killed.”
The room stills.
“I’ll handle it,” Skip says immediately, already pulling his phone from his pocket.
“Only the leaders,” Spike adds. “No trickle-down. No chatter. You tell them it’s controlled. Temporary. And it stays between us until we find out what the hell is going on.”
Skip nods once. “Direct lines only. No texts. No middlemen.”
“And if they don’t like that?” Crusher mutters from the far end of the table.
Spike’s jaw tightens.
“They don’t have a fucking choice,” he says evenly. “Or they can stop doing business with us.”
No one argues that.
Skip gives a short nod. “I’ll make it clear.”
I glance around the table.
“And we need to be ready,” I continue. “If this blows up faster than we expect, we lock the gates. No visitors. No drop-ins. Nobody steps foot on this compound without being cleared.”
“Prospects double guard rotation,” Bones says immediately.
“Snipers constantly posted,” Foster adds.
“No outside meetings,” Spike says. “All negotiations paused.”
Maverick watches us quietly.
“You expect retaliation that quickly?” he asks.
“I expect paranoia,” I answer. “And paranoid men make stupid decisions.”
Stefano nods slowly. “In New York, I will do the same. Limited access. Trusted men only.”
“Good,” Spike says. “Because if this goes sideways, I don’t want anyone thinking they can test us while we’re distracted.”
The air in the room shifts.
Not panic...preparation.
“Get your calls made,” Spike tells Skip. “Foster, start laying groundwork for the leak. Maverick, coordinate your little Broadway performance.”
A faint smirk touches Maverick’s mouth.
“And us?” Max asks.
Spike stands.
“We get ready,” he says simply.
Because outside these walls, rumors are about to start moving.
And when they do, we won’t be caught off guard.
We’ll be waiting.