Chapter Fourteen
Tank
“So, we’re at war with the Iron Shadows MC,” Maverick says from his fucking throne.
And no, I’m not exaggerating.
He called us to his mansion for an update, and we’re led into this massive “meeting room” where there’s one chair at the front where Maverick is seated like he’s about to knight someone.
The man is literally seated like royalty.
Apart from Maverick and his underling Luca, the chair is the only thing in this massive room.
Skip takes one look at the setup and doesn’t even hesitate.
He drops into an overdramatic bow, sweeping one arm across his chest.
“Your Highness,” he declares in a booming, overly proper accent, bending until his nose nearly kisses the marble floor, “we, thy most humble and dirt-caked subjects, have journeyed far across perilous lands in answer to thy noble summons.”
Bones pinches the bridge of his nose.
Skip continues, undeterred.
“Pray tell, mighty sovereign of silk suits and shadowed dealings, how may we lay waste to thine enemies this eve? Shall we sharpen our blades? Storm the battlements? Or merely glare menacingly from the courtyard until morale improves?”
Spike sighs. “Get up.”
But Skip straightens with theatrical reverence.
“Fear not, my liege,” he says solemnly. “The Shadows stand ready. Our steeds are fueled, our steel is polished, and our loyalty eternal.”
Maverick doesn’t even blink.
But the corner of his mouth twitches.
“Rise, Sir Skip,” he replies smoothly. “Before I have you escorted to the dungeon.”
Skip gasps dramatically. “Alas! Betrayed by mine own monarch.”
Then he raises his chin high.
“I shall die as I lived… handsome and misunderstood.”
Bones mutters, “I’m changing clubs.”
“This chair will do nicely, Luca,” Maverick says, running a slow hand along the carved armrest like he’s inspecting a crown jewel. “Order eighteen more for the table. Same cut. Same finish. And ensure they come from Florence, not Milan. I prefer Florentine craftsmanship.”
Of course he does.
“And, please,” he adds smoothly, “see to it that the children are given extra time outside this evening.”
“Extra recess?” Skip says, eyes widening dramatically. “Let’s go, Luca. I can’t wait to show these little savages how to play dodgeball Shadow style.”
“I do not know how il Don tolerates that man,” Luca mutters in accented irritation as he turns to carry out the orders.
“Careful with the insults,” Maverick smirks. “Many of our young boys are training to be soldiers for their Don. I know an eleven-year-old who could shoot you between the eyes while holding his gelato.”
Skip pauses. “Respectfully… that’s terrifying.”
“So,” Spike cuts in. “The war?”
“Ah, yes.” Maverick rises and gestures for us to follow. “We’ll speak in my office.”
We move through a corridor that looks less like a house and more like a museum wing.
“This entire section was destroyed when Los Fantasmas attacked last year,” Maverick continues calmly. “The dining room took the brunt of it. We’ve been using the common hall each evening while reconstruction was underway.”
“It took a year?” I ask.
“Italian stone is not rushed,” he replies.
He gestures to the walls as we walk.
“Travertine from Tivoli lines the floors,” Maverick adds casually.
“Polished to a muted sheen. The baseboards are carved from Carrara marble. The chandeliers overhead? Hand-blown Murano glass shipped directly from Venice. The wood paneling is walnut from Tuscany. Cut and milled there. Shipped whole so the grain would match across the walls.”
Because of course it would.
“The table?” Max asks.
“Custom,” Maverick replies. “Ten meters long. Solid oak from Umbria. The craftsman insisted on hand-finishing each edge. It’s currently at port waiting for final clearance.”
“And the chairs?” Bones asks dryly, pretending to care.
“Hand-carved frames,” Maverick says. “Upholstered in Italian leather from a family tannery outside Naples. I do not believe in mixing quality.”
Skip whistles low. “We’re meeting in a medieval castle built by Gucci.”
Maverick opens the door to his office.
“No,” he says smoothly. “Gucci would have cut corners.”
We step inside.
Same attention to detail. Same imported materials. Same quiet wealth.
This isn’t just a remodel.
It’s a statement.
Los Fantasmas tried to burn him down.
He rebuilt it with stone shipped across an ocean.
“And now,” Maverick says, taking his seat behind a desk carved from dark Sicilian walnut or something, “let us discuss who believes they are clever enough to set fire to my alliances.”
I glance around one more time at the imported marble, the hand-carved molding, the ridiculous wealth dripping from every corner.
Then I look at him.
“You know,” I say, gesturing lazily to his perfectly pressed, criminally expensive suit, “for someone this wealthy and powerful, you sure pull off rugged biker real well outside these walls.”
Spike snorts.
Maverick leans back slowly, one ankle resting over his knee.
“Image,” he says simply.
“That’s not an answer,” I reply.
He smiles faintly.
“It is, actually.”
He steeples his fingers.
“In my world, I am a Don. I attend galas. I sit at tables with men who control ports and politicians. I wear suits. I speak softly. I let others underestimate how much I see. I’m careful about how much I let others see of me.”
His gaze sharpens slightly.
“In California? I ride. I bleed. I earn loyalty face-to-face. The Shadows respect strength, not silk.”
Skip nods solemnly. “We do prefer our crime lords with a little grease under the fingernails.”
Maverick’s mouth twitches.
“A man who only wears a crown forgets how to fight,” he says calmly. “A man who only fights forgets how to rule.”
“And you just… switch?” I ask.
“I do not switch,” he corrects smoothly. “I adapt.”
He gestures vaguely toward the walls.
“This,” he says, “is legacy.”
Then toward his boots near his office door.
“And that,” he adds, “is survival.”
Spike studies him for a long second.
“Must be exhausting,” Bones mutters.
Maverick shrugs lightly.
“It would be,” he says, “if either version were false.”
The room quiets.
Because that’s the thing about Maverick…It’s not a mask.
It’s both.
Silk and steel. Boardroom and battlefield.
He leans forward slightly, the warmth gone from his expression now.
“But enough about décor,” he says. “Let us return to the matter of someone attempting to ignite a war between us.”
And just like that…The Don replaces the biker.
And the air in the room tightens.
“Three nights ago,” Maverick begins, fingers steepled, “the Italians engaged a rival faction in Brooklyn. Their weapons misfired.”
No one moves.
“Seven of my men were transported to the hospital,” he continues calmly. “Non-fatal injuries. Public. Messy. Very unfortunate.”
Maverick doesn’t blink.
“Last night,” he goes on, “a very public confrontation between the Italians and the Iron Shadows took place at a restaurant in Manhattan. Voices were raised. Accusations made. Threats exchanged. Several patrons were quite… uncomfortable.”
Skip grins. “We do love dinner theater.”
Maverick ignores him.
“The argument concluded with both parties storming out separately,” he says. “Witnesses have already begun repeating the story. It is spreading exactly as intended.”
He lowers his hands onto the desk.
The heavy Don ring glints on his finger…the one Spike practically forced back on him after the whole coming out as a Don thing.
“Crusher and my brother are currently at the estate,” Maverick says smoothly. “Relaxing and letting the illusion settle.”
“Letting our enemies believe we’re fractured,” Spike mutters.
“Yes,” Maverick confirms. “We allow the narrative to seep into the bones of those watching. We allow them to grow comfortable.”
“Comfortable men make mistakes,” Foster says quietly.
“Comfortable men reveal themselves,” Bones adds evenly.
I lean forward slightly. “Any bites yet?”
“A few whispers,” Maverick replies. “A broker in Jersey is suddenly very interested in ‘stabilizing’ supply lines. A mid-level distributor in Queens offering alternatives.”
“There it is,” Skip mutters.
“They are circling,” Maverick says. “Testing the waters.”
“And?” I ask.
“And,” Maverick says, eyes darkening just slightly, “we let them swim.”
Spike crosses his arms.
“How long do we let this play out?”
“As long as it takes,” Maverick answers calmly. “The first one to approach too eagerly… is the first thread we pull.”
Maverick’s gaze sweeps the room.
“We do nothing rash,” he says. “No retaliation. No correction of the rumor. Let the world believe the Shadows and the Moretti are on the brink.”
“And when someone steps forward thinking they can profit from it?” Bones asks.
Maverick’s lips curve faintly.
“Then we remind them why neither of us was meant to be tested.”
Outside, somewhere beyond marble walls and compound gates, the rumor is spreading.
Seven injured Italians.
Defective Shadows guns.
A fractured alliance.
But inside this room…the alliance is stronger than ever.
And we’re waiting.
“Did you reach out to warn your buyers?” Maverick asks.
“Skip handled it,” Spike answers.
Maverick’s gaze shifts. “Any complications?”
“Just one,” Skip admits, pushing off the wall. “My usual contact wasn’t available. I ended up dealing with his son.”
“That rarely goes smoothly,” Maverick says mildly.
“Kid didn’t know us,” Skip continues. “Didn’t trust us. Thought I was feeding him a story to cover our asses.”
Bones snorts. “Fair.”
“So I got on a plane,” Skip shrugs. “Flew down to Florida and handled it face-to-face. By the time I landed, Daddy Dearest was suddenly available for a ‘brief discussion.’”
Spike’s mouth twitches. “Funny how that works.”
“And?” Maverick presses.
“And we’re solid,” Skip says. “I made it clear this is temporary. That we’d rather pause business than risk their men. Once he understood that we weren’t scrambling, just repositioning, he calmed down.”
“Trust is maintained?” Maverick asks.