Chapter Seventeen #2
“Barolo,” he says. “Let it breathe.”
“Of course.”
“And have them prepare antipasti for the table. We’ll speak first.”
“Yes, Don.”
“This is ridiculous,” Skip mutters. “Our clubhouse smells like motor oil and beer.”
Maverick glances back over his shoulder.
“Food is sacred,” he says calmly. “Wine is history. Even during war, we eat well.”
Foster’s mouth twitches slightly. “I could get used to this.”
“You should try the osso buco,” Stefano mutters. “Smells like it’s been cooking for twelve hours.”
“Fourteen,” comes a quiet correction from a passing chef, who nods respectfully to Maverick before disappearing back into the kitchen.
Skip looks around in awe.
“So this is what generational wealth smells like.”
Maverick adjusts his cufflinks.
“This,” he says evenly, “is what happens when you build something meant to last.”
And beneath the warm lighting, the rich food, the expensive wine… You can still feel it.
“This place is beautiful,” I say, glancing around at the carved archways and oil paintings that probably cost more than our entire compound, “but it doesn’t feel as comforting as your estate back home.”
Maverick doesn’t look offended. If anything, he looks… satisfied.
“No matter how beautiful everything appears,” he says evenly, “this building was never meant to be a home. It was designed to send a message. It was built for intimidation. For negotiations. For war.”
“Our guest awaits,” Stefano says. “Foster, Bones, Skip…if you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to the viewing room. You’ll have full audio.”
Skip grins. “Ooo, secret spy glass. Love that for us.”
Stefano doesn’t react. He just turns and walks.
“Cuts, brothers,” Maverick says to Spike and me, gesturing toward one of the staff members waiting discreetly nearby.
We shrug out of our cuts without a word.
Handing over club colors in someone else’s territory feels wrong. Vulnerable.
But that’s the point.
Tonight, we’re not the Iron Shadows.
Tonight, we’re businessmen.
Spike rolls his shoulders once, jaw set.
I flex my hands, working tension out of my fingers.
Maverick leads us through the building for several long moments before we turn one final corner.
The library doors are already open.
Inside, a man stands near a massive desk pretending to admire a display case, but his eyes flick toward us the second we enter.
He straightens.
“Gentlemen,” our guest says smoothly. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d be dining alone.”
Maverick steps fully into the room.
“You are not here to dine,” he says calmly.
The doors shut behind us with a quiet, decisive click.
“Shame,” the man says, inhaling slowly. “Smells incredible.”
“I was told you have an offer for me,” Maverick replies, already seated, posture relaxed like he’s discussing art instead of blood.
The man laughs lightly. Confident. Too confident.
“Straight to business. I respect that. My name is Clinton. Word on the street is those desert bikers sold you weapons that misfired. Got your men killed.” He shakes his head in mock sympathy. “Tragic. I’m here to offer assistance. No one should have to deal with unreliable partners.”
“And what,” Maverick asks calmly, folding his hands on the desk, “could you possibly offer me that I do not already possess?”
“Weapons,” Clinton says, smiling wider. “Proper ones. Serial numbers never registered. Never test-fired. Manufactured by my own people. No middlemen. No weak links.”
Maverick tilts his head slightly.
“I do not know you,” he says. “Or your men. Why would I trust that your homemade weapons function any better than the ones I bought from the Shadows?”
Clinton’s grin sharpens.
“I was hoping you’d ask,” he says, leaning forward eagerly. “We can arrange a demonstration. Tomorrow evening work for you?”
Maverick doesn’t answer immediately. He taps one finger against the desk once.
“I’m going to need far more than theatrics,” he says smoothly. “I have survived this long because I do not gamble on strangers.”
“Fair enough,” Clinton replies. “I run a private manufacturing operation out of Jersey. Clean facility. No paper trail. My team used to contract for overseas buyers before we shifted domestic. We build everything in-house…slides, barrels, receivers. High-grade steel. No outsourcing.”
“Steel sourced from where?” I ask quietly.
Clinton’s eyes flick to me. He wasn’t expecting questions from anyone but Maverick.
“Domestic suppliers,” he says. “Midwest. We can provide documentation.”
“Documentation can be forged,” Maverick replies evenly.
Clinton chuckles. “So can death certificates.”
The room cools several degrees.
“You claim to know about the weapons misfire that injured my men,” Maverick says, voice still level. “What were you told?”
Clinton doesn’t hesitate.
“Suppliers from Palm Springs sold the Italians faulty weapons in order to take down their Don. All us dealers know the Shadows operate out of the desert. Several of your men were injured. Seven hospitalized. Two critical. One dead.”
“Interesting,” Maverick says mildly. “And how would you know the severity of injuries within my organization?”
Clinton shrugs casually. “Information flows. Especially when people are angry. Especially when they’re looking for revenge.”
“And you,” Maverick says softly, “are offering to help me find that revenge.”
“I’m offering better product,” Clinton corrects. “And maybe some cooperation. You don’t want unreliable partners. I don’t want desert bikers muscling into distribution lanes I’ve been eyeing.”
There it is.
Territory.
Not sympathy.
“You’re expanding west,” Maverick says calmly.
“Opportunities are opening,” Clinton replies. “Vacuum’s forming.”
Because the Shadows are supposedly unstable.
Maverick leans back slightly in his chair.
“And you believe I would dismantle a long-standing arrangement over rumor?”
Clinton smiles again.
“I believe powerful men don’t tolerate embarrassment.”
The silence stretches.
Clinton thinks he’s winning.
He thinks he found a fracture.
Maverick steeples his fingers.
“Bring your samples tomorrow,” he says finally. “You will demonstrate. If they perform as promised, we continue this discussion.”
Clinton stands, smoothing his jacket.
“I knew you were a reasonable man.”
Maverick’s expression never changes.
“Reasonable,” he says softly, “is not the word I would use.”
Clinton doesn’t catch it.
He offers his hand.
Maverick looks at it for a full two seconds before standing and offering a very short shake.
“Tomorrow evening,” Clinton says. “I’ll send coordinates.”
“You will be contacted,” Maverick replies.
The doors open for Clinton, and he walks out smiling.
Confident…Satisfied.
Like he just secured himself a future.
The doors shut again, and silence lingers for half a breath.
“Well,” Spike mutters.
“He wants our western lanes,” I say flatly.
“And he overplayed his knowledge,” Maverick replies quietly. The calm is gone now. What’s left is cold calculation. “He knew more than the rumor we released. The arrangement with the Shadows was never mentioned publicly.”
A hidden door along the far wall opens, and Stefano steps through.
“Only one faction would have known who supplied those weapons,” he says evenly. “The men who pointed us toward the Shadows in the first place.”
Spike’s jaw tightens. “Was Clinton the man you dealt with?”
“No,” Stefano answers. “The man I spoke to was named Martello. He made the introduction. Clinton is merely a front. I already have Martello being looked into.”
Foster steps into the room, eyes on his phone.
“You’ll want to see this,” he says, holding it up. “Martello owns a shell company registered in New York. That shell company is linked to the same supplier the Shadows bought from.”
“Meaning?” Maverick asks slowly.
“Our New York supplier and your introduction contact are the same operation.”
Skip frowns.
“Let me see that.”
Foster hands him the phone, and Skip stares at the screen for two seconds before his expression darkens.
“That motherfucker,” he says quietly. “I met him face to face. He’s the one who ‘cut us a deal’ on those guns. Overpriced as hell, but he claimed premium steel. Talked like he was doing us a favor.”
“And he knew the buyer would be us,” Maverick says softly.
“So he sells us defective weapons,” Bones says calmly, “knowing the buyer is the Moretti family.”
“And when they misfire,” I continue, “he waits for the fallout. Then sends Clinton in to swoop in with an ‘offer.’”
“All while positioning himself to expand west onto our turf,” Spike growls.
“Ruining the Shadows’ reputation,” I say. “Undermining our alliance. Opening territory.”
“Not caring who died in the process,” Maverick says quietly.
The room shifts.
Because this isn’t about money anymore.
This is about disrespect.
Martello didn’t just try to profit.
He tried to manipulate two organizations into tearing each other apart.
“And he thought he could hide behind a middleman,” Stefano adds.
Bones rolls his shoulders once.
“Does he know we know?”
“Not yet,” I answer. “Clinton believes he’s winning.”
Maverick walks slowly toward the window, hands clasped behind his back.
New York stretches out beneath him.
“Then we let them continue believing that,” he says.
Spike’s eyes narrow. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Yes.”
“We accept the demonstration,” I say.
“We attend,” Maverick confirms. “We encourage him. We ask for scale. Distribution. Timelines.”
“And then?” Skip asks.
“While Clinton gives us his demonstration,” Maverick says evenly, “we’ll have a secondary team in place. Martello will be taken the moment Clinton believes he has secured our interest.”
Stefano nods once. “Quietly. No spectacle. He disappears before he realizes he has been seen.”
“And he comes back here,” Maverick finishes. “I have questions.”
Spike leans forward slightly. “We’ll need more than questions. We need his confession. His contacts. Every client he’s poached. Every supplier he’s leaned on.”