Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Razor
I flicked ash onto the fuel-stained table, watching the gray flakes scatter like secrets in the dimly lit back room.
The Wicked Mayhem clubhouse hummed with distant voices from the main bar, but here in our makeshift war room, the only sounds were my own breathing and the buzzing of the cheap neon beer sign casting blue-red shadows across the walls.
I'd been turning this plan over in my head since walking out of Church yesterday, my confrontation with Mustang making one thing crystal clear—I needed allies, and I needed them fast. For Ophelia.
For Dante. For the future of the club itself.
My wedding band caught the neon light as I brought the cigarette back to my lips, the weight of it still foreign against my skin. One week married, and already everything had changed—priorities, loyalties, and the lens through which I viewed the club that had been my only family for fifteen years.
The door creaked open, and I straightened, my free hand instinctively moving toward the gun at my hip before I recognized Ace's silhouette.
The VP stepped inside, closing the door with deliberate care before leaning against the wall opposite me, arms folded across his chest. Half his face glowed blue in the beer sign's light, the other half lost in shadow.
"This better be good," he said, his voice low and measured. "Getting your cryptic text in the middle of inventory isn't exactly how I planned to spend my afternoon."
I took a final drag from my cigarette before crushing it in the overflowing ashtray. "Wouldn't have called if it wasn't important."
"Figured as much." He pushed himself off the wall and pulled out a chair, turning it backward before straddling it. "This about your showdown with Mustang yesterday? Word's spreading."
"Word always does," I replied, watching his face for any hint of where his loyalties might land.
Ace had been VP under Mustang for five years, his right hand through territory disputes and business expansions.
But lately, I'd caught flashes of doubt in his expression during Church.
Frustration too. "Yeah, it's about Mustang.
About the direction he's taking the club. "
Ace's face remained impassive, but his fingers drummed once, twice against the chair back. "Go on."
"He's living in the past," I said bluntly.
"Running the club like it's still 1985. Ignoring threats that don't fit his outdated playbook.
" I leaned forward, lowering my voice even though we were alone.
"You saw him yesterday. Brushing off a legitimate security concern because it came from a woman. My woman."
"Your old lady's spooked about shadows in the yard," Ace countered, but without Mustang's dismissive tone. "Gotta admit, doesn't sound like club priority."
"It's not just about Ophelia," I said, twisting my wedding band. "It's about what Mustang's leadership means for all of us. When did Wicked Mayhem start breaking promises to allies? When did we start ignoring threats because they don't fit the president's idea of what deserves our attention?"
Ace's eyebrow raised slightly. "That's dangerous talk, brother."
"Truth often is." I held his gaze. "You've seen it too. The slipping discipline. The lost opportunities. The risks he takes with our lives and livelihoods because he can't adapt to changing times."
A muscle worked in Ace's jaw as he considered my words. The neon sign flickered, momentarily plunging his face into darkness before illuminating it again. When he spoke, his voice had dropped even lower.
"What exactly are you suggesting?"
"I'm suggesting we need to evolve or die," I stated plainly, spreading my hands on the table. "The world's changing around us. Law enforcement has tech we can't match. Rivals are younger, hungrier. And Mustang's still playing by rules that stopped working a decade ago."
My phone buzzed against the table, the screen lighting up with Ophelia's name. I glanced down, reading her message quickly: "Are you safe? Heard motorcycles nearby, not sure if friendly."
My chest tightened with a mixture of protectiveness and affection that had blindsided me since the moment she'd opened that motel door. I typed back quickly: "Safe at clubhouse. Stay inside. Brothers patrolling are friendly. Love you."
I looked up to find Ace watching me, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "Never thought I'd see the day," he said. "The Calculator, all worked up over a woman."
"Wife," I corrected, the word still new on my tongue. "And her kid. My family now."
"Family," Ace repeated, testing the word like it was foreign currency. "That's what this is really about, isn't it? You want the club to adapt because you've got more to lose now."
I didn't deny it. "Family should strengthen the club, not be seen as a weakness or distraction. When Mustang dismissed Ophelia's concerns, he wasn't just disrespecting my old lady—he was ignoring a potential threat to all of us."
"How do you figure?"
"Her ex has connections—judges, cops. If he finds her, if he uses those connections against us, it becomes club business whether Mustang likes it or not. And that's just the start. How many other threats is he dismissing because they don't fit his narrow definition of club priorities?"
Ace's eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he processed my words. The sounds from the main room grew louder momentarily as someone opened and closed the door, laughter and the clack of pool balls drifting down the hallway before fading again.
"Been thinking similar things myself," he finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "For months now. Martinelli deal last year? Nearly got Screwball killed because Mustang wouldn't listen to intel about increased police presence along the route."
I nodded, relief washing through me at this confirmation I wasn't alone in my concerns. "And the territory dispute with the Heathens. We lost two prospects because he wouldn't adapt the strategy."
"Lost revenue from the strip club too," Ace added, warming to the subject now. "Could've been ours six months ago if he'd moved when I suggested."
"So, you see it," I pressed. "The pattern. The risks."
Ace's smirk flickered through the smoke still hanging in the air between us. "Been seeing it for a while," he acknowledged. "Mustang's stuck in the old ways. Problem is, the old ways get brothers killed."
I let that statement hang in the air for a moment, then pushed forward. "I need to know where you stand. If things keep going this way—if Mustang keeps putting his pride above club safety, above family security—I can't just stand by and watch."
"What are you asking, brother?" Ace's voice had taken on a dangerous edge, but I could see he already knew.
"I'm asking if you'd support a change in leadership," I said simply. "Not today. Not tomorrow. But if it comes to that—if it becomes necessary for the survival of the club—would you stand with me or with Mustang?"
The silence stretched between us, heavy with implications. Challenging a president wasn't done lightly. Men had died for less. But as Ace studied me across the table, his expression hardened with quiet certainty, a decision taking shape behind those calculating eyes.
He stood suddenly, circling the table to stand beside me. His hand extended, not the casual clasp of brothers but the formal grip of an alliance being formed.
"You've got my support," he said quietly. "All the way. Mustang's had a good run, but his time's coming to an end. One way or another."
I rose and took his hand, our grip firm, the pact sealed without further words needed.
Through the walls, I could hear the sound of bikes arriving, the rumble of engines announcing more brothers coming to the clubhouse.
Time to start building the coalition that would either save the club—or tear it apart.
Ophelia
I checked my phone for the tenth time in half an hour, the screen showing no new messages from Razor.
My footsteps echoed on the hardwood as I paced from living room to kitchen and back again, muscles tight with the familiar tension I'd carried for years with Tyler.
The house was quiet—too quiet—with Dante finally asleep after a day of constant vigilance on my part.
Every creak, every distant car engine, every flutter of branches against windows sent my pulse racing.
I'd thought leaving Tyler meant leaving fear behind, but instead, it had followed us here, morphing into something new but equally suffocating.
The security monitor on the kitchen table glowed blue in the dimness, casting eerie shadows across the countertops.
I'd dimmed most of the lights—a habit from my days with Tyler when being visible through windows made me a target for his rage.
Darkness meant safety then. Now it felt like both protection and threat, concealing me but also whoever might be watching from outside.
I settled into the chair facing the monitor, cycling through the different camera views for what must have been the hundredth time tonight.
Front yard: empty, the motion sensor light occasionally triggering when leaves blew across the driveway.
Side yard: still, the neighbor's cat perched on their fence like a silent sentinel.
Backyard: shadows moving with the wind, the sandbox Razor had built for Dante barely visible in the gloom.
Driveway: vacant, waiting for Razor's return.
The soft hum of electronics filled the silence—the refrigerator's steady drone, the barely perceptible whir of the laptop's fan, the occasional beep from the security system confirming all sensors remained active.
I'd memorized these sounds in the past week, categorized them as safe, normal.
Anything outside this auditory catalog instantly set my nerves on edge.