Chapter 8 #2
The interior smelled of cigarettes, motor oil, and the lingering tang of metal shavings.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the cement floor where a lone figure waited beside a workbench.
Pretty Boy had earned his road name honestly—his features too refined for the hard life he'd chosen, his blond hair and blue eyes better suited for magazine covers than mugshots.
But the delicate appearance masked a calculating mind and a ruthless streak when it came to protecting what was his.
Right now, that included his sister—my wife.
"Razor," he greeted, his voice neutral but his stance wary. A half-finished cigarette dangled from his fingers, smoke curling around his face like a veil. "Been a while."
"Pretty Boy," I acknowledged with a nod, stopping a calculated distance away—close enough for conversation, far enough to react if things went south. "Thanks for meeting."
His eyes tracked me with predatory focus. "When it comes to my sister, I make time." The words carried an edge sharp enough to cut. "You promised to protect her."
Not a question, but an accusation. I met his gaze steadily. "I am protecting her. That's why I'm here."
He took a long drag of his cigarette before speaking again. "She says someone was watching the house. Says you're building support in your club against your president." His eyes narrowed. "Sounds like internal drama that could put her at risk."
"Or internal restructuring that will keep her safer," I countered, leaning against the workbench opposite him. "Mustang's leadership is compromising club security. Not just for Ophelia and Dante, but for all our families."
Pretty Boy studied me through a haze of smoke, his expression unreadable. "You've been married what—a week? Already staging a coup?"
"Not a coup," I corrected carefully. "A necessary evolution. And yes, it's been accelerated by my concern for Ophelia, but these problems with Mustang have been brewing for months."
"Convenient timing," he observed, but the accusation in his tone had softened slightly. "Tell me about the threat. What exactly did Ophelia see?"
I recounted what she'd told me—the birds going silent, movement in the tree line, the metallic reflection of light. "She survived that bastard ex of hers by recognizing danger before it struck. When she says someone was there, I believe her."
"So do I," Pretty Boy said immediately, his jaw tightening. "Lia's always had good instincts. Saved both our asses more than once growing up."
The nickname—Lia—caught me off guard, a reminder of the history they shared that predated my presence in Ophelia's life. Pretty Boy noticed my reaction and almost smiled, a brief softening of his vigilant expression.
"Still getting used to being a husband, aren't you, Calculator?" The use of my road name carried a hint of mockery, but not malice.
"Learning as I go," I admitted, seeing no point in pretenses. "But I know enough to take her safety seriously. I've got brothers on rotation watching the house—Fury, Socket, Loch, Pierce. Torque's joining the detail tonight.”
Pretty Boy raised an eyebrow. "Half your club."
"The half that matters," I confirmed. "The half that understands family comes first."
He nodded slowly, grinding out his cigarette on the workbench. "And Mustang? He's not on board with this protection detail?"
"Mustang thinks it's a waste of resources," I said, not bothering to hide the bitterness in my voice. "Calls it 'a woman's paranoia' and wants us focused on the Martinelli shipment instead."
Understanding flickered across Pretty Boy's expression, the hard look in his eyes easing for a brief second as if he knew exactly what this kind of fight cost. He pulled out his phone, thumbed through contacts, and made a call.
"It's me," he said when someone answered. "Need Eagle and Tech at the neutral garage. Now." He hung up without waiting for confirmation, turning his attention back to me. "This isn't just club business anymore. This is family."
The declaration—the same words I'd been repeating to my brothers all week—carried different weight coming from him. We might wear different cuts, pledge to different presidents, but in this, we were aligned.
"I've got seven brothers on my side now," I told him, laying out my position plainly. "Ace is with me—that's significant. When the time comes to challenge Mustang formally, I'll have the votes."
"But not yet," Pretty Boy surmised.
"Not yet," I agreed. "Need to secure family safety first. Then deal with club politics."
He paced the length of the workbench, thinking. "What do you need from us?"
"Intelligence," I said immediately. "Your club has better tech than we do. Better surveillance equipment, better contacts in law enforcement. We need to know if Tyler or his family are making moves to find Ophelia."
"That we can do," he nodded. "Tech's our surveillance expert. Eagle's got contacts in three counties' police departments. They'll be here in fifteen."
I outlined what we already knew about Tyler, his judge father, his police chief uncle. Pretty Boy absorbed the information with narrowed eyes, his expression darkening at the mention of Tyler's connections.
"Rich boy with badge and gavel backup," he muttered. "Worst kind of enemy."
"Exactly," I agreed. "Hard to fight through conventional channels. And that's where Mustang's strategy falls short—he's still thinking in terms of territory disputes with rival clubs, not legal threats from men in suits."
Pretty Boy's associates arrived while we were still talking, entering without knocking—a tall, broad-shouldered man with the watchful eyes of former military, and a younger guy carrying a laptop bag who immediately began setting up equipment on a side table.
They nodded to me with the reserved respect of allied but separate clubs, then turned to Pretty Boy for instructions.
"My sister's being watched," he said simply. "Potential threat from her ex—judge's son with police connections. Need intelligence, surveillance, early warning systems."
The tech guy—his cut identified him only as "Wizard"—immediately began typing. "Got facial recognition software running through traffic cams in a fifty-mile radius," he said, fingers flying across his keyboard. "Can set up remote access to security feeds around the property too."
"Already have cameras on the house," I told him, "but additional coverage of approach routes would help."
"Done," Wizard said without looking up. "Give me the addresses, and I'll have satellites tracking movement patterns by tomorrow."
The casual mention of satellite access raised my eyebrows, but I didn't question it. Hades Abyss had always been better connected technologically than Wicked Mayhem.
Pretty Boy turned to the taller man—Eagle, presumably. "Need your law enforcement contacts checking for any inquiries about my sister. Missing persons reports, informal searches, anything."
Eagle nodded once, already pulling out his phone. "On it. Got a guy in the records department who owes me. He'll flag any searches with her name."
The efficiency of their response—the immediate mobilization of resources without question or committee approval—highlighted the differences between their club operations and ours. No wonder Pretty Boy had been skeptical of my ability to protect Ophelia.
"This is temporary," I felt compelled to clarify. "Once I have control of the club, we'll have full resources dedicated to family protection. Won't need to rely on outside help."
Pretty Boy's eyes met mine, measuring. "Don't mistake this for charity, Razor. She's my blood. I'd burn both our clubs to the ground if that's what it took to keep her safe."
The declaration should have alarmed me, but instead, I found myself nodding in agreement. "I understand completely."
And I did. One week with Ophelia and Dante had reordered my priorities so completely that I barely recognized the man I'd been before—the calculating treasurer who valued profit margins and clean ledgers above messy human connections.
Now I stood in neutral territory with a rival club, plotting what amounted to treason against my president, all to protect a family I hadn't even known existed two weeks ago.
"We set up a secure communication channel," Wizard announced, sliding a small device across the workbench toward me. "Encrypted texts, can't be intercepted or traced. Use it only for updates about Lia."
I pocketed the device with a nod of thanks. Pretty Boy approached, close enough that I could see the family resemblance to Ophelia in the set of his jaw, the shape of his eyes.
"Twice daily updates," he instructed, not a request but a command. "Any changes in the situation, any new threats, I hear about it immediately."
"Understood," I agreed, extending my hand to formalize our arrangement. "Your sister and her son are my life now. Nothing matters more than keeping them safe."
His grip was firm, his gaze steady as he searched my face for any sign of insincerity. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him, because he nodded once before releasing my hand.
"Then we understand each other," he said simply. "Family above all else."
As I left the garage, heading back to my hidden bike through the shadows of the industrial district, I felt the weight of responsibility settling more firmly on my shoulders.
The alliance with Hades Abyss added crucial resources to our protection network, but it also raised the stakes.
Pretty Boy wouldn't tolerate failure when it came to Ophelia's safety—and neither would I.