Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
REV
I’m halfway through a cup of burnt coffee at Iron Reapers Customs. Blade’s leaned against the workbench when my phone buzzes, wiping his hands on a rag, grease streaked along his knuckles.
Switch is a few feet away arguing with a parts invoice.
The vibration of my phone pulls both of their eyes up at the same time.
I glance at the screen. “Mason. Clubhouse. Now.”
Blade’s gaze snaps to Switch then me.
“What the fuck is that about?” Switch mutters.
Blade doesn’t answer. His jaw tightens instead, eyes going hard in that way I’ve learned to read over the years. Locked in. Alert. The look he gets when something ugly is moving under the surface.
I feel it too, that same pressure tightening behind my ribs. “You getting that feeling?” I ask quietly.
Blade gives a short nod. “Yeah.”
Switch exhales slowly, already grabbing his cut. “Awesome. I love surprises.”
None of us laugh. We move for the door together, the weight following us out.
By the time we’re all at the clubhouse, the air already feels tight.
The rest of the guys file in, the sound echoing off the walls before getting swallowed by the building.
Mason steps in and the room subtly tightens around him, conversations tapering off without him needing to say a word.
Dagger comes in right behind him, their shoulders brushing briefly before they split in opposite directions around the table.
Tank drags a chair back with a low scrape and settles in, folding his arms across his chest.
Piston doesn’t sit down right away. He prowls a short line near the wall like he’s burning off leftover energy, jaw tight, hands flexing, until Tank cuts him a look.
“Sit the hell down,” Tank says.
Piston exhales through his nose but finally grabs a chair and drops into it, the legs screeching across the concrete.
Switch flips his tablet open as soon as he stops moving, thumb already scrolling. “If this is another late manifest problem, I swear—”
“It’s not,” Riot cuts in from near the big screen. His voice is clipped, tight. “This is bigger.”
Blade leans back against the edge of the table instead of taking a seat, toothpick rolling between his fingers, eyes already on Riot. “That’s encouraging.”
Ghost closes the bay door with more force than necessary, the metal rattling through the building before the latch catches. He stays near the door after that, arms crossing over his chest, eyes sweeping the room once before settling on Riot.
I take my spot and set my notebook down out of habit, pen tapping once against the paper before I still it. The energy in the room is already wound tight, every one of us looking around, reading faces, waiting for Riot to say the thing that dragged us all in here.
Mason finally breaks the silence. “Alright. Let’s hear it.”
Riot lifts his phone slightly, jaw tightening. “Grant Whittaker isn’t who we thought he was.” The words land heavy in the room.
Blade’s toothpick stills. Switch’s thumb pauses mid-scroll. Piston’s head tilts slightly, sharp interest cutting through his earlier restlessness.
Dagger’s voice stays calm, but there’s an edge under it. “Explain.”
Riot exhales through his nose and turns the screen toward us.
A photo flashes up first. It’s a passport scan of Grant Whitaker.
All neat edges and manufactured confidence.
“That’s the identity we’ve been running,” Riot says.
“Corporate records. Property holdings. Banking footprint. Everything checks on the surface.”
He swipes. The image fractures into overlapping data layers.
Different names. Different photos. Different countries.
Same facial markers. Same movement patterns.
“Because it’s built,” Riot continues. “Not lived. Someone manufactured this man from the ground up. Backfilled records. Synthetic medical trails. Financial paths routed through shell corridors that don’t exist long enough to leave fingerprints. ”
Switch lets out a low whistle. “So he’s a ghost.”
“Professional-grade,” Riot confirms. “Not some amateur burner identity.”
Mason’s gaze hardens. “Who is he really?”
Riot hesitates for half a fraction of a second before swiping again. A new file fills the screen with a younger looking Grant. “Meet Maksim Volkov. They call him “The Wolf.”
Piston shifts in his chair. “He’s Russian?”
“Very,” Riot replies.
Tank’s voice rumbles. “What’s his connection to us?”
Riot taps again and the timeline expands. Riot’s fingers hover over the screen for a beat before he swipes again.
Two photos fill the display side by side.
The first one stops the room cold. A younger man stands in the frame, maybe early twenties.
Dark hair cropped short. Sharp cheekbones.
The same eyes as Whittaker, just less guarded.
Less polished. He’s leaning against the hood of a dusty car somewhere that looks sun-bleached and rough, one arm slung casual over the roof, the corner of his mouth tilted in something close to a grin.
“That’s Maksim,” Riot says quietly. “Before the masks. Before the shell identities.”
The second image sharpens beside it. Another young man stands shoulder to shoulder with him, broader build, heavier in the jaw.
The resemblance isn’t in the face. It’s in the posture.
The way they stand like they own whatever ground they’re on.
The familiarity between them is unmistakable.
“And that’s Alexei,” Riot adds. “Sergei Volkov’s enforcer. The one who took Bri.”
Blade’s jaw tightens.
“They’re cousins,” Riot continues. “Grew up together. Ran together. Same training pipelines. Same handlers. Same early operations.”
Piston leans forward slightly. “They look like brothers.”
“Close enough,” Riot says. “Best friends. Tight enough that most of their people treated them like a unit.”
Switch studies the screen. “Which means when Alexei died…”
Riot nods. “Maksim lost more than an asset.”
My stomach tightens, then Riot taps the screen again and another image slides in beneath the first two.
An older man this time. Broader shoulders. Hard eyes. The kind of face that looks carved out of years of command.
Dagger’s posture shifts slightly. Just enough that I catch it.
“That’s Ivan Volkov,” Riot says. “Alexei’s father.”
My gaze flicks to Dagger automatically.
“The man you put down during the final deal,” Riot adds.
The room goes still in a different way now. Heavier. Sharper.
Piston lets out a low breath. “So that’s the missing piece.”
Mason’s jaw tightens. “That’s where the blood started.”
Riot nods. “Ivan’s death fractured the network. Alexei stepped up harder. Sergei pulled tighter control behind the scenes. And Maksim…” He gestures at the younger photo. “Maksim watched both of them fall.”
Blade’s voice is low. “So he’s not just coming for territory.”
“He’s coming for payback,” Ghost says.
Riot meets Mason’s gaze. “This isn’t about money. It’s about legacy.”
The weight of it settles across the table.
Dagger doesn’t look away from the screen. His voice stays steady when he finally speaks. “Then we finish it.”
Switch shifts in his chair, jaw tightening as the pieces finally line up in his head.
“So when we were beating the shit out of him,” he says slowly, eyes flicking toward Blade and then back to Riot, “telling him to stay the hell away from Brooke, and he pissed himself and ran his mouth like some cornered asshole…”
The room stays quiet, everyone tracking the same memory.
Switch shakes his head once. “He was… what? Playing us?”
Blade’s eyes go hard in a way that drops the temperature in the room. The toothpick stills in the corner of his mouth, his jaw setting like stone as the realization hits. The false fear. The sloppy bravado. The way Whittaker folded just enough to sell the act.
Riot doesn’t soften it. “Yeah. He was reading you. Measuring how far you’d go. How much pressure it takes before you cross certain lines.”
My stomach tightens. “He wasn’t scared,” I say quietly. “He was collecting data.”
Riot nods. “Exactly.”
Blade exhales slow through his nose, shoulders squaring, something dangerous settling behind his eyes. His gaze cuts to me, sharp and assessing, like he’s replaying every second of that night through a different lens now.
“That son of a bitch stood in front of us and treated it like a field test,” Blade says.
Switch lets out a sharp breath. “That’s messed up.”
Ghost’s voice comes from near the door, low and flat. “That’s a man who doesn’t feel pain the same way.”
“And a man who’s not done,” Mason adds.
Blade’s jaw tightens again, eyes still on me. “He doesn’t get another look at any of our women.”
“Not happening,” I say immediately.
The room hums with a darker edge now. Not just a threat. Violation. The kind that sticks. We didn’t just put hands on a dangerous man. We gave him exactly what he came for.
I drag my gaze off Blade and turn toward Mason. “So what do we do now?”
The words settle into the space between us, not rushed, not reactive. Just real. We’ve spent long enough putting out fires. Long enough reacting to moves that weren’t ours.
Mason doesn’t answer right away. He studies the table, the faces around it, the quiet tension in shoulders and clenched jaws, measuring the room the same way he always does when a decision carries weight beyond tonight.
“We stop letting him set the board,” Mason says finally. His voice stays calm, but there’s steel under it. “No more waiting to see what he does next. No more absorbing hits and patching holes.”
Piston leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You saying we go hunting?”
“I’m saying we take control,” Mason replies. “We find out who he’s connected to here, what infrastructure he’s built, and we start pulling it apart piece by piece. Quiet first. Surgical.”
Switch nods slowly. “Freeze his money streams. Jam his logistics. Force him to surface.”
Tank’s mouth curves into something grim. “And when he does?”
Mason’s eyes harden. “Then we finish what he started.”
Blade’s shoulders roll back slightly, tension tightening through him like a coiled spring. Ghost’s expression doesn’t change, but the air around him shifts, dangerous and intent.
Riot speaks again, already thinking three steps ahead. “I can start mapping his domestic shell companies tonight. There are patterns I haven’t fully cracked yet, but now that we know who we’re looking for, the noise drops fast.”
“Good,” Mason says. “I want eyes on every move he makes.”
I nod once, the weight settling in my gut, solid and steady instead of chaotic. Brooke’s face flashes through my mind again, the way she trusts me to keep the world outside our walls.
“Whatever this takes,” I say quietly. “He doesn’t get anywhere near our families again.”
Mason meets my gaze. “That’s non-negotiable.”
The room hums with agreement, not loud, not theatrical. Just men who know exactly what they’re willing to do to protect what’s theirs.
The game just changed. And this time, we’re the ones moving first.