2. Eva
EVA
The Chicago members of the Trusted Saints line up outside Saint Mary Refuge for the Unhoused like they're filming a campaign ad.
Leather cuts.
Club colors.
Box trucks idling at the curb.
Stacks of donated clothes and toiletries waiting to be unloaded.
Everything looks just right. It’s all about community, generosity, and being Saints—capital S.
I lift my phone and start shooting content.
Bare hands carrying boxes.
A slow pan across the shelter's weathered sign.
One of the guys kneeling to help a kid into a winter coat.
Perfect.
This is exactly what people want to see.
Community. Compassion. Brotherhood.
“Smile, everyone!” I yell from the middle of the street. They all do their best, and I snap a few photos, then give a thumbs up.
As I film, I’m already thinking up the caption.
The Trusted Saints are giving back to the city that’s given us so much.
Just lies, all wrapped up in hashtags.
“Hey, Red,” someone yells. “Get out of the road before we have to kill someone for killing you.”
I don’t have to look to know who it is. My skin prickles instantly, like my body recognizes the threat before my brain catches up.
Baron Roybal.
He leans in close, so near I can smell his cologne. It’s expensive and dark, mixed with cigarette smoke and the faint chemical tang of cocaine that always seems to cling to him.
He gets too close, like he owns me.
“Good turnout,” he says, peering at my screen. His voice is smooth and practiced. The kind of voice that sounds reassuring right up until it’s screaming in your face.
I force a smile and move my phone just enough to be polite, not submissive. “Always is. Charity looks good. People love seeing guys with big bikes and even bigger hearts.”
He chuckles softly. “Something you’re good at.”
I keep my face blank, but inside I’m bristling.
Something you’re good at.
To him, everything I’ve built is just some cute hobby.
I tap upload, lock my phone, then finally turn to face him.
Baron isn't ugly.
That's the problem.
If he were gross, sloppy, or monstrous, hating him would be easy.
Instead, he's exactly the kind of man people trust.
Silver hair.
Tailored clothes.
Broad shoulders.
The kind of confidence that comes from spending decades getting his own way.
He's aged well.
Too well.
People see him and think distinguished.
Powerful.
Respected.
They don't see the temper lurking beneath the surface.
Or the way entire rooms go quiet when he gets angry.
He's had two wives.
They're both dead.
Officially, it was bad luck.
Tragic accidents.
The sort of stories people shake their heads over before moving on.
I don't buy it.
Never have.
Baron likes control.
Likes power.
Likes reminding people he has both.
And when he loses his temper, people get hurt.
My father calls him reliable.
I call him a fucking nightmare.
“You heading back to the office?” Baron asks.
“In a minute.” I glance past him, scanning the line of bikes as the guys finish unloading. Engines rumble, a low thunder rolling through the street. “I want to grab a few more shots once they take off.”
“Of course you do.” He looks over my face, his stare lingering long enough to make my jaw tighten. “Always thinking ahead.”
I consider shoving my phone into his eye socket.
Instead, I nod. “That’s literally my job.”
His smile grows sharper, amused by my tone but storing it away for later. Baron is very good at remembering slights, even the small ones.
He straightens, finally giving me some breathing room. “Your father will want to see these numbers.”
“I’ll send him the analytics once they’re live.”
“I’m sure you will.” He pauses, then adds casually, “He’s been asking about you.”
Of course, he has.
My father always asks about me when he wants something.
“Tell him I’m busy,” I say lightly. “Saving the world, one Instagram post at a time.”
Baron laughs again, but there’s no humor in his eyes. “Careful, Eva. You sure you’re okay with the plan for Friday?” he asks as I make my post.
I look up, meeting his steel-grey eyes. “Of course. I asked for an active role, didn’t I?”
“You did,” he says. “But this is an actual client on your business roster. If things go sideways with the drop, I don’t want to hear about how it fucked you or whatever.”
I roll my eyes. “It’ll be fine.”
He grunts but doesn’t argue. Instead, he reaches out and wraps a strand of my hair around his fingers. He pulls just enough to hurt.
My entire body goes rigid.
The ugly recognition that comes from spending my life around men who might snap at any moment.
He doesn’t say or do anything else—just that.
His eyes darken.
I know that look.
It's the same one he's been giving me for years.
Like I'm something he already owns.
It makes my stomach turn.
“You gonna be around HQ tonight?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Lots of work to catch up on.”
“Too bad.”
He lets go of the strand of hair and marches off to his bike without another word.
The other guys, who’ve all been milling around, take his lead.
Suddenly, the deafening sound of twenty-five Harleys fills the air, and the guys roll past, saluting as they head down the road.
The shelter volunteers wave. Someone claps. It all looks very clean from the outside.
I wait until Baron is gone before I exhale.
I climb into my car and slam the door harder than necessary.
She’s a 1968 Dodge Charger, red, bossy, and loud, just like me. Her name is Rodie the Road Warrior. She’s been modified, with a massive V8 Hemi engine, bulletproof glass, reinforced panels, and a custom sound system. The seats are sleek black leather.
I’m obsessed with this car.
Honestly, I’d rather marry her than Baron Roybal.
I toss my phone into the cup holder, crank the volume, and peel away from the curb.
Music fills the car, something aggressive and unapologetic. I take a long pull from my Diet Coke, ice rattling as I drink it like it’s oxygen.
As soon as I hit the main road, I roll the windows down and sing at the top of my lungs.
I don’t care who hears me.
I don’t care if I look ridiculous.
For these few minutes, with the engine roaring and the city blurring past, I get to feel free.
Until reality catches up.
My father doesn’t think women have a place in the club business.
He's too smart to say it out loud.
Instead, he says things like:
We'll talk about it later.
Or:
You don't understand the business.
Or my personal favorite:
Let the men handle it.
I've built a company and made money. Paid back every dollar I ever borrowed from him.
None of it matters.
Because I don’t have a dick.
According to him, the only way I get a seat at the table is by marrying Baron Roybal.
Letting him ascend.
Letting him own me.
The thought makes my grip on the steering wheel tighten.
Fine, I think. You want a plan?
I’ve got one.
I’ll marry Baron. Smile for the cameras. Let him think he’s won. Then I’ll feed him so much coke on our wedding night that his heart gives out before dawn.
Tragic. Devastating. Widowhood looks good on me.
And then?
Then I take over.
Whoops.
My office sits on a suburban main street lined with artisan shops, microbreweries, and gastropubs.
About as far from the Trusted Saints headquarters as I could get without leaving Chicago.
Around here, the Saints are just another client.
That's the story, anyway.
I park half on the curb out front.
Parking enforcement and I have an unspoken arrangement.
They pretend not to see it.
I pretend it's completely legal.
The Charger pings angrily as I kill the engine.
Honestly, same.
I grab my bag and stride inside, heels clicking with purpose. The lobby smells like citrus cleaner and expensive coffee. Polished concrete. Exposed brick.
Very successful Chicago businesswoman. Definitely not laundering violence through Canva templates.
Megan, my assistant, looks up from the desk the second the elevator doors open.
One perfectly sculpted eyebrow lifts.
“It amazes me,” she says dryly, “that you haven’t killed anyone yet.”
I grin, wicked and unapologetic. “How do you know I haven’t?”
She snorts, already back to typing. “If you had, you’d be late. You’re only late when you’re plotting.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
I breeze past her, dropping my bag on my desk and firing up my computer.
My staff is smart, ambitious, and aggressively normal.
To them, I'm Eva Sorenson.
Founder.
Boss.
PR shark.
The woman who can turn a struggling restaurant into the hottest reservation in the city.
They don't know I grew up around guns, debt collectors, and men who settled arguments with violence. And family dinners involved arguments about territory and supply chains.
They don’t know that I learned how to spot a wire before I learned long division.
My mom died of cancer when I was young, too young to remember much about her.
My dad’s main goal was to keep me “out of trouble,” which is interpreted as “not knocked up by one of the guys.”
And I'd like to keep it that way.
Sometimes I wonder if that makes me a liar.
Sometimes I think it just makes me adaptable.
I settle into my chair and start opening emails. Vendor confirmations. Menu revisions. A frantic message from a bar owner panicking about glassware. I answer everything quickly and efficiently.
This part of my life? I’m good at it. Very good.
My company is legit. Clean books. Real clients. I built it from the ground up with a loan from my father, which I repaid with interest, because I wanted no one, especially him, to say I owed them.
Restaurants. Bars. Clubs. Openings. Rebrands. Crisis management. I sell images. I sell narrative. I sell trust.
Which makes me perfect for what’s happening in three nights.
I pull up the event folder and my pulse kicks, just a little.
The opening is for a new bar in a trendy part of the city, with industrial-chic style, reclaimed wood, and expensive cocktails served in glassware that looks like it belongs in a science lab. The owner is nervous but excited. This is his big swing, his please don’t let this bankrupt me moment.
He has no idea.
The guest list is tight.
Influencers.
Food critics.
Investors.
And quietly tucked among them—buyers.
They'll arrive as patrons.
Blend in.
Drink overpriced mezcal.
Compliment the lighting.
Nod appreciatively at the charcuterie boards.
And once the event winds down?
That's when the real business begins.
Weapons.
Non-standard, my father said. The kind you don’t want traced back to you. The kind you move quickly and quietly, then pretend never existed.
I don't know much more than that.
My father never tells me more than he has to.
Baron arranged the buyer.
Of course he did.
He hates logistics. He prefers moving pieces without getting his hands dirty. A standard rendezvous would have required him to manage too many variables.
So I offered a better option.
My event.
Neutral ground. Contained environment.
Cameras everywhere, but pointed in the right directions.
Music loud enough to mask conversations.
Staff who won’t question why certain crates get wheeled out back once the doors close.
They loved the idea, with one condition.
They wanted me gone before the exchange.
I swallow my irritation as I scroll through the notes.
I wanted to stay.
To see it.
I wanted to stay.
To see it.
To understand how the operation actually worked from beginning to end.
My father has spent my entire life keeping me at arm's length.
Useful, but not trusted.
Included, but never involved.
To him, I'm only good for social media posts, charity events, and smiling for donors.
Nothing more.
I wanted to prove him wrong.
So I talked to Baron.
Well, talked is generous.
I laughed at his jokes.
Touched his arm like it was accidental.
Let him think he was winning.
And it worked.
Baron agreed to let me stay.
Not because he trusts me.
Because he thinks I’m his.
The thought makes my stomach twist, but I push it down and keep working.
I call a quick staff meeting, clapping my hands to get attention.
“Okay, team. Final run-through for the opening. I want tight timelines and zero surprises.”
They gather around the conference table, tablets and notebooks at the ready. I pace as I talk, energy sharp, mind racing three steps ahead.
Catering arrival. Bar staff rotations. Media check-ins. Exit flow. Security.
I revel in it, the duplicity of saying one thing while meaning another. Every detail has two purposes. Every decision serves two masters.
If I pull this off without a hitch—if the night goes smoothly, if the exchange happens cleanly, if no one panics or fucks it up— maybe my father will finally let me in.
Really in.
Not as a mascot. Not as a bargaining chip. Not as someone to be married off for stability.
As a player.
Finally, it’s getting dark, and my staff is leaving, and I pull up my social media feeds. The post about the Saints is getting quite positive reactions: several reposts, lots of likes, and comments. Most people are saying how great it is to have such amazing guys looking out for their community.
Someone knocks lightly on my open door.
Megan leans in. “You’re wanted on line two.”
I sigh. “Please tell me it’s not another nervous bar owner.”
She smirks. “Worse. Your dad.”
Of course it is.
Meghan winks and waves goodbye.
I take the call, forcing my voice into professional warmth.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Eva.” His voice is calm. Controlled. Always. “I saw the shelter post.”
“Engagement’s strong.”
“It is.” A pause. “Baron says the opening is coming together.”
Heat crawls beneath my skin. “It is.”
“You’ve done well,” he says. Praise delivered like a concession. “Just remember your place in all of this.”
I smile, even though he can’t see it. “I always do.”
The line goes dead.
I sit there for a moment, staring at my reflection in the darkened computer screen.
Then I laugh.
If any of them knew what was really happening Friday night, they wouldn't come within a mile of that bar.