Chapter Thirty-Three
GAbrIAL
THE KNOCK on my door was sharp. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Measured, precise, the kind of rhythm that told me a man valued discipline over panic.
I didn’t look up right away. My attention lingered on the papers spread across my desk—photographs, maps, names printed beneath blurred faces.
Her face hovered among them, her eyes too bright, too defiant.
Even grainy, she carried a fierceness that made my teeth ache.
My hand hovered over her picture, not touching, but close enough to imagine crushing it into dust.
Finally, I raised my head and gestured for the guards to let him in.
Emilio stepped inside, carrying the road with him. His jacket was stiff with grit, the collar of his shirt still crusted in old blood. He hadn’t changed, hadn’t washed. I approved. A man should wear his work. Let the stink of violence linger, it told a story before he opened his mouth.
“Well?” I asked, steepling my fingers beneath my chin.
“We think we found her.” He didn’t waste time with pleasantries.
Smart. “Sable. The children. We picked up word two nights ago outside a place called High Voltage, a biker bar on James Island. Owned by a club called The Devil’s House MC.
A man swore he saw her and the kids along the road, being helped by one of their men. ”
I arched a brow at the name. “High Voltage.” My mouth twitched. “Poetic.”
“They’re territorial,” Emilio continued. “Dangerous, but contained. They don’t run flashy like some of the other clubs. Local enough to keep things quiet, tight. Our sources say there’s been talk of a new woman at their clubhouse. Two children. Matches the description.”
I leaned back in my chair, the leather groaning beneath my shift of weight. “I see.”
Silence pooled thick and heavy. I let it stretch, watching Emilio shift on his feet. A lesser man would’ve rushed to fill the quiet, babbling, grasping at scraps. Emilio had learned better. His unease was written in the flicker of his jaw, but he held his tongue.
Good. I hated men who mistook noise for progress. Silence is a blade. It cuts deeper than words.
“Gather everything you can on this club,” I said finally, voice quiet. “Names. Businesses. Their women. Their weaknesses. I want to know what kind of men take another man’s property and imagine they can keep it.”
Emilio nodded once. “We’ve already started.”
I rose from my chair, rolling down my sleeves with slow precision, one button at a time. My movements deliberate, sure. Patience was strength. Rage wasted itself too quickly. “Then I’ll begin my own investigation. Always better to start with someone who knows them intimately.”
Confusion flickered across Emilio’s face. “Sir?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to.
The walk through the compound was hushed, my steps echoing across cracked tile.
Shadows stretched long in the corridor, the overhead lighting muted, dust curling in the air.
Men straightened as I passed, eyes lowered, their silence as practiced as prayer.
Fear was thicker than incense here, and it pleased me.
We descended into the lower wing. Damp air clung to the walls, mildew slick under the scent of bleach. A guard waited at the steel door, his rifle at his chest. He didn’t speak. Just unlocked it with a clatter of iron.
Inside, the light was dim, the air heavy with iodine, sweat, and that unmistakable odor of a body not yet healed.
The man in the bed was less than he had been—bandages tight across his chest, one arm bound in a sling, bruises blooming ugly across his ribs and jaw. A battered husk.
But not broken.
Not yet.
My shoes clicked against the stone as I stepped closer. He turned his head slowly, each movement an effort. Recognition sharpened in his eyes. Then came the hate. Then the fear. That old kind of hate, the kind that never dies, only waits for its hour.
I smiled. Cold. Certain.
“I hope you’re feeling better, Drago.”