Chapter 2
Three Weeks Earlier
My dad's office smells like leather, smoke, and money.
It's warm in here. It's always a few degrees hotter than the rest of the clubhouse, like the air is stuffed to the brim with secrets and gagged mouths that can't breathe.
The blinds cut the late afternoon sun into thin gold blades across the floor.
Dust floats through them slowly and lazily.
I sit across from his desk chair with my legs crossed and my spine straight, because posture matters in this room. Weak posture gets noticed. Defiant posture gets corrected.
Wednesdays at four are for going over my "finances," which is a polite way of saying he reminds me who pays for the roof over my head. Who pays rent at my dog grooming business, Velvet Leash.
My phone buzzes against my thigh.
Dad
Running late. Ten.
I type nothing back. I never do. I slide the phone into my pocket, relax slightly in the chair, and let my eyes roam.
The Iron Covenant flag hangs behind his desk like a warning label. Red stitched over black. Heavy thread. Brotherhood and blood and silence. Beneath it, framed photos line a credenza.
I stand to pass the time and take in the imagery of a club in these pictures, billed as something that isn't pure destruction.
Rallies, charity rides, events insisting there's something respectable going on here.
Men laughing with their arms thrown around each other like they aren't capable of breaking bones without blinking.
There's one of my mom and me. I take the frame in my hand and lift it for a better look.
In the photo, I'm maybe twelve. My hair is glossy, my smile is wide and fake.
My mother's hand rests on my shoulder as if she's proud of me.
But what isn't in the frame is her nails digging into my shoulder.
Smile right. Don't embarrass me. And most of all… keep your mouth shut.
I want to think I'm better than my dad and all of the horrors he brings into the world, but evil must be genetic because I was glad when my mom finally died.
And not just for the sake of her no longer suffering.
Being her caregiver for years was a punishment I'd not wish on any other child.
She took every sad part of her existence out on me, and it's better for both of us that she's dead.
She wasn't happy either. She was a rider's wife and thought she was marrying into an underworld where she would become the queen, but my dad turned out to be more Henry the Eighth than a loyal ruler.
I set the photo back down.
And now, I'm promised the same fate. My arranged marriage to the new president of our rival club has been circling the edges of every conversation lately. As if it's the Dark Ages, somehow our marriage will end the war between Iron Covenant and Black Ridge.
For years, Iron Covenant has tried to push into their territory, and now, there's a treaty. I'm not stupid. It's not peace they want. It's more money. I would never be invited into that negotiation, but something has shifted. Black Ridge wasn't dark like us under their old president.
But Ray's dead now, and his son Luther Vaughn, the man I'm set to marry, is a greedy bastard with the same patient danger lurking in his navy eyes that lurks beneath my father's.
The money I've been saving from tips at Velvet Leash isn't as much as I wanted to leave with, but I'll be damned if I don't take my exit now.
I'm set to get married in a month, but I won't be here.
I'm taking my stash and this thirty-grand ring from Luther and will become anonymous somewhere.
I've saved every dog grooming tip. Every quiet dollar is sewn into the lining of my old winter coat. Dad thinks the dog-grooming certificate was just a hobby. Something cute to keep me busy and not working enough to keep the lifestyle he thinks I love. The lifestyle I need him to maintain.
I don't give a shit about the Chanel perfume and jewelry or any of it.
He buys me things, thinking he's keeping me sweet, but I ask for these things because they'll serve me well when I visit a pawn shop in Wisconsin.
Dad would never, ever think I'd head there.
It's too humble; he thinks I need luxury.
But there are a million small towns with lakes there, it's cheap if I head to the middle of nowhere, and it'll be easy to be anonymous.
I also love the irony of it being the birthplace of the Harley.
My making it there is like a figurative middle finger.
Just then, the door opens with a knock. Ledger steps in, all leathery old arms and quiet loyalty. He smirks and skims my body with his murky gaze. "Prez said to drop this here." He lifts a leather document folder in the air.
I don't say anything, just tip my chin upward. I never make conversation with anyone around here unless I have to.
He tosses the leather folder onto the desk. It lands with a loud smack. "He'll be here in a few." He salutes me and closes the door behind him.
Silence returns.
But the folder he threw down on the desk catches my eye. The zipper wasn't shut, and what was inside has partially slipped out. A sliver of burgundy peeks from the edge. I step closer. Gold letters catch the light. I squint.
República de Chile.
What the hell?
My stomach tightens thinking about the only people I've ever met from Chile. Two beautiful young women.
I glance at the door nervously. Dad won't be here for at least five more minutes…
Slowly, carefully, I step closer. I slide the passport free, flip it open and my lungs still.
Beatriz.
The room tilts. Her face stares up at me from the photo, neutral, stripped of personality, the way passport photos always are.
But I remember her differently. I remember her sitting at the clubhouse table, fingers curled tight around a glass she barely drank from.
I remember her asking me if the beach was far.
My pulse begins to pound in my ears. I pull another passport from the folder. Dread slithers through my veins.
Isabel.
She had been the braver one. Or she played brave. Laughed louder. Tossed her hair.
They were supposed to be auditioning at IC's strip club, Diamond Dolls.
That's what Dad said. Tourist entry. Three months.
See if they like it. Make American dollars.
Go home. He asked me to make them comfortable.
I know the Dolls. I know how to ask the bartender for non-alcoholic drinks.
I know which men think they're charming and which ones are dangerous.
I know how to throw a welcome dinner at Iron Covenant that makes it feel like family instead of a business transaction.
I did all this for these women, and yes, I wondered why. Why were these two special? Why did the guys actually keep their slimy stares to themselves and their hands off their asses?
They said the girls were exotic. I figured Beatriz and Isabel were like two wild animals they planned to show off at Dolls for a couple of months. Maybe they were feature dancers known elsewhere, and they were all sensible enough not to scare them off.
But… why are their passports here?
My throat burns and closes. The air is hotter. It's thick, hard to breathe…
I told them they were safe here. When they suddenly disappeared and weren't at Diamond Dolls, Dad said they "decided to have a vacation instead." A vacation where? Without their fucking passports?
My hands start to shake.
No. This isn't happening. Where are these women? Why are the passports here?
If my dad can arrange my marriage like a business deal, if he can sit across from me and talk about alliances and territory like I'm inventory —
He can do it to them. Maybe he already has.
Did I help him?
The question hits harder than anything else.
I remember the way Beatriz relaxed a little when I smiled at her.
The way Isabel stuck close to me the first night, like I was safe, and the way they both chilled out after our day in San Francisco, buying things on my dad's credit card in Haight-Ashbury, dinner at the Embarcadero. All on my dad.
I made it feel safe here.
I reach for my phone without thinking, my pulse whooshing in my ears. I glance at the door one more time before quickly flattening one of the passports against the desk and taking a photo. Then the next page. Entry stamp. Photo.
I listen for footsteps and nearly break a sweat; I can't discern if the pounding is outside or from inside my ribcage.
I keep going…
Second passport. Photo. Entry stamp. Photo.
The thud of boots echoes faintly down the hallway. I slide the passports back into the folder exactly as they were. Close the zipper. Set it in the same position Ledger left it.
I sit. Legs crossed. Spine straight. Hands folded, hoping he can't see my heartbeat in my neck.
The door opens. Dad walks in like he owns the oxygen, gloves in one hand, phone in the other. His presence shifts the room automatically.
"Lila."
"Hey."
He rounds the desk, glances at the folder without touching it. "We'll skip the finance talk today," he says. "I need something else from you."
I nod. I worry that if I even say one word, he'll hear the nerves in my voice.
He leans back in his chair and studies me with that measured gaze. "Those Chilean girls were a waste," he says casually.
Why is he mentioning them? Does he know I saw the folder? Oh my God. How can he tell?
He continues. "They didn't pan out. Too soft."
They didn't pan out? Then why are their passports still here? On your desk? In that goddamn leather pouch?
The words burn in my throat.
Where the fuck are they? Where did you put them?
"But it's fine," he says gruffly. "We've got two more coming in a few weeks. Better situation." His eyes lock onto mine. "I need you to help out like last time. Make them comfortable."
Comfortable. The word slithers under my skin now.
"That dog grooming business of yours isn't a real job, Delilah. You need something more solid with real-life skills. Doing this kind of thing with potential dancers… could lead you to management at Dolls in the future."
Liar. You evil fucking man.
This is the guise. This is him trying to fool me into becoming his enabler. It's almost impossible to contain the rage, and I have to clasp my hands together harder to stop them from shaking.
He's going down.
I have to stop this. But how? Who will believe me? Who will help me?
All I've got right now are photos of two passports.
I think about the sheriff laughing at the bar downstairs last month.
I think about the city councilman shaking my dad's hand at the charity ride.
I think about how many times I've watched men with badges treat him like a king.
There's no police station in Sacramento that I can go to that doesn't have paid connections to my father.
If I open my mouth without proof, I could lose every last shred of freedom that's out there for me in Wisconsin. My dad will lock me up here. Or worse…
For a moment, I think about the money stuffed into the thin lining of my coat. Running saves me from doing this to any more women. It saves me from being involved. But what about Beatriz and Isabel?
I can find more than passports. I can learn the operation. Find who booked the flights. How are they even telling the girls about Dolls… I need more. I need proof. Proof will give me protection. Proof will bury my father and every last henchman that served him.
My dad's still watching me, and I realize I haven't answered him.
"You'll do it," he says, not asking, as if the idea of me refusing hasn't crossed his mind.
I force my gaze to cool and my voice to steady. "No problem."
There's no affection in his reply. "That's my girl."
The words don't make me feel chosen. They make me feel owned.
He slides the leather folder into a drawer. The passports disappear. But they're already burned into my phone. Already burned into me.
He talks logistics for another minute, some more bullshit about how I need to learn the inventory at Diamond Dolls, and some other things meant to make me think he's giving me some sort of promotion. I nod when I'm supposed to. I let him believe I'm the obedient daughter he shaped.
Inside, a plan is forming.
I'll find evidence. I'll find someone who can help me. And then, only then, I can run.
I don't have long before I'm set to marry Luther. But I'll use every second between now and the wedding to do what's right.
When the meeting ends, Dad stands.
I stand.
"Don't disappoint me," he says lightly.
I give him my best smile that hides the teeth I want to bare. "I won't."
I step out into the hallway. The bass from downstairs vibrates faintly through the floorboards. Laughter. Glass clinking. A yeasty smell drifts up.
Six weeks ago, I thought I was saving up to escape. Now, escape isn't enough.
I was part of hurting those women, and guilt is both my burden and my motivation now. I don't just want out. I want to save those women, and any others I might not know about, then burn my father and all of this to the ground.
Because freedom without salvation isn't worth it.