Chapter 36 Maverick
Maverick
We finally have a name for the people pulling this bullshit.
The Savannah Mafia. Cute branding for a crew selling poison on our floors and threatening my girl.
Not the fun stuff we’d normally tax and enjoy behind closed doors. Nah, we don’t fuck with fentanyl, knock-off semi-glutides, or Faux-tox that turns faces into crime scenes.
Worse—Atticus’s research says they stole their stash from something bigger and meaner: the Blackvine Syndicate. Grady Calhoun doesn’t care about our “we’re not your enemy” tone. They don’t know us. They don’t negotiate with strangers.
They balance ledgers in knees and funerals.
So why poke us and Calhoun in one go? If the Savannah Mafia is pumping tainted shots and fentanyl through our spa and suites, they aren’t just making a buck. They’re trying to sink the whole Titan-Wynn enterprise.
If it were just business, I’d get it. We’d still shut them down in a torrent of blood, but I’d understand their motivations.
And yet…something about this feels personal. That’s the splinter I can’t dig free. All of this because we put a few of their henchmen in the ground? Because they grabbed Phoenix, and we made them pay for it?
Nah. That math doesn’t make any sense.
It can’t be about the money. We offered to wipe her father’s debt clean. They are acting like they want to draw this out, not get paid.
And they wanted her to spy on us before they ever touched her. This isn’t a rushed play. This isn’t something they stumbled on. Whoever it is, they’re playing the long game.
I can’t figure out the why, and that’s the aspect that’s making me itchy.
Phoenix is the one who said I know people. I can tell what makes them tick. It’s why I’m good at the promo shit, and why the regulars keep coming back.
So I should be able to see what the fuck is driving this. But I’m missing something.
Conrad is glued to the lawyer, voice cool enough to frost glass: termination paperwork, injunctions, “cooperation” letters drafted with velvet-covered barbs.
Atticus is buried in his hydra of monitors, tracking Officer Danner—the dirty cop who threatened Phoenix and, surprise, is the number the spa called when it needed more “supplies.”
Storm is downstairs interrogating every spa employee, trying to root out anyone else who may have known or been involved with any part of this. Several of the ODs happened after hours, so someone was supplying parties.
This leaves me with nothing to do but pace my office like a mad man.
I pass the bar cart twice and don’t pour.
I pass the window that overlooks the casino and catch my reflection—smile dialed to “host,” eyes to “kill.” The casino’s sounds bleed through the double panes: coin-drop jingles, the soft roar of the HVAC, laughter that’s half-hope, half-ache.
The house is alive, ignorant, hungry. I’m supposed to feed it.
My phone buzzes, and I want to throw it across the room. Then I see ‘day manager’ flash across the screen with an SOS text, and I answer the call.
“What can I do for you, Sally?”
“Mr. Maverick,” she says, tight. “We have a situation. I tried to locate Mr. Masterson and wasn’t able to…you’re going to want to handle this personally.”
Sally doesn’t rattle. She sounds rattled.
“Define this.”
“Well, you know all the stuff with Mrs. Langford…Senator Langford is in the lobby now with his wife.”
“Shit. On my way.”
I grab my jacket. Phoenix is already at the door, like she heard the whole conversation. She threads her arm through mine. “I’m coming with you.”
“Obviously,” I say, and pull her close to me as we walk towards the lobby. “By the way, love this new corporate femme fatale look.”
“Yes, well, once I got rid of that whole slutty babysitter thing you guys had going, it was a no brainer.”
“I guess I deserve that.”
“You really do.”
I hear Karen Langford berating my staff before I see her, but once I look she is impossible to miss.
She continues to wear her big hat and sunglasses, even into the evening, along with a posture that says she expects the world to kneel.
Beside her stands the senator—Langford—with his expensive haircut, practiced indignation, and two staffers with leather folders in one hand and tablets in the other.
The lobby’s morning tableau freezes around them: a bellhop stalled mid-stride, a bachelorette party in pastel athleisure pretending not to gawk, a cocktail server deciding if she should flee or spectate. PR’s worst nightmare, live on marble.
“Mr. Locke,” Langford says, extending a hand I have no desire to touch. “I was expecting Mr. Masterson.”
“He is indisposed, but I can assure you, I can assist with anything. How may I help you?” I ask, trying not to let my annoyance flare.
“Great, fantastic. We need to discuss the wrongs done to my wife.”
“Happy to,” I say, not smiling. “We can begin with her purchase of counterfeit medical products on our property.”
His mouth tightens like he bit a lemon wrong. “My wife was the victim of your employees’ predatory behavior. Fixers knocking on doors whispering about ‘corrections’ and ‘boosters.’ Unregulated injections. Do you have any idea what kind of liability—”
“We do,” I say evenly. “Which is why we’re stopping it. And before your speech crescendos, Senator, an honest question: is this really about your wife’s well-being, or the angle you think it’s going to buy you with the gaming board?”
His eyes flash. There it is—the predator under the public servant. He knows about his wife’s boyfriend; hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was the one pushing her to fuck him for influence. He looks like the kind of man who enjoys a cuck chair. “Careful, son.”
“You first, pops.” I pop the P to make sure the barely veiled insult lands.
Karen makes a wounded sound, like a dying swan. “I’m having headaches.”
“We’ve arranged for a board-certified physician,” I tell her. “On us. As many follow-ups as medically needed. We care about your health more than the men selling you snake oil do.”
Langford leans in a fraction, lowering his voice to threaten. “You think you can placate me with comped suites and doctors? My time is valuable. This situation has cost me. There are ways to compensate a man for his time.”
“Invoice your donors,” I say, giving him a flat look. But he isn’t looking at me.
He chuckles, the kind of laugh that crawls. “I was thinking of something…more immediate.”
His eyes slide down Phoenix’s body and linger. “A few hours with the young lady might persuade me the Titans are as accommodating as their reputation claims. Might even persuade me to host a few events here, if she is accommodating enough.”
The lobby goes quiet. Not actually—but in my head, something stops. The barista’s milk steamer hisses and sounds like a fuse.
I don’t remember moving. One second I’m ten feet away, the next I’m close enough to count his pores. My fist curls like it has its own plans.
Phoenix is steel at my elbow, fingers digging in, her voice lowered but urgent. “Mav. No.”
Langford doesn’t look at her. He looks at me with that punchable calm, daring me to give him headlines.
Titan assaults a senator.
I could do it. I could make it look like he tripped and fell into my fist.
“Say that again,” I tell him softly. I want him to.
Conrad would call this a poor strategic choice. Storm would call it encouragement. Atticus would call it evidence. I call it a countdown.
Langford smiles like the devil tried Botox. “Don’t be crass. I’m merely suggesting a private apology for inconveniencing my wife. I’m told Ms. Phoenix is…versatile.”
Phoenix’s nails bite my arm. “Maverick.” Just my name, all warning.
I hear Storm in my head. Not here.
Atticus’s voice is calmer. Pick a battlefield with fewer cameras.
Then I hear Conrad. If you swing, swing to win the war, not the room.
I exhale hard enough to taste copper. “Senator,” I say, voice scraping the bottom of the well for civility, “if you ever speak about her like that again, I will forget that marble is expensive.”
He rocks back half an inch. He wasn’t expecting pushback that precise. His staffers go still, measuring how much work it’ll be to spin a broken nose.
His wife huffs. “Are you threatening a sitting senator?”
“I’m promising a future private citizen a lesson in manners,” I say.
Conrad arrives then, quiet and nuclear, sliding between us with the kind of smile that makes stock prices move.
“Senator,” he says warmly, as if he hasn’t just walked into a minefield.
“Thank you for coming by. Our counsel is eager to brief you on everything we’ve discovered.
We’re shutting down the problem and pursuing the perpetrators.
Meanwhile, we’ll ensure Mrs. Langford receives appropriate medical care. ”
Langford recalibrates to the bigger target. “There will be consequences.”
“There will,” Conrad agrees. “For the criminals who used our property to commit felonies. We share your outrage. I’ve already requested a joint meeting with the Board to discuss how we handle situations like this, not just our resort but everyone’s.
You can take the win in your next hearing.
Senator Langford spurs industry cleanup. Has a nice ring.”
The man blinks. Politics is a dopamine addiction; Conrad just dangled a bigger hit. He looks between us—my barely leashed violence, Conrad’s reasonable power—and makes a choice.
“We’ll speak again,” he says, coldly. He offers his arm to Karen, who swans away like she conquered Rome with a headache and a hat.
“Let’s speak now,” Conrad says. “Why don’t we go to my office, while your wife enjoys a drink at the bar.”
They leave, the senator giving one last look at Phoenix, and his wife eyeing me like a steak.
I stand there, hands shaking, chest hot. Phoenix slides in front of me, palms flat on my sternum, gaze steady. I try to breathe. It sounds like a growl.
“I almost punched a senator,” I say.
“You almost did a lot of things,” she says, not unkind. “Thank you for choosing the one where we don’t spend the afternoon in handcuffs.”
“He asked for you,” I say. “Like you were a tip.”
“I know. I was there.”
I look over her head at Atticus as he stands near the column, eyes distant, running probability trees only he can see. Storm leans against the concierge desk like a decorative threat, flipping his knife open and shut with lazy menace, daring anyone to complain about the music volume.
Security lingers at the edges with professional stillness, their hands folded in front of them, their eyes everywhere.
PR’s already texting me.
PR HOUND
Need statement if seen together. Also: hat memes trending.
When the fuck did they all get down here, and why?
“Why us?” I ask, not expecting an answer. “Why now?”
Phoenix doesn’t try to lie. “I don’t know.”
I know one thing. If I’m destined for prison, it won’t be for losing my temper in a lobby. It’ll be for whatever I do to the men behind this when we finally drag them into a room without cameras.
“Come on,” she says, tugging my sleeve. “We’ve got work to do.”
We do. And until I understand the why, I have to keep moving.
I watch the elevator doors close on the senator and Conrad, the hat vanishing with the man who wears her like a prop, then turn back to the bigger problem… unless the senator isn’t a side plot at all—unless he’s part of the author list.