Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
“ A re you sure?” I growl, eyeing the crappy surveillance pictures Hunter just tossed on the table.
There’s Daniels—caught red-handed meeting with other slick-suited assholes; buying a fucking Beretta; slipping out of the Mayor’s place like it’s his second home.
Every candid feels like a loaded gun pressed against my head.
I knew the DA was gunning for me—hell, for all of us—but I never thought it’d come to this kind of dirty, personal shit.
Maybe it’s all coincidence. Yeah, right.
I don’t believe in luck or chance—I believe in getting even.
And if this bastard’s trying to pin his crimes on me, he’s gonna wish he never crossed that line.
Hunter shrugs like it’s just another Tuesday. “On a scale of one to ten? I’m giving it a nine. There’s always a chance I’m off, but how often does that happen?”
Ryder leans in from the couch, his eyes sharp as a knife. “Word is the NYPD’s working with him.”
“Word?” I repeat, narrowing my eyes.
Ryder’s old man digs up dirt that’s harder to find than a needle in a haystack. I trust the guy about as far as I can throw him, but still, it’s better to get the facts straight before I start blowing shit up .
“Yeah,” Ryder nods. “Santos’ crew might be in this mess too.”
Hunter rubs his chin, interested. “Santos’?”
I lock eyes with Trigger. A silent, tense conversation passes between us. Then I slam my fist on the desk. “I thought you had this under control?”
Trigger stands, defensive but calm, pacing like a caged animal. “I do.”
“Then why the hell are Santos and his thugs buying out our guys?”
That thought sets a fire under my skin—a slow burn that quickly turns into a raging inferno.
This isn’t just some petty, one-man vendetta anymore.
No, this is something much bigger, a calculated, full-on war aimed right at my throat.
He’s not playing small anymore; he’s pulling in heavy hitters—muscle and influence alike.
Gangs I thought were rivals or on the sidelines are suddenly showing up on his payroll, and every move he makes sends a clear message: he’s got the resources, the reach, and the ruthless intent to dismantle everything I’ve built.
This fight just escalated, and I can feel the stakes pressing down like a noose tightening. There’s no turning back now.
Hunter tries to play diplomat. “We don’t know that for sure?—”
I’m already seeing red. My stare cuts him down, and he shuts the hell up. “I want those fuckers shut down. And I want to know who the hell they’re working with,” I bark.
Trigger and Ryder snap their attention to me.
“We’ll get on it,” they say like soldiers, even though they’re far from that.
This is their territory—their wheelhouse.
Trigger’s a ghost when it comes to tails, skilled at following without being seen, while Ryder’s got his ears glued to the ground, catching whispers no one else hears.
His stuck-up father might turn a blind eye to real talent, but I know exactly what these two are capable of.
They bounce fast, and I’m left with Hunter, his arms crossed, clearly unimpressed .
“So, what now? What do we do with these?” he asks, nodding at the photos on my desk.
I tap my chin, thinking fast. Truth is, I’m fucking wary of chasing the guy Max caught on tape. He’s dangerous. Too damn clever. Maybe he doesn’t know how much power he’s got over me, yet. But I’m not about to give him the satisfaction.
“We need eyes on him. Like a goddamn hawk,” I say, jabbing a finger at the photos.
Hunter’s eyes narrow. “You think they’re gonna try something else?”
He already knows the answer.
“Never underestimate your enemy, Hunter. You should fucking know that.”
Hunter fist bumps me—a silent promise that he’s got my back no matter what. I check my watch, the cold metal grounding me.
“Got somewhere to be?” he accuses.
“I’ve got a date.” I sling my jacket over my shoulder and head for the door.
Hunter falls in step beside me, his curiosity sharp and unrelenting as always. “A date? Since when do you do that?” His tone is half-mocking, like he can’t believe I’m actually stepping into something normal.
I spin on him, eyes hard and voice colder. “Since when is that any of your business?”
Hunter’s been sticking his nose too far into my life lately. I know he means well—hell, maybe he cares more than I let on—but my life isn’t an open book, not yet. There are parts I keep locked tight.
I reach for my keys, the familiar weight a small comfort. Hunter’s close behind, not letting up.
“You really into her, huh?”
The question hits a raw nerve. I snap, biting, “Fuck off, Hunter.”
He just laughs, shaking his head like I’m amusing. Then he strides off toward his car, no doubt to find his own kind of trouble.
I slump back into the driver’s seat of my car, the leather creaking under me as I close my eyes and let out a long, slow exhale. My fingers drum nervously on the steering wheel before I finally turn the key and the engine roars to life.
Yeah, I’m nervous—more than I expected to be. There’s something about the way Cassie looks at me, the way she listens, the quiet intensity we share, that feels unfamiliar and raw. Hunter was right all along: I don’t do this. I don’t date, or open up, or even let someone inside my world.
This isn’t just another hookup or distraction; it’s a whole new ballgame, and I’m not sure I’m ready to play. But maybe, just maybe, it’s a game worth trying to win.
As soon as she steps outside, it’s like the air is ripped from my lungs. Heat crawls up my neck and flushes my skin while my legs freeze. I can’t help but marvel at her.
It’s only been a week since I last saw her, yet meeting her gaze still feels like a challenge. I find myself drawn to the perfect darkness she carries, the way she stands at the top of the steps. She’s dressed in black silk, every inch poised and breathtaking.
In my hand, I clutch a bouquet of roses, deep red petals broken up by white flowers that the florist called, baby’s breath. It’s the perfect depiction of Cassidy Caruthers; softness wrapped in fire. My inked fingers reach out, guiding her down the three steps to where I stand.
Even with her heels on, she’s still shorter than me, and that gives me the perfect view of her lips. I trace my knuckles over her cheek, feeling the warmth beneath my touch. I offer her a small, careful smile before leaning in to press a gentle kiss to the corner of her mouth.
I growl low, voice thick with something raw and unspoken. “You look beautiful.”
Her smile is soft, effortless—like a quiet promise. I watch the tension that had knotted us both moments ago begin to unravel, slipping away like smoke.
“So do you,” she replies, her voice steady as I hand her the bouquet of roses, my fingers brushing hers briefly. I hold the car door open for her, a hollow echo of the gentleman I’m not—but tonight, I’m willing to fake it.
She settles into the seat, scent of the roses mingling with the faint trace of her perfume.
“Where are we going?” she asks, eyes curious but calm.
Usually, I’d have a driver handling this part, but tonight isn’t about business or power. Tonight, this is for us. Only us.
I slide into the driver’s seat, the engine purring to life beneath my touch.
“You’ll see,” I answer, letting the warmth of my aftershave mingle with the floral sweetness in the confined space.
I reach over, my expression darkening with intent, but before anything else, I snap her seatbelt into place.
“As much as I want to drive you wild, safety first,” I smirk, and then we peel away into the city night.
The drive is quiet. I keep stealing glances at her, drinking her in. She has no clue where I’m taking her, but the thrill in her eyes is unmistakable. Foolish, maybe, but she trusts me. At a stoplight, my hand drifts to her thigh, her skin heating beneath my palm.
“You look insatiable,” I murmur, voice rough.
She flushes, a shy, soft color that I want to devour. Our fingers tangle hesitantly, and she accepts the unspoken invitation.
When we pull up to the gray marble facade and the towering golden gates of Eleven Madison Park, I catch the flicker of awe in her eyes.
They widen, pupils dilating as if she’s stepping into a different universe—one far removed from the grit and shadows of the streets we know.
Her breath catches ever so slightly, a quiet surrender to the grandeur around us.
The cloakroom attendant takes our coats, and my hand brushes the bare skin of her shoulder blades. I feel sparks trail in my wake.
We weave smoothly between the tables, the quiet murmur of other diners fading into the background as we settle into a secluded corner booth.
She sinks into the white leather seat, the pale upholstery a sharp contrast to the deep black of her dress, making her seem even more striking—fragile and fierce all at once.
“You’re nervous,” I say softly, my eyes narrowing as I watch her every subtle movement. I fold the napkin carefully and lay it across her lap, my fingers brushing hers for a brief second.
“Am not,” she says, but the slight tremor in her voice betrays her, and I see right through the bravado.
Her tone drops to a whisper, “The case is over.”
“But we’re not,” I murmur back, my gaze locked on the curve of her lips as I lick mine slowly, deliberately.
Her breath hitches, a delicate sound caught between surprise and anticipation.
“What do you mean?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.
I lower my chin, resting it against my palm, then let my other hand cover hers, grounding her—and myself. Leaning in, I trail my tongue lightly over the shell of her ear, savoring the tiny shiver that ripples down her spine. The moment thickens between us, charged and electric.
“People who fuck like us don’t just walk away,” I say, voice a rasp so low it barely leaves my throat.