Chapter 32
Chapter
Thirty-Two
KADE
I pull back, running my thumb along her swollen bottom lip with deliberate slowness, memorizing the feel of her. "Are you sure you don't mind hanging out here for a while?"
I talked her into staying over again tonight—wasn't even hard, she came willingly—but I have to go to the meeting with Damián. Business I can't skip, even though every instinct screams at me to stay right here with her in my bed where she belongs. Where she's safe. Where I can keep watch.
"I'm sure," she says, reaching up to touch my face. Those soft fingers against rough stubble—the contrast does something to me every goddamn time. Makes me want things I shouldn't. "I can just go home though if you're busy."
"I'm not." The words come out sharper than I mean them, defensive. "Just some club shit came up. Can't skip it."
Her expression shifts—worry creeping into those pretty eyes that see too much. "Is it dangerous?"
I look down at where she's laying in my bed, hair spread across my pillow like she's been sleeping here for years, wearing one of my t-shirts that swallows her whole. Perfect. Mine. Everything about this feels right in a way that should probably scare me more than it does.
"No," I answer honestly. Not this meeting, at least. Not with Damián. "Not this meeting. Just business."
"Good." She pulls me down for a kiss that makes me want to say fuck the meeting entirely. Fuck responsibility. Fuck the MC and the cartel and everything that's not her mouth on mine.
When I finally force myself to pull back and stand up—which takes more willpower than I knew I had—I can't stop looking at her. The way she fits in my space. The way my sheets smell like her now—peaches and Fallon. The way she doesn't look scared anymore, just comfortable. Like she belongs here.
"If you need anything, you can text me from one of my brother’s phones.” I shrug into my cut, already feeling the weight of leaving her. "And the guys are here. They're around somewhere."
She gives me a skeptical look that would be funny if I didn't know exactly what she's thinking.
My roommates aren't exactly the most approachable bunch on first impression.
Beck's too pretty and smooth, Ash is loud chaos, and Havoc looks like he murders people for fun. Which, to be fair, he sometimes does.
"I know we're a rough batch," I admit, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull on my boots. "But they're good guys. Or at least they will be to you. Trust me—they will not hurt you. Won't even look at you wrong."
"Okay." She doesn't sound convinced, pulling the blanket higher like she's already planning to hide in here until I get back.
"I promise." I lean down, cupping her face with both hands so she has to look at me. Has to see I mean this. "They know you matter to me. That's all that matters to them. You're under our protection now, whether you realize it or not."
She sits up on her knees in the bed, hands gripping my cut as she kisses me again. Deeper this time. A promise and a plea all wrapped up in the way her lips move against mine, the way her fingers dig into the leather like she doesn't want to let go.
Takes everything in me to walk away from that.
When I walk out into the living room, I stop where Beck and Ash are sprawled on the couch playing some video game—probably the same one they've been playing for three days straight.
"Don't bother her," I say without preamble.
"But be nice if she needs anything. She's not very trusting. For good reason."
"Don't worry, cuz, we'll take care of Teach." Ash grins that dimpled smile that gets him out of trouble with everyone from cops to club girls. Always has, always will. "We'll be perfect gentlemen."
"I'm serious." I cross my arms, making sure they both know this isn't a joke.
"I am too." He pauses the game, actually looking at me instead of the screen. That's how I know he means it. "We got her. No one's gonna make her uncomfortable."
"Yeah, we got your woman. Go do your shit." Beck waves me off without looking away from the screen. "She's safe here. Promise."
"Thanks." I grab my keys off the counter, pocketing them. Trusting them with this.
I hop on my bike and head up to the shop to meet the others.
Nick's already there, leaning against his Harley and smoking a cigarette.
Spider and Sevyn pull in right after me, engines rumbling in harmony.
We ride to Damián's family restaurant in formation—Spider and Sevyn leading, me and Nick following.
My first real sit-down with the cartel where I'm not just Walker's kid watching from the shadows.
Where I have to prove I can handle this level of business.
We pull up to Casa Lázaro fifteen minutes early—Walker taught me that being on time means being late—and park our bikes in the back like Damián instructed.
The place looks expensive even from the outside, all warm lighting and old-world charm and architecture that probably costs more per square foot than most people's houses.
The kind of place where judges and politicians eat.
Where deals get made over wine that costs more than I want to know about.
I lead the group up the back stairs, boots heavy on the metal steps. I knock on the door at the top—three times, deliberate. Business mode now. Everything else gets locked away. Fallon, the guilt, the complications. All of it disappears for the moment.
ángel opens the door almost immediately, gesturing us inside with that politician smile he wears like armor. Practiced. Perfect. Completely fake. "Gentlemen, welcome. Order anything you want at the bar and then meet us in there." He points to one of several private dining rooms off the main space.
"I'm good." I need to keep a clear head for this. No alcohol, no distractions. This is business, and I'm representing the MC whether Walker's here or not. Can't fuck this up.
"Me too," Nick says beside me, hands in his pockets.
Smart man. I glance back at Spider and Sevyn, but neither looks interested in drinking either. Spider shakes his head once, and Sevyn just scowls—his default expression. We make our way into the room ángel indicated, boots quiet on expensive tile.
Inside, Damián sits at the head of the table like a king holding court, perfectly relaxed in a way that screams power.
Elías stands behind him—that quiet enforcer energy rolling off him in waves, reminding me of Sevyn.
Same silent threat, different accent. And there's a woman I don't recognize sitting to Damián's right.
Beautiful in that dangerous way cartel women usually are.
Sharp eyes, expensive clothes, the kind of posture that says she's not decoration. Must be Sofia.
Nick and I take seats across from them without being told where to sit.
Spider and Sevyn move to the wall behind us, watching each other's backs. But Sevyn looks even more annoyed than his normal scowl, jaw tight enough to crack teeth and that vein in his temple pulsing. Something about this setup pisses him off more than usual. It’s probably being in the same room with Damián.
Damián's dark eyes fix on me, that subtle smile playing at his lips like he knows something I don't. "Glad you could make it, Kade."
"This is our cousin Sofia," Damián says, gesturing to the woman beside him with the casual confidence of someone introducing a business partner rather than family. "Sof, this is Grace's brother Kade, that's Nick and Sevyn and Spider back there."
"Nice to meet you, and call me Sof." Her accent wraps around the English words like silk, but her pronunciation is flawless—educated.
She studies me with dark eyes that carry the same sharp intelligence I've seen in Damián's gaze.
The family resemblance goes deeper than just looks; it's in the way she holds herself, the calculation behind every glance.
I nod once, keeping it simple. "Sof."
Damián leans back in his chair, fingers steepled together in that contemplative way that usually means he's about to drop something important. The casual posture doesn't fool me—everything about this man is calculated. "I assume Walker explained what we're doing here?"
"Yeah. Building new relationships, one at a time." I keep my voice level, professional. This is business, and I need to prove I can handle it.
His smile sharpens, approval flickering across his features. "Exactly. And you four are running point on it." He shifts forward, elbows hitting the table as all pretense of relaxation drops away. Pure business now, every word weighted with intent. "So here's what we're offering."
He lays out a tiered system—starting slow, building trust through action instead of empty promises.
Initial shipments, percentages, distribution channels that make sense for both organizations.
Small amounts at first, cocaine mostly, nothing that puts either the MC or the cartel at serious risk if something goes sideways.
Standard opening moves in this kind of partnership.
We can move up to larger quantities, harder product, better profit margins once things run smoothly for a few months and we've proven we're worth the investment.
Numbers and logistics flow from his mouth with the ease of someone who's done this a thousand times.
The kind of detailed shit Spider usually handles during club meetings, but I force myself to follow along, filing every detail away in my memory.
This is my operation now. My responsibility.
I can't afford to miss anything important or look like I don't understand the game we're playing.
"What's your timeline on ramping up?" I ask, needing to know how fast they expect us to scale.
"Depends entirely on you." Damián's gaze holds mine, steady and assessing. "Prove you can move product clean, we increase supply. Keep proving it, we keep increasing. Simple as that."
"And if there's heat?" Because there's always heat eventually in this business.