Chapter Twelve
Maverick
Foster sits across from me with a laptop balanced on his knees, looking far too comfortable for a man who nearly got carved open in my kitchen two weeks ago.
Spike stands near the windows, arms crossed, his expression carved from stone.
Tank leans against the wall beside him, quiet in the way large, dangerous men become quiet when they’re waiting for bad news.
I look at Foster. “Update.”
He glances up from the screen. “Nothing that makes me twitchy.”
He turns the laptop slightly, showing me several open windows I don’t pretend to understand.
“I put the Shadows’ name in the right corners.
Watched the usual feeds. Checked the boards, local chatter, burner accounts, private groups.
Plenty of noise. Usual garbage. People asking questions because people like asking questions.
No threats. No movement. No one suddenly too interested in the compound. ”
Tank shifts. “What about our people?”
“I checked,” Foster says. “Everyone living at the compound. Close family. Regular staff. Known associates. No weird deposits. No sudden travel. No new online behavior that sticks out. No one poking around places they shouldn’t.”
Spike looks at me. “Could still be coming.”
“It could,” Foster says. “But right now? I don’t think the Shadows are the target.”
My eyes narrow. “You think Melvin heard wrong?”
“I think he heard exactly what he said he heard. Palm Springs. Compound. Target. Soon.”
Tank’s voice drops. “Then what are you saying?”
Foster looks at me.
“I’m saying the person using those words may not mean what we assume.”
Spike turns from the window. “Explain.”
“People outside our world hear compound and think any large private property with gates, guards, or more money than sense.” Foster leans back. “They might mean the Shadows. They might mean Maverick’s estate. They might mean the prison. They might mean something else entirely.”
“My estate is not called a compound,” I say.
“To you,” Foster replies. “To someone watching from the outside? Big gates. Armed men. Private land. It fits.”
Tank curses under his breath.
Spike’s eyes harden. “You think this points back to Maverick?”
“I think it might,” Foster says. “Apart from us, the Moretti family, and the prison, what other group or organization lives inside a gated facility that could be qualified as a compound?”
“A private school, maybe?” Tank suggests.
My phone rings, pulling my attention from the conversation.
Bella Amelia, it says.
“Sorry, brothers,” I say. “It’s Amelia.”
I accept the call and lift the phone to my ear. “Baby?”
Her scream tears through the line.
“Maverick!”
I’m already standing.
“Fire,” she cries. “Please, help me.”
The room disappears.
All I can hear is her breath breaking, the crackle of something vicious behind her, the raw terror in her voice.
“Where are you?”
“The sanctuary.” She coughs hard enough to make my blood turn cold. “Please. I can’t—”
The line cuts out.
For one second, I stare at the phone.
Then I move.
My chair hits the floor behind me as I rush from the room.
I try calling her back, but it goes straight to voicemail.
Dammit.
Luca appears at the bottom of the stairs, confusion written on his face. “Don?”
“I need a security team at Amelia’s,” I order without stopping, knowing he’ll get it done.
Stefano steps out of the side room.
One look at my face, and every trace of humor leaves him.
“What happened?”
“Fire at the sanctuary.”
His eyes harden as he falls into step beside me.
Outside, Spike, Tank, and Foster are already straddling their bikes.
I curse under my breath.
Mine’s in the garage.
“Here,” Tank says, swinging off his bike without hesitation. “Take mine. I’ll ride with Stefano.”
I don’t waste a second as I accept his offer.
I take the bike, throw my leg over, and start the engine.
For one breath, Amelia’s scream tries to take me under.
Fire.
Help me.
My hands tighten around the grips.
No.
Panic won’t help her.
Fear won’t get me there faster.
I force one breath into my lungs.
Then another.
I reach for the part of me men fear.
The Don.
The man who doesn’t shake.
The man who doesn’t hesitate.
The man who can walk into blood, fire, and war, and still give the order that saves lives.
My heart slows.
My mind clears.
Everything narrows to one purpose.
Save my girls.
I hit the throttle.
The bike launches forward, and the others fall in behind me.