Chapter 20 Ash
ASH
Iron’s desk still smells like his cigars.
I’ve been working from this office for weeks now, and the scent won’t fade. Cuban tobacco mixed with leather and old wood, soaked into every surface like a ghost that refuses to leave.
The desk has seen forty years of club business. Contracts signed. Alliances forged. Enemies marked for death. Iron ran the Ruthless Devils from this chair, built an empire from nothing, and held it together through sheer force of will.
Now it’s mine.
The weight of that settles on my shoulders every time I walk through this door.
I lean back in the chair and stare at the stack of papers in front of me.
Running an MC is ninety percent paperwork and ten percent violence. Nobody tells you that when you’re a prospect dreaming of earning your patch.
My phone buzzes. Ghost’s name lights up the screen.
“Talk to me,” I answer.
“Rodriguez just called in. Savage Legion hit the garage on Fifth Street last night. Broke windows, spray-painted threats, and roughed up the owner.”
“Injuries?”
“Broken nose, couple cracked ribs. Nothing life-threatening, but he’s pissed.”
I rub my temples. That’s the fourth business this week. Marcus is trying to draw us into a full-scale war.
“Send Titan and a crew to clean it up. Ensure the owner is aware that we’re covering the damages. And double the patrols on that side of town.”
“Already done. Titan left an hour ago.”
Ghost and Titan have been running interference on everything, handling problems before they even reach my desk. They’re both doing VP-level work without the official patch.
I need to fix that. Need to make it official. However, traditions matter in this world, and promoting two VPs simultaneously is unprecedented.
Fuck tradition. We’re making new rules now.
“Anything else?” I ask.
“Miller’s asking when we’re hitting back. The brothers are getting restless. They want blood.”
“Tell them soon. We hit back when I say we hit back, not before.”
Ghost is quiet for a moment. “They’re questioning your leadership. Saying you’re too focused on Bonnie to lead the club.”
My jaw tightens. “Let them question. I’ll prove them wrong when the time comes.”
“I know you will. Just giving you the heads-up.”
“Appreciated. Where’s Titan now?”
“Still at the garage. Should be back in an hour.”
“Good. I need both of you in my office at four. We need to talk strategy.”
“Got it. Anything else?”
“Yeah. How’s she doing?”
Ghost doesn’t need me to clarify who. “Threw up twice this morning. Ate half a piece of toast. She’s resting now.”
Guilt twists in my gut. I should be with her, not buried in paperwork. But the club needs me. The brothers need me. And if I don’t hold this together, everything Iron built falls apart.
“Keep an eye on her,” I say.
He hangs up. I set the phone down and stare at the papers again.
My life used to be simple. Follow orders. Protect the club. Stay loyal to my brothers. I was good at it. Good enough that Iron made me VP at twenty-six, the youngest in club history, but I never thought I’d be sitting in this chair at twenty-nine.
This was supposed to be Iron for another decade at least. Then maybe Jackal would take over when his old man finally retired.
Not me. Not like this.
I remember the last normal night before the Savage Legion burned my first club to the ground.
I was seventeen, sitting around a fire pit with my dad and the other brothers, listening to them talk about runs they’d been on, deals they’d made, wars they’d survived.
My dad had his arm around my mom. She was laughing at something one of the guys said.
I remember thinking, This is what I want. This brotherhood. This family. This life.
Twenty-four hours later, they were all dead.
Now I’m the one sitting in the president’s chair, making the calls, deciding who lives and who dies. And I’ve got a pregnant wife who’s got a target on her back because of decisions made before I even took this position.
The weight of it sits heavily on my shoulders. Every choice I make affects hundreds of people. Brothers, old ladies, kids. One wrong move and people die.
But I can’t think about that right now, can’t second-guess every decision or I’ll freeze up completely.
I have to trust that Iron saw something in me worth betting on. That twelve years of loyalty and blood earned me the right to sit in this chair.
My phone buzzes. I check the screen—Daniel Reeves, Iron’s lawyer. I answer on the second ring.
“Mr. Torres, I have an update on the case.”
I straighten in my chair. “Tell me about it.”
“The prosecution is building a RICO case. They’re alleging that the Ruthless Devils are a criminal enterprise and that Iron used the club to facilitate drug trafficking, weapons smuggling, and money laundering.”
“Allegations aren’t convictions.”
“No, but they have evidence, including financial records, witness testimony, and wiretaps.” He pauses. “Someone gave them everything they needed to make this stick.”
My blood runs cold. “Who?”
“I don’t know yet. But whoever it was had access to Iron’s personal records.”
“What are his chances?” I ask.
“Without a plea deal? Five to ten years minimum. With good behavior, maybe out in three.”
Three years. The baby will be walking and talking by the time Iron gets out.
“What about bail?”
“Flight risk. The judge denied it. Iron’s not going anywhere until trial.”
“When’s the trial?”
“Six months. Maybe longer if we can delay.”
Six months of Iron rotting in a cell while I try to hold his club together and protect his daughter from the monster he tried to marry her off to.
“Keep working on it,” I say. “Whatever it costs, I don’t care. Get him out.”
“I’ll do what I can. But you should prepare for the possibility that he’s not coming home anytime soon.”
The call ends. I drop the phone on the desk and scrub my hands over my face.
Iron trusted me to protect Bonnie. To lead the club. To keep everything together while he’s locked up.
I’m trying. God, I’m trying. But some days it feels like I’m drowning.
A knock on the door pulls me out of my spiral.
“Come in.”
Bonnie pushes the door open. She’s wearing one of my shirts again—black cotton that hangs off her shoulders and falls to mid-thigh. Her hair’s pulled back in a messy ponytail. No makeup. Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“Hey,” she says softly. “You busy?”
“Never too busy for you.” I push back from the desk and hold out my hand. “Come here.”
She crosses the office and lets me pull her into my lap. I wrap my arms around her waist, feeling the slight curve of her stomach against my forearms.
Barely showing. But I can feel the difference when I touch her.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“Like shit. But Ghost force-fed me toast, so at least I have something in my stomach.”
“Good.”
She’s quiet for a moment, her fingers tracing patterns on my forearm. “I heard you on the phone. With the lawyer.”
“You shouldn’t be listening at doors.”
“You shouldn’t be taking calls with the door open.” She looks up at me. “Is Dad okay?”
“He’s alive. But the case against him is solid.”
“How solid?”
“Five to ten years if he’s convicted.”
She sucks in a breath. “That’s not okay.”
“I know. I’m working on it.”
“Are you?” Her voice is small. Uncertain. “Or are you just saying that because you think it’s what I want to hear?”
I turn her in my lap so I can see her face. “I’m working on it. I’ve got the best lawyer money can buy. I’m calling in every favor we have. I’m doing everything I can to get your father out of that cell.”
“Why?”
The question catches me off guard. “What do you mean, why?”
“He sold me to Marcus. He tried to force me into a marriage I didn’t want. He put the club above everything, including his own daughter.” Her eyes search mine. “So why are you trying so hard to save him?”
I’m quiet for a long moment, choosing my words.
“Because he saved me,” I say finally. “When I had nothing, when I’d lost everything, he gave me a home. A family. A purpose. He made me who I am.” I cup her face in my hands. “And because he’s your father. And you deserve to have him in your life, even if he’s made mistakes.”
Her eyes get wet. “You’re too good.”
“I’m not. I’m just trying to do the right thing.”
She kisses me. Soft and sweet and full of something I’m afraid to name.
When she pulls back, I rest my forehead against hers. “I need to tell you something,” I say.
“Okay.”
“I want to announce the pregnancy at church and make it official. Let the brothers know.”
She stiffens in my arms. “Ash—”
“I know you’re scared. I know there are complications. But hiding it doesn’t make it go away. And the longer we wait, the harder it gets.”
“What if it’s Marcus’s?” The words come out in a rush. “If this baby is Marcus’s, everything changes. The club won’t accept it. Your brothers won’t accept me. And you—” Her voice breaks. “You’ll look at me differently. You’ll see him every time you look at our child.”
“That’s not true.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” I tilt her face up, forcing her to meet my eyes. “Because I love you. And nothing—not Marcus, not DNA, not anything—is going to change that.”
She searches my face. “What if I need proof?” she whispers. “What if I need to know for sure?”
“Then we’ll get proof after we announce it.” I stroke my thumb across her cheekbone. “We’ll do a paternity test. But tonight, we tell the club you’re pregnant. It shows strength. Shows we’re building a future.”
“You want to announce before we even know?”
“I want the club to see their president starting a family.” I press my forehead to hers. “And I want Marcus to know he failed. You’re mine. This baby is mine. He lost.”
A tear slides down her cheek. I catch it with my thumb.
“You really mean that.”
“Every word.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. Then she nods. “Okay. We announce tonight. But we get the paternity test done right after.”
“Deal.”
“And if it’s him?”