Five #2
I don’t move. I can’t. His following words gutted me like a blade to the ribs.
“We know what kind of man you were. Two years with you, and you still couldn’t keep your dick in your pants.
You think she didn’t know about the women?
The blowjobs behind closed doors? She walked in on you and Heather .
And you have the balls to call her names?
” His voice drops, cold and lethal. “Naw fuck that, and fuck you.”
That last part echoes through my skull like a gunshot. And I feel every ounce of it. The venom. The fury. The truth. His brother moves in, whispers something I can’t catch. But the kid— my kid —shakes his head.
“No, Malikai, fuck him. He doesn’t get to talk shit to or about mamma .
She tried, and this piece of shit ignored her.
He’s sitting here acting like a fucking bitch because of their fucking rules, and you know it.
He’s acting like he gives a shit now. No, this motherfucker needs to look at the kids he abandoned in their eyes.
See what we think of him, and know that we think he’s a piece of shit.
So, no, I won't lay off him, and now is the perfect fucking time. He deserves this smoke. Every fucking puff of it.” He growls out.
He leans in closer.
We lock eyes. There’s no bluff in his stare.
He wants me to feel this. And I do. Every goddamned bit of it.
Gabriella’s eyes finally meet mine. There’s a flicker—pain, maybe.
Regret. But it’s gone too fast. Replaced with steel.
She says nothing. Doesn’t defend me. Doesn’t soften what our son just laid at my feet.
Then the boy pulls out his phone and sets it on the table.
“If you want to hear the voicemail, I saved it.”
Gabriella’s face finally changes. Her jaw tightens. She knows exactly what message he means.
“Don’t know why I kept it,” the kid says, quieter now.
“Maybe to remind myself what kind of man my sperm donor really is. So don’t act offended.
Don’t puff your chest and pretend you care.
You’re pissed because the truth hit you in the face.
Because she didn’t need you. And we sure as fuck didn’t either. ”
He leans in, the final blow sharp and deadly.
“So. Fuck. You. Dad.”
Then Gabriella says his name—“Sebastian.” Quiet. Tense. It’s unclear if she’s warning or trying to calm him. Doesn’t matter.
He needs to cool his shit. Because I’m this close to losing mine, I get his anger. I deserve his hate. But the disrespect? That crosses a line, a line most men never come back from.
And maybe I didn’t say it out loud, but the calmer one—Malikai—looks at me, eyes hard. “You’d be dead before you lifted a finger.”
Gabriella sighs like she’s dragging the weight of the world behind her. “Enough. We’re not going to fix years of pain in one conversation. We have business to discuss.”
And just like that, we’re back to business. Like she didn’t just wreck my whole fucking world.
The man she brought with her finally speaks. “Sebastian. Malikai. Sit.”
They do. No backtalk. Just a look between them and a nod. That respect they have for him? It pisses me off all over again. Irrational? Sure. Still don’t give a fuck.
Gabriella nods, giving him the floor.
“There are two reasons we’re here. The first—Don Barone sent Gabriella. The second… is obvious.” His eyes flick to the boys.
Gabriella’s tone is clipped, professional. “We’ve reviewed the contract. We’re increasing your commission by five percent. The work your club has done remains satisfactory, despite recent incidents.”
“Recent incidents?” I ask, jaw tight.
“You have a thief. Or a mole. It could be the same person. It could be several. We’re still investigating.”
She pulls a folder from her bag and hands it to Malikai, our son. My son. The word still tastes foreign on my tongue.
He stands and walks it over to me. I take it, hands steady, even though I feel like I’m spinning inside. Seventeen years. I don’t know their full names. Don’t even know if they carry mine.
I flip through the pages. It’s all there. Reports. Financials. Details I hadn’t seen.
I pass the copies to Axel and the brothers.
But all I can think is—
We have sons.
And I’ve already lost years with them.
Once everyone has the documents, she addresses the room again, her voice cool and clipped.
“As you can see from the annotated scales, there’s a consistent discrepancy between pickup and drop-off.
We estimate the loss from the first occurrence to now to be eight hundred grand of product.
How none of you noticed is beyond me. Our investigation doesn’t lie. Someone is skimming during transit.”
Gabriella’s tone is all business—detached, mechanical. And that’s when it hits me. That’s her default now. Cold. Controlled. Like, none of this touches her.
Grumbling starts up around the room, curses thrown under their breath. I look at my brothers, raising a hand to shut it down. “Quiet.” This is serious. Real fucking serious. And we need to listen.
Damn. How the hell did we get here? I shake my head, forcing myself to focus, even as my mind spins from everything that’s happened.
“We conducted an internal investigation,” she continues, unfazed by the tension.
“No issues were found with our trucks or weigh stations. Other crews use the same equipment—no discrepancies, no red flags. We even rotated the trucks your club uses. Still, the losses continue. That rules out coincidence.”
Her eyes sweep the room, lingering a second longer on me before she adds, “We need this resolved. Quickly. Whoever’s responsible needs to be handled.
I prefer to take care of it myself, since they’re stealing from me , not just the club.
But… this is your club, your mess. You’ll handle it— under our supervision .
That’s the only concession I’m offering. For now.”
There’s a pause, the weight of her words hitting hard. Not a threat. A deadline.
“What in the actual fuck?” Nitro growls, his voice tight with fury.
She doesn’t flinch. “Since you’ll likely want to address that matter privately with your officers, let’s move on to the other issue. Shall we?” She raises a brow at me, a question laced behind the calm. She's asking if we’re doing this with everyone still here.
Fuck that. No way.
“Everyone except Axel and Nitro—get the fuck out ,” I snap. “Church officers only, noon tomorrow. So don’t get too fucked up tonight. What happened in this room stays in this room. Got me?”
I hear a chorus of agreement and low muttering answers. No one argues. They shuffle out, a few trying to break the tension with nervous chuckles. I don’t laugh. I don’t even blink. My eyes stay locked on her the entire time.
The room clears. Silence settles.
And I’m left sitting here, staring across the table at the woman who used to be mine, realizing the one thing I can’t ignore anymore.
I have a fucking sons.