Chapter Ten
Lila
I’d curled up in a recliner in the common room after Spade made me leave the war room.
All I wanted was a few hours’ sleep -- a few minutes, even -- just enough to recharge.
Apparently, that wasn’t an option, not with numbers and connections still racing through my mind.
I’d been staring at the ceiling for twenty minutes, tracing dates and transactions while my brain refused to shut down.
The financial trails I’d uncovered about Ripper kept looping through my thoughts -- access logs that didn’t match reported hours, transactions that aligned too perfectly with compromised operations. That phone number we hadn’t been able to trace. Yet. There was something there I’d missed.
I slipped from the chair, bare feet silent against the cold floor, and slipped back into my shoes. My laptop sat on the side table next to me where I’d left it, the screen glowing faintly. All my evidence. All my analysis. All pointing to a brother I’d barely noticed until today.
The hallway was dimly lit -- just emergency lights casting long shadows across the worn carpet.
The clubhouse was quiet this time of day, everyone out doing their jobs.
The place was empty. Waiting. Like a predator at rest but never truly sleeping.
I moved carefully, each step placed with deliberate precision.
The training from years of navigating hostile spaces kicking in automatically.
Three doors down. Turn left. Past the main room, where the bar stood empty, not yet open. Most brothers would be out on business I didn’t want to contemplate. My fingers tightened around my laptop, pressing it against my chest like armor.
A sound of a voice stopped me -- low, controlled, instantly recognizable.
Spade. Coming from behind a door at the end of the hall.
Atilla’s office, based on the compound layout I’d memorized my first day here.
The door wasn’t fully closed. A thin line of light spilled onto the hallway floor like a warning.
I pressed against the wall, moving closer with practiced silence.
Not running toward danger but not retreating from truth either.
The bruise on my jaw throbbed faintly, a reminder of the cost of asking questions.
Of digging too deep. I touched it unconsciously, the pain almost gone but the memory still sharp.
“-- handled exactly as discussed.” Atilla’s graveled voice carried through the gap. “Clean. Quick. No traces.”
“Already in motion.” Spade’s response, colder than I’d ever heard it. “Team’s ready. Extraction point secured.”
I inched closer, back flush against the wall, breathing shallow and controlled. My heart hammered against my ribs, but my mind remained analytical. Processing. Cataloging. Understanding exactly what I was hearing.
“You’re certain?” Atilla asked.
“Beyond doubt.” Papers rustled. “Financial trails, communication logs, connection to the family business. Eight years wearing our colors while selling us out piece by piece.”
Ripper. They were talking about Ripper. They knew. Had known before I’d even approached Spade with my suspicions. The realization sent a cold wave through my body.
“Shame we can’t give him to the woman.” Atilla’s voice carried no emotion. “Her sister’s death deserves that much.”
My fingers dug into the laptop hard enough to hurt. Marie. They were acknowledging her death. Acknowledging Ripper’s role in it. The justice I’d been hunting was unfolding -- without me.
“She stays clear of this,” Spade’s response was immediate, firm. “Cleanup is family business.”
Family business. The euphemism wasn’t lost on me. Execution without trial. Justice without witnesses.
“She’s getting closer.” Atilla’s chair creaked. “Analytical mind. Doesn’t miss much. You’re going to have to make a decision.”
“I’ll handle her.”
The casual dismissal stung more than it should have. Even here. After everything. After last night. After what we’d shared in the darkness of his bedroom. I was still an outsider to be “handled.”
“She could be useful going forward,” Atilla suggested.
A pause stretched between them, loaded with something I couldn’t define.
“We keep this between us,” Spade said finally. “Between brothers. The club stays strong by handling its own problems.”
“And he’s still one of ours,” Atilla agreed. “Even at the end.”
My throat tightened unexpectedly. Even facing betrayal, they maintained a twisted loyalty. A brotherhood that extended to the moment of execution. I wasn’t sure if it was admirable or terrifying.
“I’ll take care of it my way,” Spade said with finality. Chair legs scraped against the floor.
I backed away instantly, moving on instinct rather than conscious thought. Too late. The door swung open, light flooding the hallway. Spade stepped out, his body tense with purpose, then froze when he saw me.
For one heartbeat, his expression remained unguarded -- exhaustion, resolve, and something darker I couldn’t name all visible in the lines of his face.
Then the mask slammed down. His features hardened, eyes cooling to that impenetrable gaze I’d faced across the table during our first interrogation.
“I thought you might grab a few hours’ shuteye.” His voice was neutral. Too neutral.
“Can’t sleep. Still analyzing data,” I replied, lifting my laptop slightly. Not a lie. Not quite all the truth.
His eyes flicked to the laptop, then back to my face.
Something dangerous flickered across his features -- not anger, exactly, but the awareness of being caught.
Of being seen. His gaze shifted to the partially open door behind him, then back to me, calculating exactly how much I might have heard.
“How long have you been standing there?” No pretense now. Just direct confrontation.
I straightened my shoulders, refusing to be intimidated despite the way he filled the hallway. Despite the cold knowledge that this man was preparing to execute someone tonight. “Long enough.”
His jaw tightened, a muscle twitching along its edge -- the only outward sign of the tension radiating from him. He stepped forward, deliberately invading my space. I held my ground, though every instinct screamed to retreat. “This isn’t your business,” he said, voice dropping lower. “Not anymore.”
“If it’s about Ripper, it is,” she insisted.
His expression closed completely, becoming the impenetrable mask of the VP. Of the executioner. “Go back to my place, Lila.” Not a request. An order.
“You found him,” I pressed, ignoring the warning in his tone. “You know it’s him.”
His hand closed around my arm, not painfully but with unmistakable purpose.
“Not here.” He guided me away from Atilla’s door with firm pressure, his grip allowing no resistance.
I could have fought, could have pulled away, but strategic compliance seemed the better option.
I’d get more information by appearing to cooperate than by fighting a battle I couldn’t win in a hallway that wasn’t secure.
The mask never slipped as he steered me down the corridor, but his eyes told a different story. Not just anger at being overheard. Something more complex. Something that looked almost like concern beneath the cold determination.
For me. Or for what would happen next.
Spade led me back to his house, pulling the front door closed behind us with a decisive click.
Not slammed. Not shoved. Precise and controlled, like everything he did.
I remained standing just inside the doorway, laptop still clutched against my chest, watching him arrange himself -- shoulders squared, expression neutral, the perfect picture of control -- except for the white-knuckled grip he maintained on the edge of the table.
Silence stretched between us, taut as piano wire. I could hear the faint hum of the air conditioning, the soft ticking of the clock. Each second amplified by our mutual refusal to speak first.
I broke first. Always did when silence became a weapon. “You’re protecting him.” The accusation fell between us like a grenade with the pin pulled.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice remained level.
“I heard enough.” I stepped farther into the room, away from the door, claiming space. Making retreat impossible. “You and Atilla discussing how to handle Ripper internally. How he’s ‘still one of yours.’”
His jaw tightened, that same muscle twitching along its edge. “You’re jumping to conclusions based on fragments of a conversation you never should have overheard.”
“Am I?” I set my laptop on his desk, woke the screen with a swipe of my finger. “I’ve traced the money, Spade. Followed the trails. Connected the dots just like we did with General and Gopher. Only this time, they led to Ripper.”
“And you think we don’t know that?” His eyes flashed dangerously.
“I think you know, and you’re protecting him.” My voice rose despite my efforts to remain calm. Professional. Detached. “Brotherhood above justice. Club loyalty above what’s right.”
He didn’t respond immediately, just watched me with those cold, assessing eyes. Processing. Calculating. The silence amplified my anger rather than diffusing it. “Say something.” I moved closer to the desk. “Deny it. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re wrong.” The words came out flat, emotionless.
My hands began to shake -- not with fear but with a rage I couldn’t fully contain. “You’re lying. You’re choosing your precious brotherhood over truth. Over what’s right!” I jabbed a finger against his chest, the physical contact crossing a line I hadn’t consciously decided to breach.
Something in him snapped. He caught my wrist, grip tight but not painful, holding me in place as he leaned forward. “You think that’s what this is?” The careful control in his voice cracked. “You think I’m protecting him? After everything?”