ALESSIO
The night after the meeting, my phone rings as I'm pouring another glass of Stagg. Damiano.
"Anything yet?" I ask, skipping the pleasantries.
"Not yet," he replies in a voice that carries that familiar edge. "He'll want to make me sweat first. Draw it out. You know how this game goes."
I let out a low chuckle. "Fucking bastard will get what he deserves."
Our phones have been equipped with the best scramblers money can buy. Nobody, not even the Collector, will be able to pick up our conversations.
Damiano pauses before he says, quieter than I've ever heard him, "Seriously, man… I hope you find what you're looking for. That shit's not easy."
The words hit harder than they should. Damiano isn't the emotional type. We've done suicidal runs together, laughed while staring down death, burned bridges and bodies without blinking. Hearing real concern from him feels… off.
"Thanks, bro," I reply, hearing the roughness in my own voice. "I'm heading to the clubhouse now."
I kill the call, grab my keys, and take the Shelby. No fucking way I'm getting on a bike. I'd rather walk through hell barefoot than straddle one of those pieces of shit again.
The Black Canyon Reapers' clubhouse sits on the edge of the desert like a rotting wound.
The second I step inside, the stench hits me: stale beer, old cigarettes, weed, sweat, cheap whiskey, and even cheaper whores.
It drags me straight back to the trailer park, to my old man's fists and my mother's disappearing taillights.
I hate this place. I hate what it represents.
Scorpion spots me first, leaning against the bar with a beer in hand. One of the older patches, loyal to a fault.
"Have you seen my old man?" I ask, keeping my tone flat.
Scorpion jerks his thumb toward the back. "He's in the usual spot. Drunk off his ass already."
I move past him. I'm starting to get a headache from how hard I'm clenching my jaw and force myself to let loose a little, moving it from side to side.
My old man has no fucking clue who I really am.
To him, I'm just some casino hotshot who made good working for rich Italians.
He brags about it sometimes when he's wasted, never realizing his worthless son sits at the right hand of the man who runs this entire city.
I want to keep it that way, which is why instead of my usual suit, I'm wearing simple black jeans and a gray button-down.
The last thing I need is that piece of shit thinking he can use me, or worse, that he has any claim on the empire I built with blood and silence.
The old anger coils low in my gut, dark and familiar. He always said Mom left because of me. That I was too much trouble. Too soft. Too fucking hungry. I believed him for years. Now I'm not so sure.
And Beccs… Christ, she's still burning in my head like a brand. That smart mouth. The way she came apart on my cock. The stolen panties I still smell every night before I fall asleep. The Collector's taunt keeps echoing too, how the fuck does he know about her?
I had Rossi send men back to the catering staff. Bribes. Pressure. A few broken fingers if necessary. Someone knows who she is. Someone will talk.
I'm halfway across the main room when something on the bulletin board catches my eye. A printed photo, pinned up like a joke. It's a woman, young, red hair, striking eyes. She looks a few years younger than she does now, but I recognize her immediately. Audra.
There's a crude Wanted banner slapped across the top and a dollar amount written underneath in black marker. A bounty. Made to look like a joke, but the hatred behind it is real.
I stop and jerk my chin at one of the patches standing nearby. "What's all this about?"
The guy laughs. "That's the bitch that got away from Razor. He's still obsessed with getting her back. Wants to make an example of her. You know how he is, doesn't like losing his toys."
I stare at the photo a second longer, committing the details to memory. Gabe's girl. The one he's completely wrapped up in. If Razor is hunting her… this complicates everything. I rip the paper off the board and crumple it in my fist before anyone else notices, then keep walking.
I spot my old man slumped at a back table, nursing a bottle like it's his only friend. Time to dig up ghosts.
I'm halfway across the main room when I hear it, a familiar voice cutting through the haze of smoke and shitty country music. Female. Sharp. Defiant.
Fuck. Hell no. Not here.
My body reacts before my brain catches up. I follow the sound like a siren, blood boiling. There she is. Beccs.
Cornered in the dim hallway leading to the back rooms by two of the Black Canyon Reapers' animals. One has her backed against the wall, meaty hand planted beside her head. The other is crowding in too close, grinning like a wolf that just found dinner.
Rage explodes through me, hot and violent. I want to rip their fucking throats out for even breathing near her. No one touches what's mine.
She shoves the first one hard in the chest. "Back the fuck off."
The second laughs and grabs her wrist. "C'mon, sweetheart. Don't be like that."
I take one step forward, fists clenched, when I hear it behind me, my old man's loud, drunken snore from the table.
Reality crashes back in. I can't afford to lose control here.
Not yet. Not while I need intel on my mother and the Reapers.
Starting a war tonight would burn every bridge before I even cross them.
I force my shoulders to relax and walk over instead, deliberate and calm on the outside even as fury simmers under my skin. I shoulder the bigger one out of the way—hard—taking savage satisfaction in the way he stumbles.
"There you are, baby," I claim Beccs in a low, possessive voice as I reach her.
Relief flashes across her face for a split second before she hides it. Good girl. She knows exactly how bad this situation is. I pull her under my arm, tucking her against my side like she belongs there. She fits too fucking perfectly.
"I see you've met my girlfriend," I tell the two Reapers, keeping my tone deceptively casual, even while my eyes promise violence if they push it.
The one I don't recognize looks ready to swing. "Your girlfriend?"
"Yeah. Mine." My arm tightens around Beccs, fingers splaying possessively over her hip. "Do you have a problem with that?"
The second guy—Rattler, I recognize now—squints at me, then at Beccs. His expression shifts. "Come on, Greg," he mutters, grabbing his buddy's shoulder. "That's Lenny's kid. Let's go."
Greg hesitates, clearly pissed, but lets Rattler pull him away.
They disappear back toward the main room, throwing dirty looks over their shoulders.
The second they're gone, I turn Beccs in my arms, backing her against the wall more carefully than those animals did.
My hand comes up to cup her jaw, thumb brushing her lower lip.
"What the fuck are you doing here, Grease Monkey?" I growl, voice rough with suppressed rage and pure want. "You really think you can hide from me in a place like this?"
Beccs lifts her chin, her eyes flashing with that familiar, becoming fire even as her body stays pressed against mine. She looks like a pissed-off cat: all claws and arched spine.
"I had it under control," she hisses, low and sharp.
A harsh laugh escapes me. I lean in closer, taking a long, deliberate inhale against her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin mixed with cheap whiskey and motor oil. My cock twitches instantly. Fuck, she smells like trouble and home at the same time.
"Whatever kind of game you're playing here, babe, it's dangerous," I murmur against her ear.
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the slight shiver that runs through her. "Sure, daddy. Because you showing up at a Reaper clubhouse is totally normal and not at all suspicious."
I pull back just enough to meet her gaze, one hand still braced on the wall beside her head, caging her in.
Unperturbed, she continues. "What the hell are you doing here? I didn't peg you for a bike and beer kind of girl." She gives me a slow, catlike smile that makes my blood run hot. "Or for slumming it with these animals. What's the matter, Vitali? Casino life getting too clean for you?"
The back-and-forth crackles between us like live wire.
Every word, every look, every small shift of her body against mine thickens the air until it's almost impossible to breathe.
That angelic face—soft features, big innocent eyes—is pure contradiction to the sharp mouth and the exhausted wariness I see when I really look at her.
The same world-weariness I see every time I look in the mirror.
My thumb brushes her jaw. "You're coming with me. I have questions."
"Can't. I have work to do," she fires back, flippant as hell, even though her pupils are blown wide.
I stare at her. "Work?" The word comes out rough. "You fucking work here?"
"That's none of your business." She shrugs, but there's heat in her eyes. "But yeah. Girl's gotta earn a paycheck, you know."
I can't get over how fucking sexy she is. That smart mouth shouldn't fit with a face like hers. But those eyes… those eyes tell the real story. They've seen too much. Just like mine.
I lean in again, lips brushing the shell of her ear. "You're coming with me, Beccs. Right now. And if I have to throw you over my shoulder in front of every Reaper in this shithole, I will."
She huffs a breath that ghosts across my neck, sending electricity straight down my spine. The tension between us is thick enough to choke on, dangerous, addictive, and nowhere near done.
Flea rounds the corner like he owns the hallway, which he basically does. Razor might wear the President patch, but everybody with half a brain knows the real power sits behind Flea's calculating eyes. He stops a few feet away, taking in the sight of me with Beccs tucked against my side.