REBECCA
The next night…
The Black Canyon Reapers’ clubhouse smells like beer, cigarettes, weed, sweat, and every other foul odor mankind has ever managed to invent. Another completely ordinary evening in hell.
I set down a fresh bottle of whiskey and wrinkle my nose at the memory of this morning, when Alessio tried to talk me out of coming. Which was rich, coming from the man who literally just took a job here.
"I told you I'll find your sister," he’d sounded annoyed.
"Yeah, I know."
He’d tensed immediately. He hates agreeing with me almost as much as I hate agreeing with him.
"So why do you want to go?"
"Why are you?"
That earned me a glare. "I asked first."
"Fine. You answer, then I'll answer."
His eyes narrowed. Mine narrowed right back. Eventually, he sighed. "Beccs."
"Alessio."
"You drive me insane."
"So I've been told."
"You don't belong in that clubhouse."
I snorted. "Pretty sure they hired me."
His expression didn't change. "That's not what I meant."
And for a second—just a second—I saw the real concern underneath all the arrogance and smart-ass remarks. The problem was, I couldn't afford concern. Not when Rachel was involved.
"I trust you," I admitted quietly. And surprisingly, I’d meant it. Which actually surprised him too. "I do."
That was when I turned the argument around. "You took a job there." I reminded him. "Why, by the way?" The question still nagged at me. I doubted it had anything to do with me.
Silence followed the question.
"Alessio?"
Nothing.
"Why are you working there?"
His jaw tightened. "It's different."
"How?"
"It just is."
I waited. He didn't elaborate. Eventually I threw my hands up. "Fine."
"Fine?"
"Suit yourself."
I’d given him a second of relief before I doubled down. "Let's go."
"You're staying here."
Oh, that poor man. He must have forgotten. "You need me."
His eyes narrowed immediately. "For what?"
"Your cover." I reminded him. It would look suspicious if, after the MC finding out he was my boyfriend and him taking a job, I didn't show for work, and we both knew it.
For whatever reason, he was undercover—can a mafia boss go undercover, or is that a cop thing?
—and it was important enough for him to agree to work for them.
The silence that followed was glorious. Absolutely glorious.
Because he hated that I was right. Eventually he muttered something in Italian that sounded suspiciously like a curse.
Then he drove us both here. Together. Just like I'd known he would. Before we got out of the Shelby, he’d closed his eyes. "Beccs."
I turned.
"They don't know who I am."
"I gathered that."
A smile tugs at my lips now as I wipe down the bar.
I should have been hurt that he hadn't trusted me with his secret yet, but I wasn't. I understand.
Some secrets are too painful to disclose.
Maybe he will at some point, maybe he won't. Maybe we'll go our separate ways in a few days…
maybe this fake relationship will run its course.
Who can say? It doesn't matter. We have amazing sex together.
He's looking into my sister's disappearance.
I'm staying at the world's most amazing penthouse… .
Truthfully, staying at Alessio's penthouse isn't exactly a hardship.
The bed is bigger than my first apartment.
The kitchen looks like something out of a magazine.
And the shower... God. The shower alone could convince me to commit crimes.
The thing has more water pressure than a fire hose and enough jets to qualify as industrial equipment.
For that shower, I'd probably do things that would make a priest nervous.
Not that I'd ever admit that to Alessio.
The man is already insufferable enough. Giving him more ammunition seems unwise.
"Hey." Someone calls from the end of the bar, and I slide a fresh whiskey down, glancing toward the pool tables. Alessio is currently being ordered around by a biker named Tiny.
The irony is so beautiful it nearly brings a tear to my eye.
"Suit, move those boxes."
Alessio stares at him. Tiny stares back. For one glorious second, I think Alessio might commit a felony. Then he picks up the box. My lips twitch. He catches me watching. I immediately look away. Too late. That glacier-blue gaze pins me from across the room.
One eyebrow slowly rises. Smartass.
My phone vibrates.
Handsome Rich Asshole:
Something funny?
I bite back a grin.
Me:
Watching you take orders is improving my evening.
Across the room, his mouth twitches.
Handsome Rich Asshole:
Keep laughing.
Me:
He flips me off without breaking stride. I nearly laugh out loud. The man is ridiculous. Dangerous. Possibly insane. But ridiculous. My gaze drops to his jeans. Specifically, the back pocket. I have been waiting almost thirty minutes. Any second now. Come on... Find them.
Alessio bends to pick up another crate. Then pauses.
His hand slips into his pocket. His entire body stills.
I bite the inside of my cheek. There it is.
Slowly, he pulls out a scrap of black lace.
His eyes narrow. Then he looks directly at me.
The expression on his face is priceless.
Amused. Confused. Dangerously entertained.
My phone vibrates immediately.
Handsome Rich Asshole:
Explain.
I grin.
Me:
Thought the other pair might be getting lonely.
Several long seconds pass before he types.
Handsome Rich Asshole:
No worries. I'll keep them entertained.
Heat floods my face. Asshole. I shake my head and shove the phone back into my pocket.
The worst part? He's still looking at me.
Not casually. Not the way men usually look, drooling all over me.
No, he's looking like he's trying to figure me out.
Like I'm a puzzle. Like he hasn't decided whether to kiss me or strangle me.
Possibly both. The annoying thing is that I'm not entirely opposed to either option.
I grab another bottle and force myself to focus. Rachel. That's why I'm here. Not Alessio. Not his stupid eyes. Not his stupid mouth. Or the things his body can do to mine that make me go all boneless.
Rachel!
The front door opens. Which is nothing unusual, but the room changes instantly. Conversation don’t stop, but they get lower. It's like the way animals go quiet before a storm. Or before another predator enters their territory. Enough to make me look up.
Five men walk inside. They're definitely not bikers. No patches, no denim, no leather. They wear expensive boots and watches. But not like I've seen Alessio wear. His are classy; these are flashy.
The Reapers straighten almost immediately. A mix of respect and fear settles in the air.
The newcomers don't smile. Don't joke. Don't waste time.
One look tells me everything I need to know.
These aren't customers. They're business.
And whatever business they're involved in, nobody in this room wants to get in their way.
A cold feeling settles in my stomach. Something important just walked through that door.
I watch the newcomers claim a table near the back of the clubhouse. Not a single Reaper questions it. Not a single man complains. That alone tells me more than I need to know. The Reapers aren't exactly known for their manners.
I grab a beer and turn toward the closest biker at the bar. Rattler. He's in his mid-forties, missing two teeth. He looks like he lost a fight with a lawnmower and held a grudge ever since. He's one of the few people around here who doesn't immediately make my skin crawl.
"Who are they?" I ask casually.
Rattler follows my gaze. The humor disappears from his face. He has no use for them. He drains half his beer in one swallow. Then signals for another. "Stay away from them, sweetheart."
I hand him a fresh bottle. "On the house."
He takes it. Studies the label. Then nods once. "Thanks."
For a moment I think that's all I'm getting. Then he sighs. "They're with Los Hijos del Desierto."
The name means nothing to me. Apparently, my confusion shows. Rattler scratches his beard. "Razor's been doing business with them for years."
My pulse picks up. "Business doing what?"
His eyes meet mine. The amusement is gone now. Completely gone. "The really bad kind."
I stare. He stares back. Then shrugs. Conversation over.
Or at least as over as he's willing to let it be.
I lean against the bar. Thinking. The really bad kind.
Helpful. Very specific. Not frustrating at all.
But my mind is already moving. Years. They've been working together for years.
Maybe more years than Rachel has been gone?
The same years I've been chasing ghosts.
Maybe one of them knows something. Maybe one of them remembers her.
Maybe one of them saw her. A tiny spark of hope ignites in my chest.
Hope usually ends badly. Still. It's something. "Thanks for the warning."
Rattler inclines his head. "Just don't go asking questions."
Which is exactly what I plan to do. The front door of Razor's office opens. The room immediately shifts. Razor steps out. The Mexicans rise from their table. One of them approaches him. Tall. Broad shoulders. Cold eyes. The kind of man who probably smiles at funerals.
Razor clasps his arm. "Where's Javier?"
The man shakes his head. "Didn't come." His accent is thick. "Just me, amigo."
For some reason, that answer seems to satisfy Razor.
The two exchange a few more words too quietly for me to hear.
Then Razor leads them toward the back office.
The door closes behind them. I stare at it.
As if sheer determination might suddenly grant me X-ray vision. Nothing. Just a stupid wooden door.
My gaze drifts around the clubhouse. Still no Alessio.
Odd. The man usually manages to be exactly where he isn't supposed to be.
Especially if it involves irritating me.
Maybe Tiny finally worked him to death. A girl can dream.
I glance back at the office. Then at Rattler.
Then back at the office. A terrible idea begins forming.
My specialty. "Will you keep an eye on the bar for a minute? "
Rattler immediately frowns. "No."
"That's not very supportive."
"No."
I smile sweetly. He points a finger at me. Whatever amusement had been there vanishes. "Absolutely not."
"Rattler—"
"No."
"I haven't even asked yet."
"I know exactly what you're going to ask."
I place both hands over my heart. "Wow. You really think poorly of me."
He snorts. "Beccs."
"Rattler."
His eyes narrow. Mine narrow right back. Finally, he groans. The sound suggests physical pain. "Five minutes."
I grin. "You're the best."
"Five."
"Got it."
"Not six."
"I heard you."
"Because if I turn around and find your ass sneaking toward that office—"
I flash him my most innocent smile. The one that's gotten me out of trouble since I was twelve. Rattler immediately looks horrified. "Goddammit."
Perfect. Because while he's busy regretting every decision that's brought him to this moment, I'm already planning how to get close enough to that office to hear what's being said behind the door.
The bathroom is conveniently located right next to Razor's office.
I slip inside and lock the door behind me.
The music from the clubhouse becomes muffled immediately.
I stare at the vent near the ceiling. Then at the sink.
Then back at the vent. This is either going to be brilliant or incredibly stupid.
Probably both.
I climb onto the vanity. The thing creaks ominously beneath my weight. "Don't break. Don't break. Don't break."
The universe ignores my prayers as usual, and the creaking becomes more ominous.
But then I'm shown mercy, and it stops. Carefully, I loosen the vent cover.
One screw. Then another. Then another. Finally, it comes free.
I lean upward. Stretching. Standing on tiptoes.
Still not quite tall enough. Of course. Story of my life.
I swear under my breath. Seriously? The universe couldn't have given me one more inch? One. Single. Goddamn. Inch?
Apparently not. I stretch farther. My calf starts cramping. Totally worth it. Voices drift through the opening. Muffled. Broken. Pieces instead of sentences.
"...putas..." A man laughs.
Another voice responds. "...whiny..."
The first one again. "...bad stock..."
I freeze. Every muscle in my body goes rigid. Bad stock. Stock. Not people. Stock. The image forms immediately. Women. Girls. They're talking about women. My stomach turns.
"...boss..."
"...not happy..."
Razor's voice, "...make up for it..."
Another voice answers, "...next week..."
My pulse spikes. Next week. Jesus Christ. They're talking about another shipment. Another sale. Another group of women. The realization hits like a punch. Rachel. Rachel could have ended up with men like these. Or worse.
"...guarantee..." Razor again.
"...you better, amigo..." The Mexican's voice has gone cold.
Dangerously cold. The kind that makes threats unnecessary. A long pause follows. "...your balls..."
I don't hear the rest. I don't need to. My imagination fills in the blanks. Not pleasantly.
A chair scrapes, the unmistakable sound of someone standing up. Shit. More movement. A door opening. Footsteps getting closer. Much closer. The bathroom handle rattles. Every drop of blood leaves my face.
"Just a second!" I call.
Way too brightly. Panic launches me into motion.
I shove the vent cover back into place. Nearly drop it.
Catch it. Somehow. Jump down from the vanity.
Flush the toilet for good measure. Turn on the sink.
Wash my hands. Twice. Then open the door with what I hope is a friendly smile.
It immediately dies. One of the Mexicans stands directly outside.
Tall. Broad. Immovable. His eyes lock onto mine.
My first impression is that they're cold. Not angry. Not curious. Just cold.
I've seen documentaries about great white sharks. The sharks had warmer eyes. His gaze travels slowly down my body. Then back up. A smile appears. The kind that belongs in nightmares.
"Well, gringa." The accent is thick. Smooth. Dangerous. "What have we here?"
Every survival instinct I possess starts screaming. I laugh lightly. Because apparently, I've lost my mind. I step sideways.
"Sorry. Just passing through."
I try to slip around him. He catches my arm. Effortlessly. The smile widens slightly. Not enough to be friendly. Just enough to be terrifying. "Let me look at you."
The words aren't a request. Not even close. His grip tightens. And suddenly I become very aware of one important fact. Alessio is nowhere in sight.