ALESSIO #2
I reach for her and pull her against me. She stiffens for half a second. Then melts into my chest. The knife finally slips from her fingers and clatters onto the tile.
My arms tighten automatically. Protective. Possessive. Relieved. I bury my face briefly against her hair, allowing us a moment. The soft scent of Magnolias engulfs me with a calming effect.
"What the hell is he doing here?" I ask against her temple.
Beccs pulls back just enough to look at me, still wrapped in my arms. "There were four of them. Well… three now." She laughs dryly, a little shaken. "They're with Razor. They were discussing a shipment of… women."
My mind turns cold and calculating in an instant.
Cartel. Reapers. Women. The Collector's shadow, looming somewhere in the background.
Pieces are moving faster than I like. A plan forms in my head.
I can't leave the unconscious Mexican here.
They'll come looking for him soon, and I need answers from him first.
I cup Beccs' face with both hands, thumbs brushing her cheeks. "Get back to the bar. Can you do that?"
Her eyes meet mine, and courage and fierce determination stare back at me. No tears. No breakdown. Just that unbreakable fire that makes me want to simultaneously protect and worship her.
She nods.
"Good. Go back. Finish your shift. And no matter what happens… you saw and heard nothing tonight."
She nods again, then pushes up on her toes and kisses me, hard, desperate, claiming. It's over too fast. She pulls away, bends down, and smoothly hides the blade again in a clever sheath sewn into the side of her boot.
Ah. That's where she's been hiding it. No wonder I never noticed. Clever girl.
I watch her slip out of the bathroom, back straight, hips swaying like she owns the place.
Only when the door clicks shut behind her do I move.
I haul the unconscious Mexican up by his collar, check the hallway, then drag him out the back exit toward the Shelby.
My jaw is clenched the entire time. Beccs is alone in there again.
Surrounded by animals. This is the last fucking time.
I swear it to myself as I shove the bastard into the trunk.
From here on out, I'll lock her in my penthouse if I have to. I slam the trunk shut and call Rossi.
"Get to the clubhouse. Take the Shelby. There's a package in the trunk. It goes straight to my private casino. Make sure he stays breathing… for now."
"On it, boss."
I head back inside, straightening my shirt, forcing the mask of calm back into place. But my blood is still singing with violence. And my mind is already planning exactly how many pieces I'm going to cut that Mexican into if he knows anything about Beccs' sister.
I slip back into the main room of the clubhouse like nothing happened, the taste of Beccs still on my lips and the weight of the unconscious Mexican in my trunk sitting heavy on my mind.
She's behind the bar.
Our eyes meet for a split second, and she gives me the smallest, almost imperceptible nod—I'm okay—before turning back to pour a drink like she wasn't just holding a knife to a cartel soldier's ribs minutes ago.
That's my girl.
I don't even make it two steps toward the bar before hell breaks loose.
"Where the fuck is Juan?!"
The shout cuts through the music like a gunshot. Three cartel guys—hard-eyed, heavily tattooed, reeking of that signature expensive cologne—storm into the room.
"There's blood in the bathroom!" another snarls. "Someone dragged him out the back. Who the fuck did this?!"
All eyes swing toward Razor and Flea.
Razor slams his beer bottle down. "How the hell should I know? The stupid fuck probably ran off with one of the girls again. You know how he is."
One of the cartel men steps forward, hand hovering near his waistband. "You think we're stupid, cabrón? You better start talking, or we're going to assume your whole fucking club had something to do with it."
The tension in the room spikes so fast the air feels ready to ignite. Bikers shift, hands drifting toward guns. Cartel soldiers square up. I stay where I am, leaning against the wall like I'm just another spectator, but my pulse is hammering.
I can't leave. Not yet.
I still need intel on my mother and on whatever the Reapers are really up to with these cartel pricks. But that shipment of women Beccs overheard them planning? That shit sits wrong in my gut, like battery acid. I'm ending it tonight. One way or another.
But first, I need a way to get Beccs out if this explodes. I discreetly tap a message on my phone.
Me:
Rossi. Get a team ready. Two SUVs on standby two blocks east. If I give the word, you extract the girl behind the bar first. Lethal force authorized if they touch her.
His reply is immediate.
Damage Coontrol:
Copy, boss.
I keep my expression bored even as my eyes track every movement in the room. Razor and Flea are arguing with the cartel guys now. Voices are rising, accusations are flying. A glass shatters somewhere. Someone cocks a gun.
Beccs is still behind the bar, face carefully neutral, but I can see the tension in her shoulders. She's ready to move if she has to.
My entire body is tight and ready.
Come on, you pieces of shit. Keep talking.
I need answers before this turns into a bloodbath. And I need to get my woman the hell out of here the second it does. The room is a powder keg with a lit fuse. And she's standing right in the middle of it.
A few hours later, Rossi and I descend in the private elevator toward the sub-basement of the Consulate, my secret casino, as I call it. The one the public will never see. The nail chair is waiting for a certain Mexican.
I roll my shoulders, cracking my neck. The Mexican is going to talk. Tonight. And whatever he knows about the shipment of women, about Rachel, about the Reapers' involvement, I'm going to rip it out of him.
One nail at a time if I have to.
The earlier standoff at the clubhouse dragged on for what felt like hours, yelling, accusations, guns half-drawn.
I stayed silent, playing the part of disinterested observer while my blood boiled.
The cartel men finally stormed out with threats and promises of returning in force.
Razor, red-faced and paranoid, immediately started his own interrogation of his men.
I had no choice but to sit through it to avoid raising suspicion.
Rattler eventually muttered something about Beccs going to the bathroom.
All eyes turned to her, and my hand reached back for my gun.
Cool as always, Beccs held up her arm. There was a small, deliberate cut, shallow but bleeding just enough to sell the story.
I doubted any of the brain-dead morons caught that it was fresh.
Or maybe I only caught it because I knew she didn't have it when she left the bathroom.
My vision tunneled, and I nearly went fucking feral for a second.
She threw me an apologetic look and stated loudly, "I cut myself on a broken glass.
Went to clean up. We made out," she threw a meaningful look in my direction, "so sue us. "
I forced a lazy shrug, blood still boiling, but I kept my control. She cut herself to have a cover story, and I wasn't about to let it be in vain, no matter how much it pissed me off.
"What can I say… she's irresistible." I played it as cool as she had, but my jaw was set in a hard line.
The Reapers laughed it off. I doubt any of them will bother with a DNA test on a little blood in a bathroom. Still, my jaw was clenched so tight it still aches.
I got us out of there as soon as I could, drove her back to the penthouse myself, and made damn sure there were enough guards posted.
I also berated her and doctored her arm before I left with Rossi.
I'm still pissed that she did that to herself, even as the private elevator descends smoothly into the sub-basement of the Consulate Casino.
When the doors open, the hallway is quiet, sterile, and soundproofed.
Rossi walks a step behind me as we enter the room.
It looks exactly like any other ultra-exclusive private gambling suite: dark wood paneling, soft ambient lighting, a polished felt poker table with six seats, a fully stocked bar in the corner, and expensive artwork on the walls. Nothing about it screams torture chamber. Until you notice the chair.
One custom-made leather chair at the head of the table. Reinforced cuffs at the wrists, ankles, and torso. Hidden apertures throughout the padding. Inside: spring-loaded industrial nail guns. Completely random. Completely merciless.
Rossi drags Juan in a few moments later. The Mexican is groggy but starting to wake up. Rossi secures him efficiently—wrists, ankles, torso—then plants himself silently by the wall like a shadow.
I sit down across from Juan, pick up a fresh deck, and start shuffling. The cards whisper against each other in the quiet room.
Juan's eyes dart around, confusion turning to fear as reality sets in.
"Welcome to my table," I greet him calmly.
Inside, I'm anything but calm. This piece of shit put his hands on Beccs.
He backed her against a sink. Grabbed her wrist. Reached for her like he had any fucking right to touch what's mine.
The memory of seeing his filthy fingers on her skin makes something primal and vicious uncoil in my chest, a dark, murderous rage that wants to tear him apart slowly, piece by bloody piece, before he even feels the first nail.
I picture it again: his hand on her body, that smug fucking smirk on his face, the way he called her puta.
The deck creaks in my grip. He's lucky I need information from him.
Because if it were up to the monster inside me right now, I wouldn't bother with the chair.
I'd start with his hands—the ones that dared to touch her—and make sure he never uses them again.