Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
GRAFF
The Rumjacks sang an apropos theme song for today’s shitshow in my single earbud—“Saints Preserve Us.” I had one ear free to monitor what went down between the MC and the cartel, but I hunched over my sketchbook. As I dragged my pencil in an arced line across the paper, I couldn’t help but think how I agreed with the song’s chorus.
All the assholes I’d encountered since this morning, present cartel company included, were absolutely frying my nerves.
I peeked over my shoulder at all the posturing. No violence yet, so I kept my head bent, the Celtic punk on my earbuds a low hum. I tried to act natural—art and music—but the potential bloodbath made me hyperaware of the gun sizzling against my skin.
My grip tightened on the pencil, even as Sas leaned his weight onto the table, whispering to the Rojases in hushed, urgent tones. The rest of the members and prospects encroached on the table with every pencil stroke I made. Like them, I also wondered what the fuck Sas had gotten the club into.
Unfortunately, it didn’t matter, because with Angel’s decision to stay in Park Ridge, Sas was the highest-ranking patched member in LA. Regardless, Angel, Wilde, and the other voting members allowed the deal to continue once Beans showed them the financial upside.
I didn’t have a vote at the time, and I couldn’t really fault anyone for the decision because no one anticipated the Gambinos would blow up the warehouse or that the Parisis were planning a takeover of La Famiglia in the Yuma Triangle. Now that Wilde made our MC structure more official, I did have a vote, but I couldn’t say how I would’ve voted on the deal.
No one understood the deal Sas had made—except him and Mav, a prospect who’d been shot and killed when the Mafia raided our PacWest warehouse to save Signora’s son. That death sat on Angel’s shoulders, and Angel would forever owe Duchess for sending her only son to his grave.
Thank fuck I hadn’t been in his shoes.
Fast forward to now, and the cartel came into our home and acted like they owned the place.
Owned us .
The pencil cracked in my grip, and I opened my fist to let it fall on top of the drawing of all the people gathered here.
All the shit that’d gone down to date left us in a precarious situation with the MC wedged between the Medellín Cartel and the Mafia. Adelina’s presence made it even more tenuous. And her feistiness didn’t help.
Did Parisi know the danger he had put his daughter in? Did he care?
A new song started up in my ear: “She’s Kerosene.”
Yeah, that’s exactly what Adelina was—fuel to the fire.
Hopefully, the cartel hadn’t gotten a whiff of who she was in the Southwest’s criminal underworld. Sas had shut her down when she tried to speak up. Good thing too, because put in that place, she could pass as a new bunny. The worst they’d do if they thought she was a new sweetbutt was to try to fuck her.
That almost made me laugh—almost. She’d been less than agreeable with us so far, so that would probably turn into rape. And then, we’d have to slaughter these three. I had been looking forward to the evening fire, and really wasn’t up for burying more bodies today.
The risks we faced with the Rojas brothers was probably worse if they thought Adelina was anyone’s old lady. That knowledge would be a target on her back. If they knew she was the Don’s daughter, who knew what shit Caz, Acero, and el Fantasma would do?
Speaking of the devils, their leader, Caz, leaned back on two chair legs and kicked his cowboy boots up on our table with eyes narrowed on Sas. “Double our money is tempting, amigo.”
Our VP scowled at Caz, not moving a visible muscle. But I glanced down. Under the table, his heel bounced, the only tell that he was out of his depth.
The door to the rooms on the west side of the warehouse slid open, and out stalked Rafe, dropping his leather jacket on the back of an empty chair. Most of our brothers’ heads swiveled to watch as he took a stance with his back to the wall, arms crossed over his chest and feet wide. The recognizable military tattoos on his arms poked out from beneath the sleeves hugging his biceps, and the distinctive dog tag–chain he still wore disappeared below the neck.
Not many of us in this MC had served in the armed forces. There were other MCs for that—savior clubs. He’d probably be a better fit there, where most members didn’t belong to the one percent club. Then again, I didn’t expect many men in the Mafia families served either.
So, why had he joined the Marines?
He must’ve been running from something. Maybe like I had been when I came to this MC.
I picked up the broken half of my pencil with the lead and started sketching Rafe into the mix on the page, carefully shading the hairline to make sure it accurately reflected his military high-and-tight cut and square jawline. Rafe had been so quiet since coming to the Ridge, I wondered if it was his norm or because of the arrangement Massimo had made. He did seem like a good little guard dog for Adelina.
Instead of putting the tags inside his shirt, I drew them on full display.
Cazador turned back to Sas, Beans, and the Warden.
But his brother, el Fantasma, nudged him with an elbow. “Caz, man, is double good enough for el Tigre? He said?—”
“Zip it, Jose,” snapped Caz, giving his brother a cold look. Then, he pursed his lips, thinking. “Fact remains: you’ve lost our product.”
“The fucking Mafia blew it up,” Sas gritted out.
Did he realize he cut a glance at Rafe over by the wall? Fortunately, I don’t think the brothers thought twice about that little slip.
“You think that matters to el Tigre?” Caz asked, tilting his head.
Sas’s nostrils flared as he took a deep breath. “And that’s why I’m offering you more compensation.”
El Fantasma and Acero met Caz’s gaze and shook their heads.
“Not good enough,” said Caz. “This isn’t our decision anymore. El Tigre has some non-monetary needs I think you can help with.”
Sas stiffened as the air changed in the room. “There’s nothing else we have to compensate your boss down in Colombia. The MC doesn’t have connections there.” He glanced over at Rafe again.
“True enough man.” Caz dropped his feet and the chair to the floor, then stood.
The gun was heavy at my lower back, but I wouldn’t be the fastest to pull it. I never was. I wasn’t an enforcer and didn’t get pulled into brawls on the regular, because I wielded a tattoo gun better than the real thing. But my brothers—patched and prospect—were rocking up the balls of their feet and back on their heels, a potential fight blooming. For this one, I would be at their side.
Sas towered over Caz, but that didn’t seem to faze the man. In fact, he reached up and straightened Sas’s cut, then brushed his Vice President patch like he was cleaning off the dust.
The cartel brother then dusted off the table where his boots had been. “You see, Sas—is it?”
He knew damn well that was his name, and I caught the blood flushing into our VP’s cheeks. The prospects Merry and Pip both reached for their backs and paused.
Caz continued, “We don’t communicate with the boss while we’re in the States.” He cast his gaze over to the Warden. “Too easy to intercept those comms, right?”
Ward leaned back, crossing his thick arms over his chest. He didn’t have a tell that answered for him, but just the mention had to put him on higher alert.
Cazador chuckled. “El Tigre trusts us to make deals on his behalf. And with good reason.”
Acero spouted off something in Spanish.
Caz smirked up at Sas. “If we make a bad decision, we die, as Acero points out.”
“Isn’t doubling your profits a good decision,” said Ghost, one of the three new prospects. His eyes stretched wide as he looked around at everyone present, but all the patched members in the room seemed to collectively roll their eyes.
I half expected him to start apologizing profusely. Kid was too fucking eager. Sas glared at him hard enough to make him focus on his boots.
“Counteroffer, amigo.” Not a question, but Caz left it out there like it was.
Sas nodded.
“Smart,” Caz smiled and bobbled his head, then in an instant turned stone-faced. “El Tigre is looking to gain control of the ports in Baranquilla.”
“The fuck is Baranquilla?” asked Sas, scowling.
“Port city, yo. On the east coast. If Boss gets control, it opens new shipping lanes. More trade possibilities. Way more than double our investment in your”—he looked around with a shit-eating grin—“little brat pack here.”
Sas lunged, but Rafe, as quick and silent as a fox, blocked him with a shoulder in his chest. Sas might have a good head on Rafe, but the ex-Marine was solid as fuck.
Acero and el Fantasma took a step forward, but Caz threw out both his arms, holding them back. “This is where the deal comes in,” said Caz, still grinning as though he fed on Sas’s frustration. “The other cartels will see us coming before we step a foot in the city. That territory belongs to the Baranquilla Cartel and el Comandante.”
Rafe mumbled something to Sas, and our VP backed away.
Rafe faced the cartel’s mouthpiece. “We can’t do that.”
Other eyes pointed at Rafe, not Sas’s though.
I gritted my teeth and kept shading my drawing. Decisions about that weren’t made outside Church, so we needed to buy some time. Rafe probably understood that with the hierarchies in the military.
“Back down,” Ward ordered Rafe, but the Marine captain shook his head.
“Enough,” ordered Sas, cutting them off. His expression had returned to complete stone, letting Cazador Rojas’s insults wash off his back.
I scratched a jagged lightning bolt down the center of my drawing, between the MC and the cartel, reflecting the way his single booming word sliced through the thick tension in the clubhouse. At some point, Duchess, the only one of the club girls who’d stayed, left the room.
Good thing too. This mess was for the men, and especially the one who’d gone rogue and made the deal in the first place. I liked Sas well enough, but his ambition before had landed us in this mess.
Thankfully, Adelina wasn’t here.
El Fantasma—the phantom—slapped his hands onto the table. “Where’s the toilet?”
Sas stepped in front of him when he headed toward the door to the bunnies’ rooms.
The phantom grinned. “Unless you want me pissing on the floor.”
“Do it, dog,” muttered one of my brothers, and somehow, the Rojases didn’t chomp. They were bloodhounds that had only scented Sas’s blood and thirsted for more.
“By the entrance, first door on the left,” said Sas, and el Fantasma wandered off, glancing at the walls like it was an art gallery.
The only art was mine. Most of my brothers didn’t pay attention to it, but Duchess told me everyone liked it when I added a new piece. It added some color to all the gray, most of the time. Except that one piece on the wall in the stairwell down to the gym and prisoner hole. I never looked at that one, because it reminded me too much of where I grew up.
“So.” Caz clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “We have a deal?”
“No,” said Rafe.
Sas raised his hand to cut him off. Maybe this was how the Mafia operated, but Rafe needed to keep his mouth shut. He didn’t get a vote here. Not, at least, in front of the cartel. No one did.
“We need to talk it through with the officers,” said Sas in an even tone.
Caz laughed along with his brother Acero. “I didn’t realize you had a little democracy here. I thought you did whatever the putas wanted.”
A roar rose up amongst the guys. We didn’t speak Spanish, but everyone in LA knew that word. Caz referred to our sweetbutts as whores, and no one talked about our property that way. The MC members faced the Rojas brothers, ready for a fight.
Me included; I let the pencil and earbuds drop and joined the line of my brothers. The Rojases were outnumbered, but cartels and gangs weren’t unusual in the LA area. We’d faced the AX3 before, and these three wouldn’t be too hard to take down. But no one wanted the mess in our house.
If a fight broke out, there would be far more carnage than a few drops of blood.
“Oh, look.” Caz chuckled and Acero’s laughter howled behind him. “The putas travel in a pack.”
Ah, hell. He wasn’t referring to our bunnies, but us. One of the prospects—fucking Ghost again—took a step forward.
Sas slammed his hand against his chest, backing him up a pace. “Hold it, prospect.” At least our VP had leveled his temper.
When el Fantasma returned from the restroom and joined his brothers, they stood off against our riders. I had a flashback that almost made me laugh out loud. That stupid movie my mom used to love. What was it?
Oh, yeah. The Jets facing off against the Sharks in West Side Story . Maybe they’d all break out in song. Rumbled whispers started going up around the room.
Until Sas shouted again, “E-fucking-nough!”
Silence settled over the warehouse.
Sas continued, “No deal until we can hash it out with the other officers.”
The brothers mumbled in Spanish amongst themselves, then Caz said, “Can’t do anything without the Prez’s blessing. Guess I gotta respect.”
The same could be said for the cartel. The Rojas brothers were only the mouthpiece for El Tigre, but they were at liberty to act on their own—vigilante style.
Lifting his chin, Caz said, “You got three days. Payment in full for the shipment, or you help us take over Baranquilla territory. Let’s go, brothers.” He led the way toward the front door, but then stopped. Acero and el Fantasma kept walking.
Sas pinched his eyes shut and seethed but didn’t turn to watch them leave.
Before reaching the door, Caz turned around with his arms spread wide. “Or we can go the bloody route, amigo. Your call.” He winked and left.
We stood in terse silence until the door slammed shut behind the Rojas brothers. Then the voices ticked up again, each pelting Sas with a jumble of questions and accusations.
Rafe moved back to his post against the wall.
I sauntered back to my seat at the island and plugged my ears with both earbuds this time. The chorus of “Under the Bridge” by the Chili Peppers blared as I turned up the volume and picked up my pencil and sketchbook.
Sas bellowed over the din of voices, loud enough to cut through my music too, “Get the fire going out back and make sure there’s enough beer on ice.” He marched through the crowd to the basement door. Apparently, he needed to hit something in the ring downstairs.
The crowd dispersed. Hopefully, getting ready for the evening party would keep them out of trouble for a couple hours.
Sas paused at the island and glanced down at my sketch of the scene that just transpired. “That’s fucking fire.”
I glanced at it and shrugged as Sas shot an acerbic look back at Rafe, who stood there with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Don’t ever do that again,” said Sas. “You are a patched member and officer, but you follow my lead. Read me?”
Rafe looked every bit the badass Marine, stoic and ready for battle, like he was still in a war zone even though he had come back to the real world. So why the hell would he have an issue with following orders?
Sas marched over to the door and threw it open. The VP tipped his head toward the basement and said something, but the music blared in my ears, erasing the sound. Then he disappeared down the stairs, leaving the door open—a silent order for Rafe to follow. The military man, however, didn’t move immediately.
If Rafe was supposed to jump, he obviously didn’t view Sas as someone worthy of jumping for. And I got an eerie feeling that every response out of the ex-Marine was about Adelina.