1
XAVIER
The highway belongs to me at night, not by law, but by right. My BMW S1000RR slices through the darkness at 160 miles per hour, the rush of speed narrowing my vision to a pinpoint, singular focus. Some men meditate in silence. I find my clarity in velocity.
Six riders follow behind me in formation. They’re not friends—they’re assets.
The wind whistles through the seams of my leather jacket as I ease back on the throttle, downshifting. The exit ramp approaches, but I don’t signal. They know how to follow.
The warehouse district rises from the industrial fog like a concrete fortress. Cameras track our arrival, red lights blinking in recognition. The massive door begins its ascent before I’ve fully stopped. They know better than to make me wait.
I remove my helmet, running a hand through my hairbefore striding inside. The space falls silent the moment my boots hit the concrete. Twenty men halt their activities, keeping their eyes lowered in deference.
“Report,” I command.
Perez steps forward, folder in hand. “Shipment’s ready, Mr. Blackwood. Three million in product is packaged as instructed.”
I take the folder without acknowledging him, flipping through it. Numbers align. Routes have been confirmed, with a detailed plan B in the event it becomes necessary.
“The Collins situation?” I ask, not looking up.
“Handled.” Perez shifts his weight. “He won’t be speaking to anyone again.”
I close the folder, finally meeting his eyes. “Show me.”
He pulls out his phone and displays a photo, which I examine without expression. The work is clean.
“Good.” I hand the folder back. “Dispose of the devices, and use the new route for the next three shipments.”
The warehouse returns to production, men moving with renewed purpose. Perez nods, relief evident in the slight relaxation of his shoulders.
I walk toward the office in the back, aware of the eyes tracking my movements. Fear, respect, ambition—I can taste each motivation like distinct flavors in the air. Each man calculating his worth, his position, his future under my command.
None dare approach as I unlock the office door. Thered mask sits on my desk where I left it, a reminder of what’s coming in two weeks. The annual Hollow’s Hunt. I pull off my leather jacket and hang it up, settling down to review the numbers.
After about an hour, my phone vibrates in my pocket as I complete my review of the upcoming week’s operations. Vane’s name flashes on the screen. I consider letting it ring—a small reminder that I decide when conversations happen—but answer before the fourth ring.
“What?”
“Hello to you, too, brother,” Vane’s voice drips with sarcasm. “Planning to grace us with your presence tonight? Knox is already three drinks in and making bets with the staff on whether you’ve finally gotten old enough to need a bedtime.”
I check my watch. Nearly midnight. “I’m working.”
“You’re always fucking working. Landon’s on his way. The club’s packed, and I need someone with an actual brain to help me manage Knox before he convinces the bartender to let him stage dive from the VIP balcony again.”
Despite myself, my lips twitch. The last time Knox tried that particular stunt, he’d taken out three cocktail waitresses and a congressman’s son. The cleanup cost me six figures, and it came with a favor I hadn’t wanted to grant.
“Tell our youngest brother I’ll personally ensure his motorcycle suffers a mysterious mechanical failure if he damages my club again.”
“Tell him yourself when you get here.” Vane pauses. “Perez can handle the warehouse. The Russian buyers showed up early with an interesting proposal.”
My interest piques. Vane’s competitive nature makes him insufferable at times, but his instincts for opportunity are rarely wrong.
“Thirty minutes,” I concede.
“Twenty,” Vane counters instantly. Always pushing.
I end the call without responding. He knows I’ll arrive when I choose to.
