“I’ve gotta go,” I murmur into the phone.
“Wait!” Reaper’s voice barks from the other end. “Give the phone to someone in charge and do it now.”
Obediently, I wind down the window and hand the phone to the man. “He wants to talk to you,” I tell him.
With a reluctant sigh, he takes the cell phone from my hand and presses it to his ear. “Yes?” He steps away, pacing as he talks to Reaper, nodding several times. “She’s a reporter?” he says into the phone, then his gaze snaps to mine, assessing. “Boss wants to meet her.” He shakes his head in response to whatever Reaper is saying on the other end. “No can do. The boss wants a meet, so she gets to meet him.” He ends the call and hands me back my phone with a terse, “Let’s go, princess.”
He opens my door, and I slide out, standing awkwardly on the paved driveway.
“You don’t look like a club whore,” he remarks offhandedly.
“And what does a club whore look like?” I retort, my curiosity piqued despite the tension.
“Not like you.” He gestures toward the mansion. “Go inside, turn left, and take a seat in the study. Someone will be with you soon.”
Driven by habit, I clutch my camera a little tighter to my side and follow his instructions, stepping into the mansion’s cool, shadowy interior. My heart races as I navigate through the luxurious yet foreboding space. The moment I step into the room, the sheer size of the wooden desk commands attentionwhile the chair positioned behind it seems pulled straight from a set designer’s dream, its ornate design reminiscent of scenes from a James Bond film. In stark contrast, the guest seat, crafted from the same material, appears almost humble in size.
Raising my camera, I capture the scene before me and swiftly upload the images to the cloud. A soft sound interrupts my focus, and I turn to find a man standing before me, a warm smile gracing his lips.
“Please, take a seat,” he gestures gracefully.
As he settles into his oversized throne-like chair, a grin tugs at my lips at the comical sight of him, engulfed by its grandeur.
“What’s amusing?” he asks, his brow furrowing slightly.
Unable to contain my amusement, a laugh escapes me. “Isn’t it a bit… extravagant?” I remark, motioning toward the elaborate chair. “You look rather… theatrical.”
His expression darkens. “Why were you trailing my associates?”
“I wasn’t,” I protest, my voice tinged with earnestness. “I’m new in Jacksonville, simply finding my bearings.”
“A likely story,” he retorts, skepticism evident in his tone. “Do you often consort with bikers?”
“I told you, I’m still settling in,” I explain, my words tinged with exasperation. “Trying to build connections.”
“Yet you find yourself tailing members of the Royal Bastards,” he observes sharply. “We may be friendly with certain circles, but you… you’re an unknown entity.”
I clutch my camera with a sense of urgency, hoping its presence will lend credibility to my explanation. “I’m a journalist,” I reveal, my voice steady. “I’ve been researching a piece on the Royal Bastards. When your men met with them at the strip club, I saw an opportunity to delve deeper into the story.”
“So, you admit to trailing my associates?” he presses, his gazeunwavering.
“Yes,” I concede, meeting his gaze with resolve. “In pursuit of the truth.”
“Pursuit of what truth, exactly?”
Shifting uneasily in my seat, I clear my throat before speaking, “There’s been a declaration of war against them, an attempt on their president’s life, and a few of their members have been killed. I thought perhaps when they met with your men, there might be some sort of involvement.”
He rises from his chair, a fluid motion that exudes authority, and circles around the desk, extending his hand expectantly for my camera. With a sense of reluctance, I surrender it to him. He deftly navigates its controls, scrutinizing the footage with a furrowed brow before returning it to me.
“We had no part in those events. None whatsoever. Do you understand?”
“Then why the rendezvous with the Royal Bastards?” I press, unable to shake my curiosity.
“This …” he gestures between us, his demeanor resolute, “… is not an interview. You will delete your pictures.” He looks over my head and nods at someone. Turning, I see the back of a man as he walks away. “It seems the Royal Bastards like you. Two of them are at my gates.”
“Only two?”
He barks out a laugh. “You were expecting more?”
