“Kyle took those to East last week, let him know what’s going on,” James says, nodding toward Easton, who’s across the bar, deep in conversation with some blonde. At James’ wave, East scowls but shoves off the bar, pushing the girl away with a smirk. He runs a hand through his brown hair as he makes his way over, pausing just long enough to wink at another woman who gives him a slow, knowing smile. Classic East. He’s never been one to pass up an opportunity.
But the moment he reaches us, his eyes drop to the receipts. His smirk vanishes, replaced by a faint tightening around his jaw. Darkness bleeds into his expression, and when he exhales, it comes out as a low growl. “Fuck.”
He snatches the receipts off the bar, flipping through them as if hoping the numbers will change. They don’t. “We need a meeting.”
That single sentence drops heavily in my stomach. A weight that never comes without consequence.
“Yeah?” I lean against the bar, taking another swig. “How about you start by telling me what the hell’s going on?”
His voice drops to a near whisper. “Kyle brought these to me last week. They’re all Chuck’s.”
My grip tightens around the bottle, knuckles going white. My gaze flickers toward the other side of the bar, where Chuck sits nursing a drink, oblivious. A muscle in my jaw twitches, restraint warring with fury. I don’t even glance in his direction. If I do, I won’t be able to hold back.
Then her voice slices through the static in my head—soft, steady, impossible to ignore.You only see what you want to see.
Is this what she meant? The quiet rot under our noses? Chuck, unraveling in plain sight while I convinced myself everything was fine? While I told myself I had control? She knew. Covered for him. Stood there, proud and small while burning with something I couldn’t name. Maybe this is why. Maybe this is what’s been eating her alive while we all looked the other way. And maybe I let myself look away, too.
“How many months?”
East exhales, bracing himself. “Three.”
With no hesitation, I snatch the receipts off the counter, my decision already made. “Table. Now.”
Turning, I knock twice on the bar to get Kyle’s attention. He glances up from pouring a drink, and I slide a hundred-dollar bill across the counter. “Good work.”
He nods, pocketing the cash without a word. I don’t wait. I don’t cool down. We have business to handle. And Chuck’s about to find out exactly what happens when you start slipping.
He was there when we built this. One of the first. But no one’s untouchable. Not when their fall threatens to take someone else—her—with them.
The meeting room fills with the steady scrape of chairs against the floor as the officers take their places around the table. These aren’t the full club meetings; those happen once a month and include every patched member. This is just officers. A tighter circle. Tighter stakes. Knox, my vice president, settles to my left, his usual unreadable expression in place. To my right, Nash—our enforcer—leans back in his chair, arms crossed, exuding the quiet intensity that makes him lethal.
The air thickens as the door clicks shut. It’s a subtle shift, the kind that settles in just before a fight. Wood grain, cigarette ash, sweat, and something colder: reckoning.
“Hell of a fight tonight,” Nash says, his voice low but approving as we wait for East to round everyone up.
I arch a brow. “Didn’t know you were gonna be there.”
I caught a glimpse of him just before I stepped into the ring, but by the time I was out, he was gone. He only shrugs in response, offering nothing.
I glance at Knox, and he shakes his head slightly.Right.
Nash doesn’t lie. He just doesn’t volunteer the truth. I clock the look he gave one of the ring girls—interest, restraint, something haunted. We’ve all got our tells.
I grind my teeth, keeping my irritation in check. Nash wasn’t there for the fight. He was there forher. One of the girls who works the underground fights has his full attention, whether he’ll admit it or not.
The door swings open, and East steps in. The low murmur of conversation dies as they take their seats, the air in the room shifting into something heavier. Waiting.
The silence isn’t empty. It’s loaded. Every man here knows what’s coming, even if he doesn’t know the shape of it yet.
So I don’t waste time. “I learned something tonight that needs to be addressed.” I nod toward East. “Fill them in.”
East exhales, rubbing his thumb and forefinger over his mustache before leaning forward.
“The prospect came to me a couple weeks ago with some unpaid tabs.” His voice is even, but his eyes flick to mine for the briefest second. If he can’t tell from my expression that he’s gonna get his ass handed to him after this meeting, he’s slipping. “They’re Chuck’s. Almost two hundred dollars.”
The tension tightens, coiling around us with suffocating precision.
A chair creaks. Someone shifts in their seat. The undercurrent of the room turns sharp.
