Saint was always enough.
Rocco coughed, wincing from the impact of the concrete beneath him. “What? I’m not supposed to know his fucking name?”
“Start saying shit that makes sense,” Saint growled. “Or I’ll let him have you.”
Let me. Though, it was fair that he was the only one who could stop me killing this idiot.
Alexei could stop you.
Lucky me.
LuckyRocco. He took the breath Saint allowed him. “Frank’s brother has a son. Butch. He showed up six months ago with the nomad crew and told us Buchanan and his dad were best mates. Grew up together—”
He ran out of air, spluttering again, and curiosity outgunned the rage clouding my vision. “Let him speak.”
Saint squeezed his neck tighter, then eased off, keeping his knee jammed in Rocco’s ribs.
Rocco snatched another breath. “The deal with the cartel and Sambini—it all came from whatever went down up north fucking years ago. I thought it was King bullshit. Never knew we were involved too.”
King bullshit. Two words that described a sequence of events that had destroyed my entire family a hundred times over.
A stack of pallets lay three feet behind me. I backed up and perched on it, needing every ounce of equilibrium to think straight. “Thatbullshitgot my dad killed. It’s why we’re standing here instead of him and his brothers, so you’d better be damn sure you know what you’re talking about.”
“Cam, I wish I didn’t. I wish this shit was all yours and nothing to do with my club, but we’re as stained by it as you are.”
“How?”
Rocco squirmed in Saint’s hold.
Saint sneered but sensed my intentions before I did and let him sit up.
“Start from the beginning,” I said. “Make this make sense.”
“I’ll try.” Rocco sat back, letting his hands fall behind him. “Buchanan was your dirty president, right? The one who set up trafficking runs from the ports in the north?”
I nodded.
Rocco continued. “If Butch is telling the truth, then the whole operation was facilitated by an alliance between Buchanan’s chapter and his dad’s nomad crew of Crows. They rode protection for the runs, paid off the feds with cartel money, and found buyers for the merchandise—”
“Girls,” Nash snapped.
“It wasn’t just girls.” Bile rose in my throat. “The last run my dad derailed had six teenage boys huddled in the back.”
Rocco swallowed. “I’m sorry, man. I’m just trying to explain.”
“Get on with it then.”
“You can probably guess the rest. The nomads and Buchanan split the profits from the cartel until the founding chapters of the Kings found out about it. You had a civil war. Your dad shut everything down. But he never knew the Crows had played any part in it, which means these fuckers have spent every year since trying to get back what they lost. Until last year, it was Avery Crow, Butch’s dad, so it didn’t matter so much because he was a useless cunt. Then he died and Butch took over.”
“He’s not a useless cunt?”
Rocco shook his head. “Him and Frank were working the trafficking mission together. It was Butch’s idea to approach Sambini for muscle and resources while they worked with the cartel to shut you down for good. The way they saw it, it was a win for everyone.”
I ground my teeth. “How did you see it?”
“Doesn’t matter. I got voted down. But shit, Cam, I need you to know that I had no fucking clue where all this came from or where it was going. I didn’t know we were tied to the trafficking routes or trying to open them up again. Only Frank and Drummer knew, and it was them who set up the deal with your secretary.”
Cracker. My brain hurt. So many enemies, all wanting my head in exchange for the lives of hundreds of trafficked teenagers. “Let me get this straight: Butch’s daddy was in bed with Mitchell Buchanan. Now they’re both gone, he wants a piece of the pie no fucker should want to eat?”