Ghost.
We’ve only crossed paths with the bastard once. It was last year, before everything with the Steel Slayers went nuclear. The Castellano Cartel handles our weapons without issue, smooth and reliable, but we’d been hunting for a new drug supplier. Kaiko had stepped forward when we needed options, calm as hell, telling us he knew someone who could deliver.
Kaiko doesn’t get doubted. Not after Mad Dog vetted him.
If Mad Dog hadn’t cleared him personally before we lost him, there’s no universe where we’d have trusted Kaiko with club business. Mad Dog didn’t miss shit. The man had instincts like a damn bloodhound. When he and Gavel stamped someone safe, that was it. Done. No arguments.
Kaiko earned his spot fast. It still floors me that he hasn’t prospected yet. He was our first driver when Claspers Logistics was just a wild idea and a gamble. Now the trucks never sleep, hauling freight for anyone with enough cash and a pulse.
There are rules. Not many, but the ones we have are ironclad. We don’t traffic people. Hard fucking limit. No one uses our businesses for that either. Not Claspers Logistics. Not Nauti Nibbles. Not The Body Shop. Nothing tied to the Saint’s Outlaws. The idea alone sends a low, ugly irritation crawling under my skin.
“Where do we stand on opening the gator farm in the swamplands?”
I pull the folder from my stack and flip it open, paper whispering beneath my fingers. “The land cleared yesterday. Pretty Boy handled the closing costs. The deed’s buried under shell companies so deep it’d take a damn miracle to trace back to the club. Cypher said they’d have to be smarter than him to break through his walls, and no one is.”
Pope takes the paperwork, eyes scanning, mouth curving slowly. “Let’s get our contractors out there.” He passes the papers back to me. “Anyone have anything else they want to bring forth?”
“Snow.”
Butcher’s head snaps toward me so fast his chair groans, his grin collapsing into a vicious scowl. I don’t even bother looking at him.
“All of us have tasted what she makes. It’s really fucking good. Sells out constantly. Marigold says there are days they’re wiped clean before the doors even fully open.” My pen taps once against the folder. “Snow doesn’t have enough kitchen space in the diner. She’s baking out of her cottage and hauling everything in.”
Pope’s gaze settles on me, lazy and assessing. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying we’d be idiots not to invest in a bakery and let her run it.”
Pope nods slowly, eyes drifting to the ceiling as he balances his chair back on two legs, as if gravity is optional for him. The damn thing wobbles beneath his size. Big ass man. Small ass chair. Physics itself must be sweating bullets.
He drops back down with a solid thud and looks towards Pretty Boy. “We have the money to make it work?”
Pretty Boy’s fingers fly over the keyboard and mousepad before he looks over the top of the screen. “We’re good. Ran the numbers from Nauti Nibbles. It’d be a solid investment, Prez.”
“Find us a location,” Pope tells me.
“Will do.”
“If that’s it, we have our families waiting for us in the common room, brothers.” Pope pushes to his feet after banging the gavel and stretches like a damn predator waking from a nap. “What do you say we go spend the day with them?”
Chairs scrape, and boots hit the floor. Voices rise as we file out of the chapel. I lose myself in conversation with Ducky, content for a moment, then I hear it.
That laugh. Soft, bright, and unmistakable.
Her laugh weaves through the chaos of the common room and curls around my spine like warm hands. My head snaps toward the sound before I even think, drawn by a pull that borders on obsession.
And there she is. Marigold. She leans against the wall next to Birdie, looking like she owns every breath in the place.
My pulse skips, then slams against my ribs with a force that leaves me breathless.
Her shorts hug her golden thighs, denim frayed to perfection, every worn edge a temptation. A white T-shirt knots at her hip, fabric taut, revealing a sly flash of skin that hijacks my gaze before I can stop it. Black combat boots bristling with spikes armor her feet, making my lips twitch with pride. I gave them to her for her birthday, and she’s barely taken them off since.
A fierce, possessive heat twists low in my gut at the sight.
Her eyes snap up, locking onto mine. For a heartbeat, something wild and predatory flickers there, a shadowy glint that vanishes as quickly as it came. In its place, that playful sparkle returns, bright and teasing, as if the darkness was just a mirage. Marigold grins, slow and wicked, wiggling her fingers at me before turning back to Birdie.
As if she hadn’t just stolen the breath from my lungs.
As if she hadn’t just set every nerve ending in me alight.