She studies my face like she’s looking for cracks. “You look exhausted. How bad was the run?”
“Smooth enough,” I lie. “No hits. No tails.”
Her jaw tightens just slightly. “You always say that when it’s bad.” She exhales and looks back at the dogs, but I can feel the question still hanging between us.
Peanut hops from my shoulder to Syvannah’s lap, claws catching lightly on her shirt before settling. Syvannah laughs softly and brushes fur from her collarbone. “Your princess thinks she owns me.”
“She probably does,” I reply, and without thinking, I reach up to flick a piece of cat hair from her shoulder.
My knuckles graze her skin. It’s barely a touch, yet she stills beneath it. So do I.
Syvannah’s breath catches, subtle yet there, and her eyes lift to mine. The city’s noise fades until there’s only the space between us, and it suddenly feels too small.
My hand lingers longer than it should.
There’s a pull in my chest that has nothing to do with protection and everything to do with desire.
Then Syvannah shifts almost imperceptibly, as if bracing for something that isn’t coming. I drop my hand.
“Go inside soon,” I tell her. “Capone’s wound tight, and when he’s like that, the air gets mean.”
She nods, but her fingers curl into Peanut’s fur like she’s grounding herself. “You don’t always have to carry it alone.”
The words land heavily.
Before I can answer, Capone’s voice cuts across the lot. “Church now!”
Syvannah glances up, then sighs. “Guess that’s your cue.”
“Yeah.” I rise, brushing dirt from my jeans. She looks small against the fence, yet strong in a way that guts me.
I leave her with the dogs and head toward the clubhouse. The air shifts as soon as I cross the threshold. It’s thicker, heavier, filled with smoke and adrenaline. The scent of gun oil clings to the walls.
The brothers are already gathering in Church. Trigger’s pacing like a caged wolf. Torch leans against the wall, cracking his knuckles, and Blayze wears that calm expression that fools no one. Derange and Aftermath sit shoulder to shoulder, quiet for once. Red’s got his laptop open, the green light reflecting off his glasses. Capone stands at the head of the table, and his presence alone is enough to shut everyone up.
He doesn’t waste time. “Got a call from San Diego. One of our shipments never made it through. Three trucks. All gone.”
A low curse rolls through the room.
Capone slams a photo onto the table. It’s a man’s neck, charred and carved, the “L” so deep you can see tendon. The smell of scorched flesh is real enough to taste, phantom smoke in my throat.
“Found this on the driver,” Capone says, voice cold. “Lattimer’s back.”
The name settles heavily in my chest. Not just because of what he’s done before, but because men like him don’t just hit shipments. They go after what hurts. My stomach tightens. The bastard should’ve been rotting in the dirt years ago. He’s the kind who doesn’t stay dead long. Too much money, too many devils in his pocket.
Capone’s gaze sweeps the room. “We don’t move blind. Not yet. I want eyes on every route we run. Tiny, you and Dagger take the south line. Blayze and Torch, east. If this is Lattimer’s doing, I want confirmation before we retaliate.”
“Yes, Prez,” I answer automatically, already mapping out miles in my head. Roads I know better than my own reflection.
“Until then,” Capone adds, tone low and final, “nobody rides alone.” He lights a cigarette, inhales, and the smoke curls around the edges of the table like a warning.
The meeting breaks. Boots scuff, voices murmur, the sound of engines starting outside fills the air like distant thunder.
I linger, staring at the photo. The shape of the mark and the angles of the cuts are too clean. Too proud. The burn halo is in perfect symmetry, a craftsman’s cruelty. This is Hellhound work. There’s no mistaking it. I can still smell the motel room from years ago, with motor oil, sweat, and blood turning to rust.
A chill crawls up my spine.
The ghosts I thought I buried might not be done with me yet.