Page 21

Azrael

One Week Later

I leaned against the back wall, arms folded across my chest, watching as Charming took his place at the head of the table. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting harsh shadows across the faces of my brothers. Nobody spoke. We all knew why we’d been called here tonight.

Every office and patched member of the Devil’s Boneyard gathered around the table. Some sat, others stood. A few nursed beers, but most remained sober, understanding the gravity of tonight’s meeting.

Charming cleared his throat, and the room went silent. Even the ice in the glasses stopped clinking.

“Brothers, it’s done. Balal Quadir’s body has been shipped back to his people in Tel Aviv. A clear message that the Devil’s Boneyard doesn’t fuck around when someone threatens one of our own.”

Murmurs of approval rippled through the room. I nodded, feeling a cold satisfaction settle in my gut. Balal had deserved worse than what we gave him, but time constraints meant we couldn’t get too creative. In the end, Ripper had been the one to kill him. As much as I’d wanted to do it, Charming had thought I should step back since the man was technically part of my family.

“Mazida is safe,” Charming continued. “Her brother won’t be trying to drag her back to Israel anymore. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”

I caught Gator’s eye across the room. His face remained impassive, but I caught the slight twitch of his lips. Mazida had been his to protect since the moment she’d stepped onto our compound.

“The question now,” Charming said, leaning forward and planting his palms on the table, “is how we prevent this kind of shit from happening again. We’ve got other women under our protection. We need to make sure no one gets any ideas about coming after what’s ours.”

“What are you suggesting?” one of the newer members asked from the far end of the table.

Charming’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Enhanced security protocols. More men on rotation at the compound gates. Background checks on anyone who comes within a mile of our properties. And” -- he paused, scanning the room – “stronger alliances with clubs who’ve proven themselves trustworthy, and perhaps finding some new allies.”

The last part caused a few eyebrows to raise.

“Which clubs?” I asked, straightening from my position against the wall.

Charming nodded at me. “The Dixie Reapers for one. Thanks to Scratch and Irish, we already have ties with them. Through Stripes, we’re connected to the Devil’s Fury. But there are other clubs in Florida. Ones closer to home, and some as far south as Miami.”

I had a feeling he meant the Twisted Tides MC when he mentioned Miami. They’d helped out the Reapers recently. Now they were on Charming’s radar.

“I’m putting it to a vote,” Charming announced. “All in favor of implementing the new security measures, tap your fists.”

The sound of knuckles against wood filled the room as nearly every man signaled his approval. Only two abstained, both newer Prospects who hadn’t earned voting rights yet.

“And the alliances?” Charming continued.

This time, the response was slower, more measured. Men exchanged glances, weighing the implications. Finally, knuckles began rapping against the wooden surface, mine included. The rhythm was less unified but no less determined.

“It’s settled then,” Charming said, satisfaction evident in his voice. “I’ll reach out to the clubs tomorrow. We’ll start working out the details.”

The tension in the room eased slightly, but I knew we weren’t done. There were other matters to discuss, other consequences of our actions against Balal that needed addressing.

As if reading my thoughts, Stripes pushed himself away from the metal pillar he’d been leaning against and stepped forward.

“I have news,” he announced, his gravelly voice carrying across the room. “My contacts in Tel Aviv have confirmed that Balal’s associates have backed down. They’re claiming no knowledge of his ‘unauthorized expedition’ to retrieve his sister.” Stripes made air quotes around the words, his contempt evident.

“They’re letting him swing in the wind?” someone asked.

Stripes nodded. “ Da . Apparently, Balal acted without permission from his superiors. They don’t want trouble with American MCs. Bad for business.”

A wave of dark laughter rolled through the room. Glasses clinked as men raised their drinks in sardonic toasts.

“Fucking typical,” I muttered, though loud enough for those nearby to hear. “Guess his friends weren’t as loyal as he thought.”

“No honor among thieves,” Stripes agreed, his blue eyes twinkling with grim amusement. “Except us, of course.”

More laughter, genuine this time. The brotherhood we shared might be built on violence and intimidation to the outside world, but among ourselves, loyalty was everything. Balal had never understood that. He’d seen Mazida as property, something to be controlled. We saw her as family from the moment I’d claimed her daughter.

“What about the Israeli family?” another brother asked. “They still a threat?”

Stripes shook his head. “Not for now. They’ve got their hands full with some internal power struggle. Balal’s death actually works in their favor. One less contender for the throne.”

I exchanged a look with Charming. We both knew better than to trust the calm. In our world, threats never truly disappeared. They just retreated until a better opportunity presented itself.

“We’ll keep our eyes open,” Charming said, echoing my thoughts. “But for now, it seems we’ve bought ourselves some breathing room.”

The relief in the room was palpable. Men’s shoulders relaxed, postures eased. The past few weeks had been a constant state of high alert, with everyone pulling double shifts to ensure Mazida’s safety and prepare for potential retaliation from Balal’s associates.

“One more thing,” Charming said, his tone shifting to something lighter. “I think it’s time we had ourselves a proper celebration. It’s been too damn long since this club had anything to feel good about.”

A chorus of agreement rose from the assembled men. The prospect of letting loose after weeks of tension was enough to bring genuine smiles to even the hardest faces.

“Tomorrow night,” Charming continued. “Full patch members and their women only. Tell your old ladies to dust off their party clothes. Prospects will man the gate and the bar.”

The meeting began to break up naturally then, men drifting into smaller groups, conversations shifting from club business to personal matters. I moved toward the bar in the main room, suddenly craving something stronger than beer.

As I poured myself two fingers of whiskey, I felt a presence beside me. Gator reached for a bottle of bourbon, his expression more relaxed than I’d seen it in weeks.

“You good?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

He nodded, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Better than good, brother.”

I understood. With Balal dead and his organization backing off, Mazida was truly free for the first time since she’d arrived in our world. And that meant Gator could finally move forward with what had been building between them.

“Glad to hear it,” I said, raising my glass in a silent toast.

Around us, the clubhouse hummed with renewed energy. Men who’d been wound tight for weeks were finally unwinding, the weight of constant vigilance lifting from their shoulders. Tomorrow we’d celebrate properly, but tonight, this moment of quiet satisfaction was enough.

I sipped my whiskey and watched my brothers, feeling a fierce pride surge through me. We’d faced a threat and eliminated it, protecting our own in the process. In our world, there was no greater victory.

Beer flowed freely now, glasses clinking and bottles hissing as caps were twisted off. I stood near the corner, rolling my shoulders to release the tension that had built there during the formal proceedings. Around me, my brothers laughed and cursed, their voices growing louder with each passing minute. The threat was gone. Balal was dead. For the first time in weeks, we could breathe without looking over our shoulders.

Charming had moved to a worn leather couch against the far wall, deep in conversation with two of our oldest members. The lines around his eyes had softened, the perpetual furrow between his brows smoothed out by relief and good bourbon. He caught my eye across the room and raised his glass in a silent salute. I nodded back, acknowledging what we both knew -- we’d dodged a bullet this time.

“Fuck, it feels good to be off high alert,” said a voice to my right. I turned to find Stripes beside me, nursing a glass of clear liquid that I knew wasn’t water.

“Been a while since anyone had a full night’s sleep,” I agreed, tipping my glass back and letting the last of the whiskey slide down my throat.

Stripes chuckled, the sound like gravel underfoot. “You know what they say. No rest for the wicked. And we are very wicked men, my friend.”

I couldn’t argue with that. The things Ripper had done to Balal before sending his body back to Tel Aviv would have turned a regular person’s stomach. I’d participated without hesitation, until Charming had pulled me back. My only regret being that we couldn’t make it last longer. The man had planned to force his own sister back into a life of servitude, had threatened our club, had broken our unspoken code. Death had been a mercy he hadn’t deserved.

The celebration was gaining momentum around us. Someone had cranked up the music, and classic rock battled with the growing volume of conversation. Two Prospects worked behind the bar, keeping glasses filled and collecting empties, eager to prove their worth even during a party.

I noticed Gator standing slightly apart, staring into his untouched whiskey. Unlike the rest of us, he seemed to be growing more tense rather than less as the night progressed. His jaw worked back and forth, a sure sign he was chewing on something in his mind.

“What’s going on with him?” I asked Stripes, nodding toward Gator.

Stripes’ face creased into a knowing smile. “Ah. I think our friend is gathering his courage.”

“For what?”

“Watch and see,” Stripes said, tapping the side of his nose.

As if he’d heard us, Gator suddenly downed his whiskey in one swallow and set the glass on the nearest flat surface. He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. Then, with a deliberate stride, he moved toward the center of the room.

The change in his bearing was subtle but impossible to miss if you knew what to look for. This was something I’d rarely seen in him before -- the man beneath the cut, stepping forward with something personal on the line.

He didn’t speak at first, just stood there, his presence gradually drawing attention. One by one, conversations died down as brothers noticed him standing there, waiting. Within a minute, the room had quieted enough that the only sounds were the low hum of the jukebox and the distant rumble of motorcycles on the highway outside.

“Got something to say, brother?” Charming asked, breaking the silence.

Gator nodded, his gaze scanning the room, taking in each face before he spoke. When he finally did, his voice was lower and more measured than usual, forcing everyone to lean in slightly to catch his words.

“You all know what we’ve been dealing with,” he began. “Balal Quadir and his threat to Mazida.”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room. Everyone knew. Everyone had played their part in ensuring her safety and Balal’s demise.

“What you might not know,” Gator continued, “is that I asked Mazida a question yesterday. Asked her what she wanted, now that she’s truly free.”

The room went completely silent then. I could hear my own heartbeat, could feel the collective breath being held. It wasn’t often that a brother laid himself bare like this, showing vulnerability in front of the club.

Gator’s lips curved into the beginning of a smile, something so genuine it transformed his face.

“Mazida has agreed to be mine,” he announced, the pride in his voice unmistakable. “She’s chosen to stay, not just under our protection, but as my woman.”

The roar that followed nearly shook the foundations of the clubhouse. Men surged forward, slapping Gator on the back, offering congratulations and crude jokes in equal measure. Bottles were raised, toasts shouted over the din. The celebration that had been building suddenly found its focal point, its reason to explode into something wilder and more joyous.

I hung back, watching as my brothers surrounded Gator. At sixty-six, he’d been a confirmed bachelor for as long as I’d known him. Women came and went in his life, but none had been granted old lady status. None had been important enough to announce to the club. Until Mazida.

“Did you know?” I asked Stripes, who remained beside me, watching the celebration with the same detached amusement.

“I suspected,” he replied. “The way he looked at her… man my age recognizes that look.” He tapped his chest. “It starts here, not lower. The kind that changes a man for good.”

I nodded, thinking about the transformation I’d witnessed in Gator over the past few days. When Mazida had first arrived, Gator had been just another brother offering security. But something had changed between them during those long watches, those tense days when Balal’s threat hung over all of us.

“She’s good for him,” I said, surprised to find I meant it.

“ Da ,” Stripes agreed. “And he for her. A woman like that, one who grew up knowing only control and fear, needs a man who understands strength is not about dominance. Much like her first love, I’m sure.”

Charming had made his way to Gator now, pulling him into a brief but fierce embrace before stepping back to speak. I couldn’t hear the words over the noise, but the respect in his posture told me all I needed to know. This wasn’t just a celebration of a brother finding his woman -- it was a celebration of everything the club stood for. Protection. Loyalty. Family.

The party shifted into a higher gear after that. More bottles appeared, music got louder, laughter became more raucous. The weight that had been pressing on all of us hadn’t just lifted -- it had been flung away, replaced by a collective sense of triumph.

I pushed away from the wall, deciding to offer my own congratulations to Gator. As I made my way across the room, I noticed the men had broken into smaller clusters, their body language relaxed but energized. In one corner, three brothers were animatedly discussing plans for expanded security at the compound gates. Near the pool table, another group speculated about the fallout in Tel Aviv from Balal’s death. Everywhere, beneath the celebration, was the unspoken acknowledgment: we had faced a threat and eliminated it, together.

Gator spotted me approaching and broke away from the group surrounding him.

“About time you stopped lurking in the shadows,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder hard enough to make me grateful for the solid muscle there.

“Just enjoying the show,” I replied. “Congratulations, brother. Didn’t think anyone would ever pin your ass down.”

Gator’s laugh was genuine, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Neither did I. But Mazida…” He shook his head, suddenly at a loss for words.

“She’s something special,” I finished for him.

“That she is.” I’d never heard softness in his voice like that before. “Know what she said when I asked her? Said she’d never thought she’d want to settle down again, that she’d thought Carter was her one and only. Said I made her believe she deserved better than gathering dust like an unwanted toy.”

I nodded, understanding the significance. “She’s right.”

“Damn straight she is,” Gator agreed. “You know, when it came to ending Balal, I heard you were particularly creative with the knife.”

I shrugged, not bothering to deny it. “Man threatens one of ours, he gets what’s coming.”

“One of ours,” Gator repeated, satisfaction evident in his tone. “That’s exactly what she is now.”

More brothers approached then, pulling Gator back into the celebration. I drifted toward the bar, grabbed another beer, and found myself beside Charming, who was watching the proceedings with the satisfied air of a man seeing his family thrive.

“Good night for the club,” he remarked without looking at me.

“Been a while since we had one,” I agreed.

Charming nodded. “We needed this. Not just Balal’s death, but this.” He gestured toward Gator, now laughing in the midst of a circle of brothers.

Around us, the party continued to gain momentum. Men who had been tense and vigilant for weeks were now loose-limbed and loud, their relief manifesting in increasingly boisterous celebration. The scent of leather and cigarettes hung heavy in the air, punctuated by the sharp tang of spilled beer and whiskey.

In the corner, someone had pulled out a deck of cards, starting an impromptu poker game that was generating good-natured cursing and laughter. Nearest the door, a group had gathered around Stripes as he regaled them with stories from his past, his Russian accent becoming more pronounced with each drink.

I absorbed it all, feeling a fierce pride in these men, in what we’d built and what we’d defended. The Devil’s Boneyard wasn’t just a club -- it was a brotherhood forged in fire and blood, strengthened by each challenge we overcame together.

“You know,” Charming said thoughtfully, interrupting my thoughts, “this thing with Gator and Mazida -- it’s more than just a man finding his woman.”

I raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

“It’s a statement,” he went on. “To any other fuckers who might think about coming after what’s ours. Balal tried to reclaim his sister, and now he’s dead and she belongs to one of us.” He took a sip of his drink, satisfaction evident in his expression. “Poetic justice, wouldn’t you say?”

I couldn’t help but smile at that. “Didn’t know you were such a poet, Charming.”

He chuckled, the sound low and dangerous. “There’s poetry in everything we do, brother. Just not the kind they teach in schools.”