CHAPTER ELEVEN
Imani
I wake to the sound of laughter drifting up from downstairs, the smell of bacon and coffee cutting through the morning air.
For a moment, I'm disoriented—this isn't my penthouse in El Paso, isn't any of the safe houses I've stayed in over the years.
Then I feel Brick's arm draped across my waist, his solid warmth at my back, and everything clicks into place.
I'm at the clubhouse.
I'm Brick's ol' lady.
The thought sends a thrill through me that has nothing to do with the danger we're facing and everything to do with the man sleeping beside me.
Last night feels like a dream—the party, the dancing, Brick asking me to be his in that direct, no-bullshit way of his.
No games, no politics, no calculations—all things I’m used to in my everyday life.
Just raw honesty and a promise of something real.
I turn carefully in his arms, not wanting to wake him yet.
In sleep, his face is softer, relaxed into something almost peaceful.
The bandages on his shoulder and ribs are stark white against his tanned skin, reminders of how close I came to losing him before we even had a chance to begin.
"You're staring again," he murmurs without opening his eyes, his voice rough with sleep.
"Maybe I like what I see," I reply, pressing a kiss to his chest.
His eyes open then, amber catching the morning light. "Morning, baby."
The casual endearment shouldn't affect me as much as it does, but coming from him, in that gravelly morning voice, it makes my stomach flip.
"Morning."
He pulls me closer, burying his face in my hair. "How are you feeling about everything? Last night, I mean."
"No regrets," I assure him. "You?"
"Only regret is that my ribs are still fucked up," he says with a slight grin. "Otherwise I'd show you exactly how I feel about having you as my ol' lady."
The possessive note in his voice sends heat spiraling through me, but the laughter from downstairs reminds me we're not alone in the clubhouse.
"We should get up," I say reluctantly. "Sounds and smells like breakfast is in full effect."
"Doom and Rooster's turn to cook," Brick explains, stretching carefully. "They make a mean breakfast spread. Plus the ol’ ladies usually help out—it's like a family thing."
Family.
We both get up out of bed and dress casually—me in jeans and one of Brick's t-shirts that smells like him, him in his usual black tee and jeans with his cut over it.
I really need to get some new clothes, but I’m not exactly trying to leave the clubhouse right now.
Not with everything so fresh.
The prospect patch seems to mock the authority he naturally carries, but I understand the club hierarchy enough to know earning a patch takes time.
He pulls me close for a quick kiss. "You look good in my shirt."
"Trying to mark your territory?" I tease.
"Maybe," he admits without shame. "Want everyone to know you're mine."
The primal tone in his voice makes me shiver.
This is so different from the careful political maneuvering I'm used to—just raw, honest possession that goes both ways.
Downstairs, the common area has been transformed into a breakfast buffet.
Doom is at the massive griddle, flipping pancakes with surprising delicacy for such a large man.
Rooster mans the bacon station while Kelsey and another woman I don't recognize work on what looks like enough scrambled eggs to feed an army.
"Well, well," Kelsey says with a smile when she sees us. "Look who finally made it down."
"Leave them alone," the other woman says, though she's grinning too. "Young love needs sleep."
I feel heat rise in my cheeks, but Brick just pulls me closer, his hand resting possessively on my hip.
"Imani, this is Astra," he introduces. "Python's ol' lady."
Astra is a petite and curvy fire-engine redhead with intricate tattoos covering her arms, her smile warm and welcoming. "Nice to finally meet you properly. Heard you gave these boys quite the run getting here."
"They gave as good as they got," I reply, which earns approving nods from the men.
"Grab plates," Doom rumbles from his station. "Food's ready."
The spread is impressive—pancakes, bacon, eggs, hash browns, fresh fruit, toast.
It's the kind of hearty breakfast I haven't had in years, too used to quick protein bars or business meeting pastries.
We settle at one of the long tables, and I'm struck by how natural this feels.
Brothers, their women, and kids eating together, casual conversation flowing, no pretense or power plays.
Just family sharing a meal.
"So," Astra says, settling across from me with her own loaded plate. "I heard you went to Harvard?"
"Business school," I confirm. "Though I was pre-med before that."
"No shit?" Rooster looks impressed. "What made you switch?"
The honest answer—that my father demanded it—feels too heavy for breakfast conversation. "Family business needed someone with financial expertise."
"Smart," Kelsey observes. "Medical knowledge and business brains. Useful combination."
"Especially now," I agree, thinking of everything we went through to get to the clubhouse.
As if reading my thoughts, Brick's hand finds mine under the table, squeezing gently.
The quiet support grounds me, reminds me I'm not facing this alone anymore.
Astra takes a bite of bacon and chews quickly. "You cook, Imani?"
"Not really," I admit. "Never had much opportunity to learn."
"We'll fix that," she says decisively. "Can't have Brick living on takeout and protein bars. Man needs proper feeding."
"I feed myself just fine," Brick protests, but there's warmth in his voice.
"Barely," Kelsey interjects. "I've seen your definition of a meal. Gas station burritos don't count."
"They do if you add hot sauce," Doom chimes in, which earns him a playful slap from Astra.
"Don't encourage him," she scolds. "These boys would live on junk food if we let them."
The gentle teasing continues as we eat, and I find myself relaxing into it.
This is what normal looks like for them—not the formal dinners and calculated conversations of my world, but genuine connection over simple food.
I catch myself watching how the couples interact—little touches, inside jokes.
It's so different from the arranged relationships and political marriages I've witnessed in cartel circles.
Astra stares at me, but it’s like she’s really looking into the depths of my soul. "First time at a club breakfast?"
"First time at any kind of family breakfast in years," I admit.
Something in my tone must give away more than I intended because her expression softens.
"Well, get used to it. This is every Sunday when we're not on runs. Sometimes Wednesdays too if someone's feeling ambitious."
"Amara wants to see you both when you're done," Doom mentions between bites of pancake. "Said it's important."
The reminder of why we're really here settles over me like a weight.
For a moment, I'd let myself forget about tracking devices and trafficking rings and the danger stalking us.
After breakfast, Brick and I help clear the tables—apparently another club tradition that everyone participates in regardless of anyone’s rank.
I find myself beside Astra at the sink, washing dishes while she dries. "He's different with you," she observes quietly. "Brick, I mean. More settled."
"How long have you known him?"
"A few years. Python and I got together… well, it feels like a century ago." She glances at me. "You know, Brick's been wound tight for months, looking for his friend. But with you... he seems more free. We all know Lashes is important to him, but finding her has been suffocating every part of his life."
The guilt that statement brings is sharp.
Am I a distraction from finding Lashes? Or am I helping him be strong enough to continue the search?
"We're going to find her," I say, not sure if I'm trying to convince Astra or myself.
"I know," she replies simply. "And having you in his corner will make all the difference."
After cleanup, Brick and I make our way to Amara's office.
She's already sitting behind her desk, papers spread across it. "Morning," she greets us. "Coffee?"
"Please," I accept gratefully, settling into one of the chairs.
Amara pours from a pot that looks like it could strip paint, the brew black as midnight.
"We need to talk about the tracker," she says without preamble. "Specifically, the audio capability."
Did Brick tell her?
He must have.
My stomach drops. "You think they heard everything?"
"Have to assume they did," Amara confirms grimly. "Every conversation, every plan, every..." She glances between Brick and me.
Heat floods my cheeks as I realize what she's implying.
They could have heard us in the tunnel, heard our confessions, our intimate moments.
The violation of it makes me want to shower for a week.
"Motherfuckers," Brick growls, his jaw clenching.
"Indeed," Amara agrees. "Which means they know about the plan to infiltrate the auction."
"So we adjust," I say, pushing past the disgust. "They know we're coming, but they don't know how or when. And more importantly, they don't know everything we know."
Amara leans back, studying me. "You still want to proceed?"
"More than ever," I confirm. "If they've been listening, they've heard me talk about legitimizing the family business. They'll expect me to be careful, calculated. What they won't expect is for me to walk right into their trap."
"Because that's exactly what it'll be," Brick interjects. "A trap. They'll be ready for us."
"Good," I say simply. "Let them think they're in control. Overconfidence makes people sloppy."
Amara's smile is sharp as a blade. "Spoken like a true cartel princess. All right, what do you need?"
"First, I need to make contact." I pull out my phone. "I have business associates who move in those circles. One call should get us an invitation."
"Speaker," Amara instructs. "We all need to hear this."
I scroll through my contacts until I find the right name—Marcus Webb, an art dealer who's helped my father launder money through inflated appraisals.
He also has connections to the darker sides of the collection world.
The phone rings twice before a cultured voice answers. "Imani Torres. What an unexpected pleasure."
"Marcus," I greet warmly. "How's the collection coming along?"
"Magnificently. Just acquired a Basquiat that would make your father weep with envy." His tone is light, but I can hear the calculation beneath his words. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"
"Actually, I'm calling on my father's behalf," I lie smoothly. "He's looking to diversify into... certain markets. I've heard whispers about an exclusive auction. The kind that deals in rare finds."The pause on the other end of the line tells me he’s shocked I’m inquiring about this. "That's quite a specific interest."
"We're prepared to spend some serious money for the right product," I continue, letting him hear the determination in my voice. "My father is particularly interested in unique acquisitions. One of a kind pieces that can't be found anywhere else."
"I see." Another pause. "These auctions are... highly selective. Invitation only. Significant vetting process."
"I understand. But surely the Torres name carries some weight? Combined with our financial resources..."
"Let me make some calls," Marcus says finally. "See what I can arrange. You understand there are no guarantees?"
"Of course. But I have faith in your abilities, Marcus. You've never let us down before."
"I'll be in touch," he promises. "Give my regards to your father."
The line goes dead, and I set the phone down with hands that want to shake.
"Well played," Amara observes. "He bought it."
"He's greedy enough to," I reply. "The commission on brokering our entry would be substantial."
"How long until he calls back?" Brick asks.
"Few hours, maybe less. Marcus doesn't like to leave money on the table."
Brick's studying me with those amber eyes that see too much. "You okay?"
The question is simple, but the concern behind it threatens to undo my composure.
"I'm worried about my father," I admit. "Still no word from him. That's not like him, even with everything that's happened. He said he would contact me, remember?"
"We have people looking into it," Amara assures me. "Discrete inquiries through our network. If something's happened to Mateo, we'll find out."
But what if it's already too late?
What if Diego's betrayal went deeper than just selling me out?
The thought of my father—difficult and distant as he is—being hurt because of me is almost unbearable.
"Hey," Brick says softly, reaching across to take my hand. "We'll figure it out. All of it."
I nod, drawing strength from his touch.
Whatever comes next, I'm not facing it alone.
"I should work on building our cover," I say, forcing myself to focus. "If we're going in as buyers, we need a believable backstory."
"Use the other office," Amara offers. "We set up a clean laptop for you yesterday. Untraceable connection."
As I stand to go, Brick rises with me. "I'll come with you."
"Don't you have prospect duties?" I tease gently.
"Yeah," he agrees. "Keeping you safe."
Amara snorts. "Smooth, prospect. Go on, both of you. I need to coordinate with our contacts anyway."
Back in the office Amara indicated, I find a setup that would make any hacker proud.
Clean laptop, encrypted connection, all the tools I need to build our cover identities.
"You know what you're doing with all this?" Brick asks, gesturing to the equipment.
"Harvard wasn't just about spreadsheets," I reply with a slight smile. "Had to learn how to hide money trails, create shell companies, all the fun stuff that keeps cartels running."
"Your father taught you well."
"He taught me to survive," I correct. "There's a difference."
I spend the next hour crafting our digital footprints—recent transfers from Torres family accounts to new shells, travel patterns that support our story, even social media posts backdated to show a gradual interest in "alternative investments."
Brick watches me work, occasionally asking questions but mostly just being a steady presence at my back.
"There," I say finally. "Imani Torres, looking to expand the family portfolio. And her bodyguard, essential for any cartel princess traveling in dangerous circles."
"Think they'll dig this deep?"
"They'd be stupid not to," I reply. "But everything will check out. Money talks, and ours screams we’re legit."
My phone buzzes—Marcus calling back already.
"That was fast," Brick observes.
"Told you he was greedy." I answer on speaker again. "Marcus. Good news, I hope?"
"Indeed," he sounds pleased with himself. "I've spoken with the relevant parties. There's an auction scheduled for next week. Very exclusive, very... specialized merchandise."
My stomach turns at the casual way he discusses human trafficking, but I keep my voice level. "Excellent. What do we need to do?"
"There's a vetting process," he explains. "Financial verification, background checks, the usual. I've vouched for you personally, which carries weight. You'll receive encrypted coordinates seventy-two hours before the event."
"Security?"
"Extensive. They take privacy very seriously, as I'm sure you understand. You can bring one bodyguard, but weapons will be checked at the door."
I meet Brick's eyes, seeing my own concerns reflected there.
Walking in unarmed is dangerous, but refusing would look suspicious.
"Understood," I say. "Send me the account information for the buy-in."
"Already done," Marcus confirms. "Check your encrypted email. And Imani? Do give your father my best. Tell him I look forward to facilitating many profitable ventures."
After he hangs up, silence fills the room.
"One week," Brick says quietly.
"One week," I confirm.
The plan is in motion now, no turning back.
In seven days, we'll walk into the heart of a human trafficking ring, hoping to find Lashes, hoping to survive long enough to shut them down.
"We should tell Amara," Brick says. "Start working on extraction plans."
"In a minute," I say, turning to face him fully. "Just... give me a minute."
He understands immediately, pulling me into his arms.
I breathe in his scent and let myself be weak for just a moment.
"Scared?" he asks against my hair.
"Terrified," I admit. "But not of them. Of losing you. Of failing to find Lashes. Of letting everyone down."
"Hey." He pulls back to look at me. "You're not in this alone. We're partners, remember? Your fights are my fights now."
"When did you get so wise?" I ask, managing a small smile.
"Must be your influence," he replies, then grows serious. "We're going to get through this, Imani. Find Lashes, stop these bastards, keep you safe. All of it."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
He seals it with a kiss that makes me believe anything is possible.
When we finally break apart, I feel steadier, ready to face whatever comes next.
"Okay," I say. "Let's go tell Amara. We have a rescue to plan."
We head back to Amara's office, where she's now joined by Boulder and Doom.
"Good timing," she says as we enter. "Brick, these two have volunteered for backup duty."
"Wouldn't let you go in without proper support," Boulder says firmly.
"Appreciate it, brothers," Brick responds, genuine gratitude in his voice.
"So we have confirmation?" Amara asks.
"One week," I confirm. "Marcus is sending the buy-in information. We'll get location details seventy-two hours before."
"That doesn't give us much time to scout," Doom observes.
"It's designed that way," I explain. "Keeps law enforcement from setting up stings, prevents rivals from organizing hits. We'll be going in relatively blind."
"Then we prepare for everything," Amara says decisively. "Multiple extraction routes, communication protocols, backup plans for the backup plans."
We spend the next hour planning everything out.
Boulder and Doom will shadow us to the location, staying outside as our extraction team.
"What about weapons?" Brick asks. "They'll check us at the door."
"Ceramic blades," Doom suggests. "Small enough to conceal, won't trigger metal detectors."
"I can arrange that," Amara confirms. "What else?"
"Money," I say. "We need to look like serious buyers. That means actually being prepared to bid."
"How much?"
I think about the markets I've studied, the prices these monsters charge for human lives.
"Minimum five million liquid. More if we want to be taken seriously."
Amara doesn't even blink. "I'll make the arrangements. Alejandro will understand the necessity."
The Ramirez cartel connection runs deep within the club, deeper than most realize.
"There's something else," I say carefully. "If Lashes is there... she might not recognize us. Might not trust us. These operations, they break people. Use drugs, conditioning, torture."
The room goes silent at that, the weight of what we might find settling over everyone.
"We bring her home regardless," Brick says firmly. "Whatever state she's in, whoever she's become. She's still our family."
"Agreed," Amara says. "Ruby's already prepared medical supplies for that possibility. Detox protocols, trauma medications, everything we might need."
My phone buzzes with an encrypted email—the buy-in instructions from Marcus.
"Swiss account," I read. "One million deposit to secure invitation, refundable against purchases. Non-refundable if we don't show or don't buy."
"Transfer it," Amara instructs. "Make it look eager but not desperate."
I work through the financial maze, moving money from Torres family accounts through several shells before landing in the Swiss account.
To anyone watching, it looks like standard cartel money laundering.
Which, technically, it is.
"Done," I confirm. "We're officially on their radar as buyers."
We’ll need to get the other five million from the Ramirez accounts, but that can be done later.
At least the deposit will be where it needs to be.
"Good," Amara says. "Now we wait. And prepare. Boulder, I want you and Doom running drills. Brick, you and Imani need to practice your cover stories until they're second nature."
"What about backup inside?" Brick asks. "If things go sideways?—"
"You'll have each other," Amara interrupts. "That has to be enough. These operations have people who are paranoid as all hell. One buyer and one bodyguard is standard. Anything more raises flags."
I reach for Brick's hand under the table, needing the contact.
He squeezes back, steady and sure.
"We've got this," I say, projecting more confidence than I feel.
"Yes," Amara agrees. "You do. Because failure isn't an option. Not with Lashes's life on the line. Not with what these bastards are doing to innocent women."
The meeting breaks up, but the weight of what's coming lingers.
One week to prepare for walking into hell.
One week to get ready to face the monsters who took Brick's best friend and want to add me to their collection.
One week to plan a rescue that could get us all killed.
But as I look at Brick, see the determination in those amber eyes, I know we'll take the risk.
For Lashes.
For all the women these bastards have taken.
For the chance to burn their whole operation to the ground.
"Come on," Brick says, standing and pulling me with him. "Let's go practice being criminals. Well, bigger criminals than we already are."
I laugh, even if I shouldn’t, because he's right.
We're all criminals here in our own way.
The difference is we have lines we won't cross, people we protect, family we'd die for.
That's what separates us from the true monsters.
And in one week, we'll prove it.