Page 3 of Doomed

“Security?”

“Lars has it handled on their end. Phoenix is monitoring communications for any unusual chatter.” Vane swirls the whiskey in his glass thoughtfully. “Tyson’s been solid. No heat, no complications.”

Xavier nods, but I catch the slight tension in his shoulders. There’s always tension when it comes to moving product. Too many variables, too many things that could go sideways in a heartbeat.

“What about our end?” I ask because even though I’m the youngest, I’m not stupid. “Distribution channels clear?”

“Clean as a whistle,” Vane confirms. “Our contacts downtown are ready to receive. Payment upfront, as usual.”

Xavier’s phone buzzes again, and his frown deepens. Whatever message he’s reading doesn’t improve his mood.

“Problem?” I lean forward.

Xavier’s jaw clenches as he scrolls through whatever’s on his screen. “Fucking Morrison.”

Vane and I exchange a look. Morrison is one of our larger distributors downtown, moving significant volume through his network of high-end clubs and private parties. Also happens to be a greedy piece of shit who thinks he can play games with us.

“What’s he pulling now?” Vane asks, setting down his glass.

“He says he needs to renegotiate terms. Claims his overhead’s gone up, market conditions have changed, blah blah fucking blah.” Xavier’s voice stays level, but I can see the muscle in his temple twitching. “Wants to drop his usual order by thirty percent and pay twenty percent less per unit.”

I whistle low. “That’s some serious balls.”

“It’s some serious stupidity,” Vane corrects. “Does he think we’re running a fucking charity?”

Xavier scrolls through more messages, his expression getting darker by the second. “Gets better. He’s also demanding that we provide additional security for his operations. Says the risk’s gotten too high since that mess with the Rodriguez family last month.”

“The Rodriguez thing had nothing to do with us,” I point out. “That was their own internal bullshit.”

“Morrison doesn’t give a fuck about facts.” Xavier finally looks up from his phone. “He’s spooked, trying to leverage that fear into better terms for himself.”

Vane leans back in his chair, fingers drumming against the armrest. “How much volume does he move for us monthly?”

“About forty percent of our downtown distribution,” Xavier answers, “Losing him would be... inconvenient.”

“Inconvenient” is Xavier-speak for “catastrophically expensive.” Morrison might be a pain in the ass, but he has connections that we’d need months to rebuild elsewhere.

“So what’s the play?” I ask. “We negotiate or make an example out of him?”

Xavier’s smile turns predatory. “We remind Mr. Morrison exactly who he’s dealing with. And why renegotiating with the Blackwoods isn’t a conversation he wants to start.”

The bass line shifts to a harder, more aggressive beat, matching the sudden shift in energy at our table. Looks like our relaxing evening just turned into business.

“Let’s get on our bikes and hit the town,” I announce, pushing back from the table with renewed energy. Nothing like a shakedown to get the blood pumping.

Xavier’s already standing, straightening his suit jacket in a way that means someone’s about to have a very bad night. “Time to remind Morrison about the benefits of maintaining good relationships.”

We move through Purgatory’s main floor, the crowd parting naturally around Xavier’s presence. Red light strobes across faces lost in their own worlds of sin. The music pounds against the walls, but my pulse is syncing to a different rhythm—the anticipation of what’s coming next.

The private elevator takes us down to the garage beneath the club, where our bikes wait like sleeping predators. The space smells of motor oil and leather, concrete and chrome. My ApriliaRSV4 Factory gleams under the fluorescent lights, that neon blue paint job glowing.

“Fucking beautiful,” I murmur, running my hand along the tank as I swing my leg over.

Vane’s mounting his Kawasaki Ninja. Xavier settles onto his BMW S1000RR like it’s his throne, all red aggression and barely contained power.

The garage fills with the roar of three engines coming to life, that symphony of mechanical violence that never gets old. I rev mine twice, feeling the vibration travel through my bones.

“Morrison’s penthouse is twenty minutes through downtown,” Xavier calls over the noise, pulling on his helmet. “We park two blocks out, walk the rest.”