Page 25

Tusk climbs out behind us with Brittany on his arm, and Tex follows with Clara, buttoning his jacket.

The five of us walk towards the entrance like some kind of biker royalty, but I feel their eyes before I see them—dozens of them.

The old-money types in tailored tuxes, sleek dresses, diamonds, and polished shoes gape at us for daring to show up in their world.

Some glance our way with curiosity. Others, with disdain.

I don’t blame ‘em. We’re not a subtle bunch.

Our women must look like goddamn queens, but us men? We’re built thick, scarred, inked up. We don’t blend in because we weren’t made to go unnoticed or to fit into their world.

Tex leans close. “Feel like someone’s gonna ask us to park cars.”

Tusk smirks. “Nah. They’ll assume we’re here for security.”

Inside, it’s even more polished. There are columns, chandeliers, and a fucking jazz quartet in the corner.

Trays of drinks float past us on silver platters, carried by servers weaving expertly through the crowd.

Tables are stacked with poker chips and card decks for the casino games.

This is a new world I’ve never been privy to, and I don’t know if I like it.

Heather clings to my arm, whispering, “This is… wow. It’s amazing, but it’s a lot, you know?”

“Yeah. It’s how the other half lives. And how we get to live for the night.”

She smiles up at me. “I’m glad you invited me to this gala. I’ve always wanted to do something like this.”

“If you like it, I’ll be sure to bring you every year. How does that sound?” I ask, dipping my head closer.

“It feels like what comes after,” she murmurs.

My sweet love is smiling, but I can feel that she’s still a little tense.

I am too. This ain’t our world. But damn it, we’re here anyway, so we might as well make the best of it.

Especially because the shelter matters. They help women who don’t have anyone to fall back on when things get bad.

And also because Heather deserves a night that makes her feel like more than what she’s survived.

I catch sight of Siege over by the bar, nodding politely at something the mayor is saying. Claw would probably laugh his ass off if he could see his son running with city elites and ribbon-cutters.

We split up. The couples mingle. Clara’s off chatting with some nonprofit board member.

Brittany drags Tusk to the raffle table.

Heather and I make slow laps, checking out the auction prizes.

A luxury cabin stay. A catered dinner for ten.

A motorcycle signed by the Legion. I can’t help but grin at how all the elites are gathered around our contribution to the raffle.

I’m so in tune with Heather that I notice the moment something changes. She stiffens beside me, and her posture shifts. Her hand tightens in the crook of my elbow. Her expression goes blank, but she struggles to hold it. When her control slips, horror settles on her lovely face.

“What’s wrong, sweetness? Talk to me,” I urge her insistently.

Her voice drops so low the sound barely makes it to my ear. “Please no, not now.”

I turn to her, instantly alert. “What?”

She nods towards the far end of the ballroom. “It’s Carnage. He’s shaved his beard. Cropped his hair close. And he’s wearing thick horn-rimmed glasses. Only he’s dressed like a waiter.”

That’s when I spy the man she’s staring at. He’s standing there like a damned fool in a black shirt, black pants, and black apron. He’s got a tray in one hand with a fake smile frozen on his face.

“Are you sure that’s him? He doesn’t look like the photos Siege showed us.”

Heather grabs my wrist. “It’s him,” she hisses. “I’m sure of it.”

Heather would know, I tell myself before pulling out my phone to text the Savage Legion group chat. From our vantage point, I can see multiple brothers all around the room pull their phones out at roughly the same time.

The second Carnage sees her face and realizes we’re both staring at him, that fake smile vanishes. Then he bolts, running right out the nearest door and into the back.

In my mind, the room fades. The music, the lights, the crowds of people and their whispered judgment all disappear. All I see is a threat moving fast towards a back hallway marked ‘Staff Only’.

I grab Heather by the shoulders. “Stay with Brittany. Do not leave the ballroom.”

Then me and my club brothers dash off through the back of the house. This bastard is gonna wish he never showed his ugly mug back in Las Salinas.

We shove through the staff door and hit the hallway running. At some point, the tile gives way to concrete. The air shifts from warm to cool and damp as we push through the back door.

Carnage is fast, I’ll give him that. Slippery, too. I watch as he dodges a prep cart, slips past a pair of kitchen workers, and disappears around a corner towards the loading dock.

Once we’re out the back doors, I catch a glimpse of black fabric rounding the far corner of the building. We burst into the alley, but he’s already gone.

Siege, Rigs, Tusk, and Tex are suddenly at my side. They’d been at my heels this whole time. Siege asks, “Did you see which way he went?”

“He’s gone,” I growl, frustrated beyond belief.

“Check the parking lot,” Siege says. “Spread out and keep moving.”

We surge out into the packed parking lot. I run through endless rows of vehicles, looking for the guy in black. Then I see Rigs and Siege both approaching a matte-black pickup with tinted windows and out-of-state plates.

And beside it is one of the waiters. Only, this one’s not running. He’s desperately trying to get into the vehicle. He senses Siege and Rigs closing in on him and turns to face them. The second his face hits the light, Siege stiffens.

That name burns through my mind. Merc’s real name is Bryan Mercer.

He was one of the six men who tried to sell the Savage Legion out to the Hellfire Hounds.

Him and Carnage, Hawk, Joker, Slaughter, and Grime.

All of them were voted out of the Legion when Siege came to power.

They disappeared to avoid being hunted down by the brothers.

Merc freezes when he sees who’s walking up. Then he tries to run, but it’s too late for that. Rigs gets to him first, grabs him by the back of the collar, and slams him up against the truck.

“You got a death wish, showin’ your face here?” Rigs growls.

“No, man, let me go.”

Merc tries to squirm free, but Siege grabs his wrist and twists it behind his back with professional precision. “You wanna talk here, or you wanna talk somewhere a little more… private?”

Merc goes real still, which is a smart choice when faced with Siege’s fury.

Tex checks the truck. There’s a bag in the passenger seat containing black jeans, sneakers, and a clean, white t-shirt. It looks like Merc was planning to change clothes and disappear.

Rigs says, “He was probably the getaway driver. Didn’t expect we’d move fast enough to catch anyone.”

“Carnage was here,” I say. “He ran out the back. Heather spotted him.”

Siege jerks Merc forward. “Then I guess this one better talk fast before I forget I’m trying to play nice.”

We haul him into our club van parked at the edge of the lot. Nobody at the gala notices what just went down because everyone is inside enjoying champagne and capers.

That’s the thing about men like us—we might clean up nice, but we handle our business even better.