Page 8 of Haunted (Blackwood Brothers #1)

XAVIER

S teel trolleys clatter against concrete as crates shift from Tyson’s trucks into our vans, fast and clean. Remy’s barked orders cut through the space. The air stinks of oil, sweat, and tension that no one speaks aloud.

Knox leans against a stack of crates, tossing his switchblade into the air and catching it. “Seems like our carnival friends came through after all,” he says, smirking in Tyson’s direction.

“Did you doubt them?” Landon asks from beside me.

Knox doesn’t respond.

Tyson walks over with the easy confidence of someone who thrives in chaos. His carnival might be a front, but there’s nothing staged about the way he carries himself.

“Product’s all accounted for.” He hands me a manifest. “Had to take a detour through Ridgeway when the state troopers set up a checkpoint on the main route. Cost us twelve hours, but better late than never.”

I scan the numbers, and everything matches our agreement. “Your problem-solving skills never disappoint, Ty.”

“That’s why you keep me around.” He grins. Even in casual conversation, we remain aware of the weight of our business.

“How’s fatherhood treating you?” I fold the manifest and tuck it into my jacket. “Still getting sleep?”

Something genuine flickers across his face. “Sleep’s for people without a ten-month-old who has the lungs like a carnival barker. Little Anthony’s got his mother’s looks and my volume.”

Knox snorts. “God help us all when he’s a teenager.”

“I’m building a panic room for that exact situation,” Tyson counters.

Lars, who’s been silently overseeing the loading process, approaches. “Last shipment’s secure.”

I nod. “Your son’s going to inherit quite the operation someday, Ty. Let’s make sure it’s still running when he’s ready.”

“If he’s anything like his old man, he’ll be running circles around all of us by the time he’s ten,” Landon adds.

“Speaking of running operations,” I say, maintaining eye contact with Tyson, “we’ve established a new supply line with Ilya Orlov.”

The shift in Tyson’s demeanor is immediate—jaw clenched, shoulders squared .

“Orlov? Russian?” Tyson’s voice drops to a dangerous octave. “You bringing in outside suppliers without running it by me?”

Around us, I notice Lars and Colt’s attention subtly shifting. Phoenix pauses his work on a laptop.

“It won’t affect our arrangement,” I assure him. “The carnival remains a major distribution network. This is supplementary.”

Landon steps closer to my side, a quiet show of support.

“Then why didn’t you come to us?” Tyson demands. “We could’ve worked something out, expanded routes, increased frequency. We’ve been partners for eight years, Xavier.”

I shake my head. “We’re not looking to adjust margins, Ty. We’re scaling operations. Even if you dedicated your entire supply chain to Ravenwood, it wouldn’t be sufficient.”

“Try me,” he challenges.

“We’ve been stagnant for too long,” I explain. “The market is expanding faster than we can capitalize on. Our competitors are moving in while we’re operating at capacity.”

Tyson’s eyes narrow. “And how much of an increase are we talking about?”

“Triple, minimum. Possibly quadruple by next quarter.”

Lars whistles low. “That’s a lot of powdered sugar for the bakery.”

“That’s why we need Orlov,” I continue. “His connections extend beyond anything we could manage through traditional channels. The carnival simply can’t handle that volume.”

I watch the calculations happening behind Tyson’s eyes. He’s a businessman first, despite the carnival facade. The tension in his shoulders gradually relaxes as he processes the numbers.

“Alright,” Ty concedes, running a hand through his hair. “You’ve got a point. That kind of volume...” He shakes his head. “We couldn’t handle triple capacity even if we ran shipments daily.”

“Which would also increase your exposure,” Landon adds.

Ty nods, recognizing the logic. “But we can still be part of the solution. I’ve been developing some new routes through the northern counties. Less surveillance, minimal checkpoints.”

“Go on,” I say.

“With those channels and a few logistical adjustments, we could increase our current volume by fifty percent. Maybe more after a trial run proves successful.” He straightens his posture. “Fifty percent more than what we’re delivering now, at the same quality and discretion you’ve come to expect.”

I consider his offer. A fifty percent increase from the carnival means less reliance on Orlov’s untested channels.

“That would be acceptable,” I reply. “Maintain your usual security protocols. The increased volume doesn’t mean increased risk tolerance. ”

Ty extends his hand. “I appreciate the continued faith in our operation. The carnival has never let you down, and we don’t plan to start now.”

I take his hand firmly. “That’s why this partnership endures.”

The handshake seals our arrangement, but the undercurrent of tension remains—not hostility, but a recalibration of our longstanding dynamic.

Knox, ever attuned to the room’s atmosphere, pushes off from his perch and saunters toward Cade, who’s securing the final shipment.

“Hey, mechanical man,” Knox calls out, “you still driving that piece of shit Ford? I swear I saw it parked outside and thought someone abandoned their lawn mower.”

Cade’s expression cracks. “At least my ride doesn’t scream ‘compensating for something’ like that neon monstrosity you call a motorcycle.”

Laughter ripples through the warehouse, dissolving the tension.

This is how it always goes—business first, then the inevitable masculine posturing.

“You still using that pathetic security system at the fairgrounds?” Knox asks Tyson, spinning his knife between his fingers. “My grandmother could hack it with a paperclip.”

Tyson barks out a laugh. “That ‘pathetic system’ caught three of our rivals’ men last month trying to sample our product. They’re currently fertilizing a cornfield outside Millhaven.”

Phoenix looks up from his laptop. “The visible security is intentionally basic. The real system operates on a closed network I designed myself. Military-grade encryption.” He shrugs. “But please, send your grandma. I could use the entertainment.”

Lars chuckles.” Speaking of entertainment,” Cade interjects, “heard about that job in Springfield? The armored car hit so clean the guards didn’t know they’d been robbed until they reached the bank?”

Landon raises an eyebrow. “Ballsy move in broad daylight.”

“Amateur hour,” Colt dismisses. “They left DNA evidence all over the secondary vehicle. They’ll be in cuffs by the weekend.”

“Not everyone has the means to dissolve bodies in acid,” Knox quips, referencing a solution we all pretend to know nothing about.

I check my watch. “Time to move. The night’s getting old.”

We exchange handshakes and brief nods.

“We’ll have the increased shipments starting next week,” Tyson confirms.

“See that you do,” I reply.

We walk to where our motorcycles wait in the shadow of the building.

Knox’s customized Aprilia RSV4 in Neon blue gleams under the security lights.

At the same time, Landon’s more subdued but equally powerful white Ducati Panigale V4 waits beside it.

My BMW S1000RR sits between them—crimson red, powerful .

I snap my helmet into place and swing onto the bike, the seat molding to me like it knows who’s riding. The engine snarls to life beneath me—raw power, fully under my hand.