Page 57 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Malachi

The lock clicks. It’s subtle, but it’s a fucking thunderclap in the silence. My breath fogs in the early morning chill as I haul the heavy door up. It groans on its tracks, metal scraping metal, warning me not to look inside. Not to dig deeper. Not to keep chasing ghosts.

The sound scours down my spine, claws dragging across bone. Cold air hits my face, carrying the stale scent of rust and paper rot, proof the past never left, just waited for me to come back. My fingers ache from the bite of the steel, but I don’t let go. Can’t.

That’s never stopped me before. The dim light from the hallway stretches into the mouth of the storage unit, casting a spotlight, and I step in slowly.

Dust swirls up around my boots, the air thick with the dry weight of neglect—old paper, fading ink, and the ghost of metal long since corroded.

It’s been years since anyone has touched this place.

Longer, maybe. But the moment I cross the threshold, I know I’ve been here before.

The floor groans beneath my weight. The bones of this place remember me.

A chill runs up my spine, not just from the cold, but from the memory rooted so deep it burns.

I haven’t stepped inside since that night.

Haven’t let myself. Not in nine years. Because coming back meant remembering everything. And I wasn’t sure I could survive that.

But something told me I’d find something here, something buried. Something that never let go of me. So I forced myself through the door. Forced my feet forward when everything in me screamed to turn back.

Now the air tastes like ash and history. Regret never left. This place has been waiting. It hits me all at once; this is where it happened. The night Cornelius was killed. The night my siblings were taken. And the ghosts are still here. Waiting for me to finally look.

I move toward the shelves lining the back wall, my hand brushing over an old tarp. The fabric flakes away, dry skin crumbling to dust. Beneath it are crates, file boxes, and faded folders stamped with the Outsiders’ insignia. Some of this is club shit. Some of it... isn’t.

My breath hitches. The air’s colder now, or maybe it’s just me. The memory hits hard, straight to the bone, and suddenly I’m twenty-two again, blood pounding in my ears, the echo of gunshots somewhere deep in my chest.

I open one and freeze. A child’s drawing.

Pencil outlines softened by time, colored in with care.

Four people. One tall figure, shoulders squared with that familiar, quiet strength; that’s me.

Two smaller ones beside me, their hair drawn wild and joyful, bright strokes for smiles, are Amelia and Jared.

And the fourth is Cornelius. I recognize the way she always drew his beard, a rough triangle beneath a grinning mouth. It’s unmistakable.

It’s the way Amelia used to draw us all, thoughtfully, with heart.

Even then, she loved it. She’d sit for hours with a fistful of crayons and a sheet of printer paper, humming while she worked, tongue poked out in concentration.

She was getting good. I remember noticing it, the way her lines had started to carry weight, intention.

You could see the emotion in it. You could see her.

My knees nearly buckle with how much I miss her and Jared.

The paper crackles in my grip, brittle and yellowed with time.

My fingers tighten instinctively, like I can shield it now in all the ways I couldn’t protect her then.

She must’ve drawn this not long before everything collapsed.

Before she and Jared were taken. Before Cornelius died trying to stop it.

A sob builds in my throat, thick and sharp, and for a second I almost let it out. But I bite it back. My jaw clenches. My hands shake. The paper is fragile, but I hold it tightly, willing it to shield what’s left of me if I just don’t let go.

It wasn’t just a drawing. It was a record. A timestamp. A memory that proved we were more than shadows and bloodstains. We were a family. We had a future and love. Cornelius fought for that. And he died trying to protect it.

I want to scream. I want to punch the concrete wall until my knuckles split and the pain gives me something I can hold. But I don’t. I kneel in the dust and press the drawing to my chest, and I swear I can still feel their laughter in this space.

That’s what guts me. Because they were here. Then they weren’t. Someone made that call. And I’m going to find out why.

It wasn’t just a murder scene. It was supposed to be a hand-off. A safehouse. A future. Cornelius was going to make it happen. He always kept his promises. He’d been fighting, risking everything , to get custody transferred to me. Had court filings, affidavits, even testimony lined up.

But someone pulled the rug out from under him. Slashed his credibility. Blocked his motions. Delayed every hearing until the system swallowed us whole. They called him unstable. A liability. Said he was too “emotionally invested” to represent the case fairly.

The timing had always felt wrong. Too clean. Too fast. Someone had greased the rails just enough to make the whole thing resemble incompetence, not conspiracy.

I bite the inside of my cheek, hard, until copper fills my mouth. Because this is how it looks when promises die quietly. Except this time... he didn’t walk away. And they… disappeared.

The light shifts. My gaze catches on a second box in the corner, half-crushed. I kneel, chest clenching, when I see the name scrawled across the top: CASTIEL. The name pulses; it’s a brand burned into my vision. That name doesn’t whisper. It growls.

The word hits me, a punch to the ribs. I rip it open. Inside are photos, notes, surveillance stills, and newspaper clippings. One name appears over and over. Donovan Castiel. Even the paper feels slick. Oily. It fights to slip through my fingers, refusing to be held.

I flip through the documents, each page colder than the last. The puzzle pieces fall into place with a sickening click. There’s no oxygen in this place anymore. Just smoke and truth.

He’s not just some backroom deal-maker. He’s a fucking ghost. No records. No office. Just a shadow. Every backdoor deal, every failed investigation, every kid that went missing from the system back then. His name is there. Lurking. Leeching.

There, tucked between a legal memo and a case summary, is a court transcript, redacted and water-damaged. But I see it. A note scrawled in the margin. Cornelius L. is a liability. Graves advised removal from docket. Escalate custody transfer.

My stomach turns. I know that handwriting. Then I see it again. Another memo. Short. Brutal.

Ensure Graves votes yes. Use leverage.

Red ink. Like it’s mocking me, knowing exactly which knife to twist. My jaw locks. Graves. Winston fucking Graves.

The current mayor. The slick bastard in the tailored suit who plays god with a smile. He’s spent years trying to shut us down. Every deal. Each inspection. Every headline that painted us as villains. It was him. He’s not a politician. He’s a puppet master. Now I know why.

He helped bury Cornelius. He didn’t just turn a blind eye; he made the call. Burned the future I was fighting for and paved the road for Castiel to steal everything from me. And he got what he wanted. A promotion, a platform, and a town too scared to ask questions.

This wasn’t just a cover-up. It was a hit. A buyout. A betrayal. Cornelius died trying to protect us. My brother. My sister. They weren’t lost. They were stolen.

Stolen and sold like they were weightless.

Like they weren’t the axis of my whole fucking world.

I always knew Donovan Castiel was involved.

But I had no idea how deep this thing went.

He pulled the strings and ensured Graves followed through.

A predator in the shadows. I’ve been starving for Donovan’s throat for a decade, but now I’m going to find out how Winston Graves is involved.

The room is silent when I walk in, heavy with the weight of what I carry. Usually there’s banter, the scrape of boots, someone nursing a beer. But not tonight. They feel it. The shift in the air. The crackle beneath my skin. I’m carrying lightning in my chest, bleeding it into the floorboards.

Knox sits at the far end, arms crossed, unreadable as always.

Nash leans against the doorframe, the quiet storm of the club.

East is pacing, jaw tight. Kyle stands near the back, fresh patch on his cut, eyes locked on mine.

He flinches just a little when I step forward.

Not fear. Respect. He feels it too; the storm pressing behind my ribs.

The box thuds onto the table, the echo sharp in the quiet. Dust hangs in the air, suspended beneath the overhead light. My hands are still trembling, but I ball them into fists to hide it. The grit scrapes across my knuckles. I welcome it. Pain means I’m still here.

“Storage unit near the warehouse,” I say, my voice lower than usual, rough with the memory. “It’s tucked off the old road near the river. Cornelius kept it under an alias. For off-book ops.” Even saying his name drags a ghost into the room.

East stops pacing mid-stride, eyes narrowing. “You went alone?” His voice has bite, but there’s worry in it too. Hidden, sharp.

I nod once. “Didn’t know what I’d find.” Truth was, I didn’t want anyone else walking into those ghosts with me. It was mine to carry. Mine to bleed.

Kyle shifts, his voice hushed. “What was in it?” He already knows it wasn’t nothing. The air’s too thick for coincidence.