Page 58 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

I peel back the lid. The scent of mildew and old ink hits me, a memory to the face.

“Evidence,” I say slowly. “Plans. Pieces of something bigger... that Cornelius never got to finish.” Cornelius had been digging.

I knew that. Knew he was trying to figure out why every legal path to my brother and sister kept slamming shut.

But I didn’t realize how close he’d gotten. How far down the rot went.

This wasn’t buried by accident. It was hidden to protect someone. To silence him before he could drag it into the light.

These weren’t pieces we stumbled on. They were pieces he died for. Now that I’ve seen them, I can’t look away.

Nash steps forward, his silhouette a wall of stillness. “What kind of plan?” His voice is quiet, but it cuts like a blade.

I meet each of their gazes. My brothers.

My family. “It wasn’t just a murder scene.

Cornelius knew something was wrong. He knew Donovan Castiel had ties to the shipping yard.

Heard the whispers, maybe even saw the signs.

My brother and sister were taken that night.

Cornelius went there because he thought that’s where they’d be moved, where they’d disappear if no one stopped it.

He didn’t plan an escape. He wasn’t running.

Cornelius went in to fight. And he didn’t make it out.

” My voice should crack here. It doesn’t. I’ve forgotten how to cry.

Knox leans forward. His voice is calm, but there’s tension in the tight lines around his eyes. “You’re talking about... the night he died?”

“Yeah.” I force the word past the stone in my throat. “He died in that warehouse. Trying to find them. I showed up too late. They were already gone.” The silence after settles, a grave sealing shut.

The silence that follows is heavy. Grief. Anger. Shared loss. It settles between us like soot. We don’t speak of Cornelius often. But we all carry his name as armor. I lay the first file flat on the table, the photo on top curling at the edges.

“Now we have proof Donovan Castiel was directly involved.” I want to scrub the name from my mouth. But I need them to hear it.

The news rips through the room, a bullet through bone. East drops a curse under his breath. Knox stiffens, shoulders coiled. Kyle stands straighter, eyes wide. They’ve heard the name in the shadows. Now it’s at our table.

“That name’s been a ghost for years,” East mutters. “Every time we think we’ve got him, he disappears. Slips right through.” I don’t say it, but I want to scream that he won’t slip through me.

“Not this time.” I pull out the next document, my fingers smudged with dust and ink. “He left a trail. Enough to put him at the scene the night Cornelius died.”

I slap the final paper down. A single line scrawled in red ink chills the room more than anything else. Ensure Graves votes yes. Use leverage.

Nash reads it aloud, his voice razor-thin. “Graves.”

East’s head jerks up. “Winston Graves,” he says. His voice is low and lethal. The name alone is enough to poison the air.

The mayor. The same bastard who tried to sell his own daughter. We already had enough to take him down for that, but this? Now we had proof he was part of something bigger. Something that cost lives.

East doesn’t speak right away. But his breathing changes. His shoulders lock. I see it; this isn’t just strategy anymore. It’s personal.

Graves’ name sinks in, cold as poured ice. This time, the rage isn’t silent. It simmers. Hums through the room, a storm gathering beneath our feet.

East turns away, pacing to the wall. His fists clench. He still doesn’t speak, but something’s cracking beneath the surface. And I recognize it because I’ve broken the same way.

But East doesn’t break the way the rest of us do. He calcifies. That’s always been his tell. When the silence stretches too long, it means something old just woke up. Something he’s been holding back for years.

Then the door opens. Frankie steps inside, quiet as a whisper, her boots making no sound. A shiver dances up my spine. There’s always something otherworldly about her. Her bones carry truths the rest of us forgot.

“I invited her,” I say before anyone can object. “She’s not patched. But she sees things. Feels what we miss. And she’s earned this.”

No one argues.

“And Candace will be here soon too.” My voice doesn’t waver. “This isn’t protocol. I know that. But it matters. She matters. And I trust her to carry this.”

Knox gives a slight nod. Nash doesn’t even blink.

Then Candace enters. No knock. No hesitation. The moment she crosses the threshold, the air shifts. The weight in my chest realigns. Steadies.

I nod once. “You need to hear this.” She comes to stand beside me, shoulder to shoulder, an equal.

Her presence presses against me, the pressure steady and necessary.

Her fingers brush mine beneath the table, and I realize I’ve been shaking this whole time.

The warmth of her touch is small. But it’s the first thing that’s felt real in hours.

“What does this mean?” she asks, voice quiet but sharp. There’s a catch in it. A thread of fear buried under all that fire.

I stare at the documents. My chest tightens. “It means your father wasn’t the only one with dirt under his nails,” I say. “It goes deeper. Higher. Older.” Suddenly the weight she’s been carrying makes sense. She’s not just his daughter. She’s a piece of the story none of us saw coming.

Frankie steps forward, drawn to the files.

Her fingers hover, twitch, then still. She doesn’t touch them.

“This isn’t just politics,” she whispers.

“It’s legacy. Bloodlines. Power passed hand to hand in secret.

Hidden in plain sight.” Her voice feels like a spell. A truth spoken too close to the fire.

East exhales through his nose, cutting through the moment, a knife cleaving through tension. “That name, Graves, it’s been in rooms it never earned. On documents it shouldn’t be near. Now we know why.” His words are measured. But his pulse is war-drummed beneath the surface.

Frankie tilts her head, sensing it. “You’ve known something.” East doesn’t answer. But the silence screams.

Candace’s grip tightens on my hand. She’s holding it together, but I feel the tremor in her bones. That small shake undoes me. I squeeze back, steadying her. Or maybe letting her steady me. Either way, I’m not letting go.

Knox speaks, breaking the tension. “We take a vote. This isn’t a small response. It’s war. And war needs to be sanctioned.”

I nod, meeting each of their eyes. “We’ll talk through it here. Open forum. Everyone speaks. But once we’ve laid it out, we take it to council for the final call.”

James nods in agreement, doesn’t interrupt. Just watches. Listens. Waiting.

“We hit them from every side: legal, street, leverage, pressure. Donovan Castiel goes down. So does anyone helping him,” I say. If we have to burn Willowridge to the ground to do it, so be it.

My eyes land on East. He hasn’t looked away from the Graves note. His expression is unreadable. Controlled. But I know that look. I’ve worn it. It’s the look of a man holding back a war.

“Let me handle Winston,” he says, voice low.

I study him. There’s steel there. Fire too. “Careful.”

“Always.” But we both know that’s a lie. Because this isn’t strategy. This is vengeance dressed in patience.

But I see it. In his clenched jaw. In the tension bleeding from his posture. There’s history there. More than I know. This isn’t just duty. It’s personal. And that means we’re not just going to war. We’re going for blood.