Page 62 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Malachi

The smell of strong coffee hits me before I’ve even made it down the stairs.

Dark roast, sharp, with just a hint of cinnamon.

Candace’s signature. It curls through the air, a thread tugging me closer, grounding and disarming all at once.

She’s already up, hair twisted in a loose knot on top of her head, hoodie half-swallowed by her frame as she moves through the kitchen, trying to stay busy enough to avoid thinking.

It’s my hoodie, the one she tugged off me without asking, and seeing her in it makes something settle deep in my chest. Maybe the storm isn’t done, but I’ve already found my shelter.

I pause for a second at the landing, watching her quietly.

There’s a tension in her shoulders she hasn’t shaken since last night, every muscle bracing for a punch she can’t see coming.

She moves with purpose, pouring mugs, setting out cream and sugar with care that pretends it matters.

The ritual holds her together, piece by piece, a fragile thread warding off the truth trying to unravel her.

Her hand lingers near the counter’s edge, fingers tapping once, twice—almost rhythmic.

Almost a heartbeat she’s trying to control.

I catch the faintest sound under her breath, a hum so quiet it barely exists.

Not a tune exactly. Just breath turned into noise.

Something between a prayer and a warning.

When I step closer, she glances up but doesn’t smile. Her eyes are rimmed with fatigue, but they’re clear. Determined. “You sleep?” I ask.

A dry laugh escapes her. “Tried.” The mug she slides toward me is warm, the handle nudging against my fingers. I nod. Don’t push.

Instead, I take the mug she silently offers and brush my fingers against hers. She holds on for a second longer than necessary. A silent conversation we’re both too worn out to have aloud. Her touch is cold despite the steam in the air. Mine is shaking with restraint.

I want to tell her I’m here. That we’ll find the truth. That she isn’t her father’s legacy or her mother’s mistake. But the words feel too big in my throat.

And part of me is still reeling. From what I just learned.

From what wasn’t said. From the fact that James and Maggie both had suspicions about Alice—who happens to be Candace’s mother—and never told me.

I get that I wasn’t ready. I was dealing with Cornelius, the club, the patch, the weight of everything.

But still. They should’ve said something. I should’ve known.

Because now it’s not just rage in my chest, it’s shame too. So I drink the coffee. It scalds my tongue, sharp and bitter, but it’s real. It’s something she made. Something she’s still doing; offering warmth, even after everything.

The rumble of engines outside signals the others arriving. One by one, the brothers pull into the lot. Chrome flashes in the dawn light, tires crunch against gravel still wet from last night’s rain. The scent of leather and exhaust snakes in through the cracked door.

Knox walks in first, Sloane trailing behind him, her braid swinging down her back. He looks ahead, jaw tight. She glances toward Candace and offers a small smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

Nash is behind them, nodding once in that steady way of his.

Ruby enters next, her heels tapping a rhythm that punctuates the silence.

Darla follows, quiet but alert, her hand brushing East’s for just a second before she lets go.

Frankie brings up the rear of the inner circle, pen already tucked behind one ear, gaze sharp and curious.

Then Kyle, James and Maggie file in. Other members begin moving in behind them. Even the prospects have been invited to this meeting.

The main room hums with quiet tension as they file in. Boots thud against the hardwood. Jackets creak. No one says much, but there’s something electric in the air. Everyone feels it. The storm is coming.

Candace finishes arranging the coffee mugs as they enter.

The women gather loosely on the couches.

Ruby flops dramatically across one arm, Darla tucks her legs under herself, Frankie’s already chewing on the cap of her pen.

Sloane murmurs something that makes Maggie laugh as they claim the loveseat near the fireplace.

I move to Candace at last. She doesn’t say anything, but she looks up when I’m close, and that’s enough.

I press a hand to the side of her face, my thumb brushing her cheek.

Her skin is still too cool. She leans into the touch for just a second, lashes fluttering down, unable to hold eye contact without unraveling. “I’ll be back soon,” I say.

She studies me, trying to believe that. Then she nods once. “Bring something back worth burning.” The words brand me. I inhale slowly, letting them settle in my chest.

I lean down, press my forehead to hers for just a second, then I leave. She doesn’t follow me with her eyes. But her fingers twitch against her thigh, tapping again. A beat without a melody. A promise waiting to be sung.

The war room door shuts behind us with a click that feels louder than it should. It’s cold in here. Or maybe it’s just me. The ghosts in my blood never really settled after last night. The more I learn, the more it feels the past isn’t done bleeding into the present.

The overhead lights hum low, casting stretched shadows across the table, their presence tuned to the quiet, eavesdropping on everything unsaid.

Everyone finds their place without a word.

Knox sits to my left, calm as always, though I know him well enough to see the tension in his shoulders.

Nash to my right, silent, steady, the calm before something devastating.

East takes the chair by the far wall, jaw tight, knee bouncing.

Kyle sits near the end, posture rigid, the newest patch still stiff on his cut.

James leans back across from East, arms crossed, gaze sharp and unreadable.

Around the edges of the room, the other patch members, including Victor, lean against the walls.

Silent, alert, the weight of what’s coming settling into their spines.

Even the prospects standing at the back have tight postures with their eyes locked forward.

No one dares interrupt. No one’s playing or distracted.

They’re all waiting. Watching. Primed for whatever we’re about to say.

I sit at the head of the table. President. It used to feel weighted by burden. Now it’s a promise. A vow wrapped in leather and loyalty. A crown made of ash. I drop the files onto the table.

“We need to talk about Donovan.”

East leans in immediately, eyes narrowing. “What now?”

“I found the trail,” I say, my voice low. “Not just whispers. Not just ghosts. Cold, hard proof. We need to talk about Alice Brighton.”

James’ jaw tightens, but he doesn’t flinch. My fingers grip the table edge until the grain bites into my skin.

“You knew,” I say, my voice sharp with betrayal, every word honed to cut. I don’t look at him. I don’t need to. “You knew who Candace’s mother was. You knew Alice Brighton. And you said nothing.”

The room shifts, every man still but alert. Knox leans forward slightly. East stills. Nash’s brow lowers. No one speaks.

James slowly exhales. “It wasn’t my place.”

“That’s bullshit,” I snap. “You watched that girl grow up. Watched Chuck fall apart. You knew what Alice was, and you kept your mouth shut.”

His gaze doesn’t waver, but there’s something in it now. A crack. Regret. “I didn’t know what she was planning. Only that she was dangerous.”

“She was watching Candace like she was inventory,” I grind out. “And we were too damn blind to see it.”

James says nothing. He doesn’t have to. The damage is done. I reach into the box and lay out the files—names, locations, photos. A paper trail stitched in blood.

“We’ve talked about Donovan. We know the role he played.

But now it’s time to act. Not react. No more waiting.

No more ghosts.” My voice dips lower, each word a strike.

“He’s been hiding behind middlemen for years.

We find the men he used. The banks, the fake shells. We peel them back layer by layer.”

Knox leans forward, eyes sharp. “You have names?”

“Enough to start.” I slide a few sheets toward him. “Two of the accounts are tied to a dummy corporation with holdings in North Carolina and Mexico. Frankie’s digging into the southern ones. Arden flagged two more overseas.”

East lifts a brow. “And the domestic ones?”

“One leads to a cabin in Missouri. Another connects to a shipping hub in New York. There’s a flagged transfer in Savannah. Could’ve just been a pass-through, but the name attached is too close to Donovan’s inner circle to ignore. We don’t know yet if it was money, product, or people.”

I tap the final sheet, the one marked with a red line and a familiar signature. “But this one? This is local.”

Knox frowns. “Graves?”

“Graves.” I spit the name, like it’s poison on my tongue. “Winston Graves voted to protect zoning rights on Donovan’s property. According to this?” I hold up the letter. “He didn’t do it out of loyalty. He did it because he was leveraged.”

Nash mutters under his breath, low and deadly. “Son of a bitch.”

East is already reaching for the file, scanning it in search of answers buried deep enough to bleed. “What kind of leverage?”

I meet his eyes. “Something personal. We don’t have it yet. But we will.”

Knox’s fingers drum once against the table. “We pressure him. Squeeze from both ends.”

“Not yet,” I say. “He’s a rattlesnake. If we corner him now, he’ll go underground. We pull every thread first. Quiet. Surgical.”

East is silent. Too silent.

I study him a beat longer. His jaw’s locked. His breathing shallow. But his hands? They’re steady. Too steady.

“East,” I say quietly, “how long have you suspected he was dirty?”

He looks up. His eyes are colder than I’ve ever seen them. “Since before Darla came to us.”

Silence drops again—this time, heavier. The weight of every missed sign. Every closed door.

“She’s safe now,” he adds. “But I want that man to burn.”

“Then we make it righteous,” I say. “We bring the matches. But first, we build the case. We find Donovan. We choke every pipeline he uses. Money. Cargo. People.”

Kyle shifts. “You think Alice is with him?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “But she’s alive. And she’s hiding.”

“You believe she’s still watching Candace,” Nash says.

I nod once. “I think she’s waiting to see if we’re strong enough to keep her.”

Knox’s voice is ice. “Then we make sure she sees the truth.”

East speaks next. His voice is calmer now, but more dangerous. “When we’re ready, I want Graves. Don’t care how it happens. Don’t care if it’s clean.”

I nod, jaw tight. “You’ll have him.”

Then I look around the table—at the men ready to follow me through hell. “This isn’t about retaliation anymore. This is about justice. About roots. If we let them keep growing, they’ll strangle this town.”

My gaze hardens on James. “And no more secrets. Not from each other. Not from her.”

James inclines his head, the first trace of apology in his voice. “Understood.”

I draw a deep breath, forcing the fire back down. “Good. Because when we move this time, we finish it.”

And I’ll bury every last name that tried to bury her.