Page 32 of Monstrosity

"The kind written in gasoline. Said this is just the beginning unless we hand over the coffee shop girls. Over my dead body will that happen."

My hands tighten on the steering wheel. "They can fuckin’ try."

"That's what Runes said. Get here, brother. We need to plan."

The clubhouse is buzzing to life when I arrive.

Brothers I haven't seen in months have rolled in, answering the call to arms.

War brings everyone home.

I spot Bjorn cleaning his weapons at one of the tables, his movements precise, calculated, like he knows how grave this is.

Rati's sitting near the bar, regaling prospects with war stories that are probably only half true.

Runes is in the room where we holdkirkjawith Fenrir and Tor, maps spread across the table, marking Culebra territory and operations.

The room smells like coffee and gun oil, the breakfast of champions in our world.

"Rio." Runes looks up as I enter. "How's your woman?"

The casual way he says it—your woman—makes something settle in my chest.

Official acknowledgment from the president.

Dasha isn't just some girl I'm seeing—she's mine, my ol’ lady, under the club’s protection.

"She's good. Safe. For now."

"For now isn't good enough." Fenrir leans back in his chair, his scarred knuckles resting on the table. "They're escalating faster than we expected. The warehouse was a warning shot."

"Which supplier?" I ask, taking my seat at the table.

"One of the Mackenzie’s warehouses." Tor slides a photo across the table—the warehouse is nothing but charred beams and ash. "Three million in inventory, gone. Liam is going to be furious."

"Will insurance cover it?"

"For what he said was in there, probably… but it doesn’t change shit," Runes says dryly. "We have to handle the Culebra fuckers before the Irish mafia shifts on us. They left an explicit message about the girls, too."

It sounds like Runes is worried, like he’s thinking that could happen… but Revna just married Doran, Liam’s nephew—Irish blood.

They wouldn’t turn on family, would they?

"What exactly did the message say?"

Tor pulls out his phone, shows me a photo. Written in gasoline before they lit it:

The coffee shop bitches or more burns. You have 48 hours.

"Eloquent," I mutter. "When was this?"

"Six hours ago. So we're down to forty-two." Fenrir's expression is grim. "They can want all they like. Doesn't mean they'll get them."

"Agreed." Runes stands, and when he looks at me, I see the president who's led this club through twenty years of blood and brotherhood. "Which is why you're bringing your family here tonight. The clubhouse is fortified, brothers on guard 24/7. Your house is too exposed. All of the club women who work at the coffee shop will be here too, no exceptions."

"Dasha won't like leaving the house?—"

"Dasha will understand when you explain the alternative," Runes cuts me off. "This isn't a request, Rio. Your woman and kids stay here until we handle this."