Page 5 of Monstrosity (Raiders of Valhalla MC: New Blood #5)

CHAPTER TWO

Rio

The clubhouse parking lot is already packed when I pull up, twenty minutes after dropping Dasha at work.

Emergency kirkja means drop everything and get here now, no questions asked.

The fact that half the club responded this fast tells me word about Santos has spread.

Good. Let them know what happens when you fuck with our families.

Inside, the air carries the permanent markers of club life: worn leather, motor oil ground into concrete, and the ghost of a thousand beers shared between brothers

This place has been my second home since I was caught working for the Patriot, back when I thought the worst thing that could happen was getting tortured to death by that senile old man.

Runes didn’t have to give me a chance to show I could be more than one of the Patriots' men, but he did.

I spied on the Patriot, gave the club intel, and in turn, they provided me with protection.

They gave me a new shot at life before my wife was ripped from me, and they’ll never know how grateful I am for that.

"Rio." Runes nods from behind the bar where he's nursing what looks like his third cup of coffee. "Heard you had a productive evening last night."

"Productive's one word for it." I grab a beer from the cooler, even though it's barely past ten AM. Some conversations require alcohol. "Santos won't be moving product near any more schools."

"Good." Fenrir appears from the back office, VP patch gleaming on his cut. "Fucker had it coming. Question is, what's Bembe gonna do about it?"

"Retaliate." I take a long pull of beer, thinking about Dasha at work right now, probably making someone's latte and having no idea her life changed last night. "He's been watching our people. Learning routines. Looking for soft targets."

"Soft targets like what?" This from Oskar, who slides into the seat across from me.

Still, the temperature in the room drops about ten degrees.

Tor's hand moves instinctively to the knife on his belt, and Fenrir's expression goes from concerned to lethal in the space of a heartbeat.

"How long?" Runes' voice is deceptively calm, but I know him well enough to recognize the rage simmering underneath.

"Months, according to Santos. Maybe longer." I fish out my phone, show them the photo Bembe's people sent. "This was taken while I was dealing with their boy. They wanted me to know they were watching her."

"Motherfuckers." Tor stands abruptly, pacing to the window. "I should have seen this coming. Should have been more careful."

"We all should have," Fenrir agrees. "But hindsight's not gonna solve our problem. Question is, what do we do about it?"

"We end it, once and for all." The voice comes from the doorway, and we all turn to see Bjorn entering, his limp barely noticeable these days.

Behind him, half a dozen other members file in, faces grim.

Within minutes, the main room is packed.

Word travels fast in the club, and everyone knows that when church gets called this early in the day, it's serious business.

Runes takes his place at the head of the table, and the room goes quiet.

"Brothers," he begins, voice carrying the authority of twenty years leading this club. "We've got a situation that requires immediate action."

He lays out what we know—Santos' death, the surveillance on our women, Bembe's escalating threats.

With each detail, the room gets quieter, the air thicker, just waiting to blow.

"This cocksucker's been fuckin’ with us for five years," growls Rati, the club's enforcer. "Ever since we took out his operation at the docks. How long are we gonna let him think he can threaten our families?"

"Long enough," Fenrir agrees. "We tried the diplomatic approach. Tried giving him space to rebuild elsewhere. Bastard took that as weakness."

"Not weakness," Runes corrects. "Mercy. Which he mistook for an invitation to keep pushing." His eyes find mine across the table. "Rio, tell them what Santos said about their plans."

I recap the interrogation, leaving out the more graphic details but hitting the important points.

The room gets quieter with each thing I reveal, until you can hear a pin drop when I mention the photos of Dasha.

"So what's the play?" asks Gorm, one of the newer prospects. He's eager, still thinks this life is about the bikes and brotherhood.

Give him a few years, and he'll learn it's really about the blood you're willing to spill for your newfound family.

Normally, I’m not even in kirkja because we don’t have prospects in here, but we need all hands on deck when it comes to the Culebra cartel.

"We don't negotiate with terrorists," Bjorn says flatly. "And that's what Bembe is—a terrorist who thinks he can use fear to control us."

"Agreed." This from several members at once.

"What about the cops?" someone asks. "Santos turns up dead, they're gonna start sniffing around."

"Let them," Runes says. "Santos was dirty. Had a long list of enemies. Could have been anyone who took him out." His smile is sharp as a blade. "Besides, where's the body? Far as anyone knows, Miguel Santos just disappeared. Happens all the time in his line of work."

A few chuckles ripple through the room.

Dark humor is normal when you're discussing murder over morning coffee.

"Rio." Runes' attention turns back to me. "You know this threat better than anyone. What's your recommendation?"

I take a moment to consider, thinking about Dasha making coffee this morning, about my girls sleeping peacefully in their beds, about Flora bleeding out because monsters like Bembe think family is fair game.

"We take the war to them," I say finally. "Stop reacting and start hunting. Bembe wants to play games with our families? We show him what happens when you threaten a Raider's woman."

"Seconded," Tor says immediately.

"All in favor?"

Every hand in the room goes up. Not a single dissent.

"Motion carries." Runes bangs his gavel once. "As of right now, we're at war with the Culebra cartel. Rio, I want you to be point on this. Whatever you need, whatever resources, you got it."

"I want surveillance on Bembe and his lieutenants. Round-the-clock. I want to know when they piss, when they eat, when they breathe wrong." I'm already making lists in my head. "And protection details on all family members. Discrete but effective."

"Done." Fenrir pulls out his phone. "I'll coordinate with our contacts, get eyes on their operations by tonight."

"What about the women?" Rati asks. "Do we tell them what's going on?"

The question hangs in the air like smoke.

It's the eternal dilemma of our world—how much do you tell the people you love about the darkness that surrounds them?

"Need-to-know basis," I decide. "Increased security without the panic. They'll notice, but we can play it off as general precautions."

"Your call," Runes agrees. "But Rio? Don't let pride get in the way of keeping them safe. If Dasha needs to know, tell her."

I nod, but inside I'm already planning ways to protect her without involving her.

Dasha deserves the normal life she's built for herself.

She deserves to make coffee and laugh with customers, and come home to help with homework without looking over her shoulder for cartel killers.

The meeting continues for another hour, covering logistics and contingencies.

By the time we’re done, the sun is high and my phone has buzzed with three texts from Dasha.

Morning rush was crazy. Mrs. Preston ordered her usual and asked about you.

Lunch special today is turkey avocado. Want me to save you one?

Everything okay? You seem tense today.

That last one makes my chest tight.

Even through text messages, she can read me better than people I've known for years.

I text back:

Everything's fine. Save me the sandwich. See you tonight.

It's a lie, but a necessary one.

At least until I figure out how to keep her safe without scaring her away.

The afternoon passes in a blur of phone calls and planning.

I check in with our surveillance team, review security footage from around the coffee shop, and try not to think about how easy it would be for someone to hurt Dasha if they really wanted to.

By four-thirty, I'm parked outside Riverside Elementary, watching other parents gather for pickup.

Normal people living normal lives, worried about homework and soccer practice instead of cartel bullshit.

I used to be one of them.

Before Flora, before the club became my everything, I thought the biggest problems in life were paying bills and fixing leaky faucets. Now I sit in my truck with a loaded Glock under my seat, scanning faces for threats while waiting for my eight-year-old to skip out of school.

Florencia appears in the doorway right on time, backpack bouncing as she hurries toward me.

She's got Flora's smile and my stubborn chin, and seeing her safe and happy eases some of the tension that's been coiled in my chest since last night.

"Daddy!" She climbs into the truck, already chattering about her day. "We learned about butterflies in science, and Tommy said they're just flying worms, but I told him that's stupid because worms don't have wings, and Mrs. Garcia said I was right."

"Tommy doesn't know what he's talking about," I agree, pulling into traffic. "Buckle up, mija . We're picking up Cali and then going to get Dasha."

"Are we having dinner out tonight?" There's hope in her voice.

My kids love restaurant nights, probably because it means they can order chocolate milk and argue about dessert.

"Maybe. Depends on how soccer practice goes."

Cali's daycare pickup is just as smooth, though my youngest daughter has paint in her hair and what looks like glitter stuck to her cheek.

She insists on showing me the masterpiece she created—a stick figure family with a suspiciously tall woman standing next to a man and two smaller figures.

"That's you," she explains, pointing to the tall stick figure. "And that's me and Florencia. And that's Dasha."

My throat tightens.

In Cali's five-year-old mind, Dasha is part of our family.

Has been for months, maybe longer.