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CHAPTER FOUR

Doran

The surveillance reports spread across my desk tell me what I need to know—Revna spent the night at Everly's, windows locked, no unusual activity.

Good, she's learning.

The morning sun cuts through my office windows, highlighting dust that dances like scattered promises.

I've been up since four, not able to sleep, reviewing every possible threat to the wedding—to her.

Mikhail enters my home office without knocking, tablet in hand. "Njal tried to leave his apartment around 3 AM. Oskar had to physically hold him back."

"From doing what?"

"Driving to her place. He was drunk, talking about winning her back, how he wasn't going to let this happen." Mikhail scrolls through his notes. "Kept saying she didn't mean it, that she was being forced. Oskar sedated him. He's sleeping it off."

"Good." I close the reports, check my phone. A text from my father sent twenty minutes ago:

Wheels up in 2 hours. Havana meeting confirmed.

Cuba.

Bembe Reyes—the new head of the Culebra cartel, who thinks his brother's death gives him license to hunt on my territory.

To threaten what's mine.

"I'll be gone until tonight," I tell Mikhail. "Have Vadim watch her. Discreetly. Any threat, and I want him to handle it."

"The dress fitting is this evening."

"I know." My mother's been texting me about it all week. Something about bringing the families together, letting the women bond. "Make sure the house is secure. My mother and sister will be there as well."

"Already done. I posted two men at the perimeter, one inside posing as staff."

"Good." My phone buzzes.

Speak of the devil.

Mum:

Don't worry, we'll be perfectly charming.

Me:

It's not you I'm worried about.

Mum:

Your father's not coming to the dress fitting, Doran.

Me:

I meant Rhiannon.

Mum:

Your sister is delightful.

Me:

My sister is a menace.

Another text, this time from the menace herself:

Rhiannon:

Try not to scare her off before I meet her.

Me:

That's your job, little sister.

Rhiannon:

Rude. I'm absolutely charming.

I promise I'll only show her SOME of your baby photos

Me:

Rhiannon.

Rhiannon:

The naked ones are my favorite.

Especially the one where you're crying because Mum wouldn't let you marry your motorcycle.

Me:

I was four.

Rhiannon:

And apparently very committed to that bike.

I pocket my phone before I'm tempted to cancel the whole thing.

The last thing Revna needs is my twenty-five year old sister showing her embarrassing photos and telling stories about my awkward teenage years.

Though knowing Rhiannon, she's already created a PowerPoint presentation for it.

I spend the next hour handling business—approving shipments, reviewing territory reports, authorizing payments.

The mundane machinery of the empire that never stops, even for weddings.

My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.

I almost dismiss it until I read the message:

She was mine first. This isn't over.

Njal.

Somehow, the bastard got a burner phone.

I forward it to Vadim with instructions to find the phone and destroy it.

Then I text Mikhail:

Double the surveillance on Njal. If he so much as drives in her direction, I want to know.

An hour later, I'm meeting my father at the private airfield.

He's already on the jet, reviewing files, dressed in his usual dark suit that makes him look like what he is—a man who breaks people for a living.

"You're late," he says without looking up.

"I was handling something."

"The boy?" He sets down the files. "Mikhail briefed me. We should eliminate the problem."

"Not yet." I settle into the leather seat across from him. "Killing him now will make Revna a widow before she's a wife. Bad idea. Wouldn't look good."

"Since when do you care about optics?"

"Since I need her cooperation, not plotting revenge." The jet starts taxiing. "Besides, he's more useful alive. Let him drink himself stupid, let everyone see him falling apart. Makes me look like the better option."

"You are the better option."

"I know that. You know that. But she needs to know it too." I accept the drink he offers—whiskey, too early for it, but this conversation requires it. "Tell me about Reyes."

"Bembe Reyes. Thirty-two. Planned some resurgence of the cartel we obliterated for the Raiders." My father pulls out a photo—young, handsome, with the kind of smile that hides how violent he really is. "His brother Miguel was killed by our people when it all went down."

"The fight that ended the war."

"Yes, it was supposed to end it," he corrects. "Bembe sees it differently. To him, it was murder."

"It was business."

"Try telling him that." The jet lifts off, Tallahassee falling away below us. "He's not like others before him. At least Roque and Luis understood the rules—you win some, you lose some, you move on. Bembe takes everything personally."

"Hence why he's targeting prospects."

"He's sending a message. The question is what we send back."

I stare out the window at the clouds below.

Somewhere down there, Revna's probably hanging out with her family, processing the way her future will be changing shortly.

In a few hours, she'll be trying on wedding dresses with my mother and sister.

The collision of worlds makes my chest tight, and I think I might actually be excited.

"Then we offer him a partnership," I say finally. "Shared territory, controlled expansion."

"He wants blood."

"Everyone wants blood until they see the profit margins." I turn back to my father. "What does he really want? Power? Money? Revenge?"

"All three. But mostly, he wants respect. Recognition. To be seen as an equal player, not some upstart nephew riding his family's coattails."

"Then we give him that. Make him feel important while keeping him leashed."

My father's smile is sharp. "You sound like me at your age."

"I had a good teacher."

"Your mother would say you had two." He swirls his whiskey. "She called this morning. Said she likes Revna, that she has a strong backbone."

"She does."

"Good. She'll need it, married to you." He's quiet for a moment. "You know, at first when I saw your mother, I thought she was just another pretty face. Here to look decorative. I didn’t think she had the kahunas to do the tough shit."

"What changed your mind?"

"She broke a man's finger for grabbing her ass one time. Didn't even spill her champagne doing it." His smile turns nostalgic. "That's when I knew."

"Knew what?"

"That even with everything life threw at us, we were meant to be."

"And now?"

"Thirty-three years later, she still terrifies me." He finishes his drink. "That's how you know it's real, son. When they scare you more than any enemy ever could."

We spend the rest of the flight strategizing.

By the time we land in Havana, we have three different approaches planned.

Offer, threaten, negotiate.

The trinity of mob diplomacy.

The meeting location is neutral ground—a cigar lounge overlooking the Malecón.

Old Havana sprawls around us, all crumbling beauty and hidden danger.

Perfect for this kind of conversation.

The air is thick with humidity and fuck, it’s hard to breathe here.

Bembe Reyes is already waiting, surrounded by guards who look like they eat steroids for breakfast.

He's younger than his photo suggested, with an energy that reminds me of a caged animal.

Hungry. Desperate. Dangerous.

"The Russians come to Cuba," he says by way of greeting, not bothering to stand. "How... nostalgic."

"Nostalgic implies living in the past," I respond, taking the offered seat. "We're here to discuss the future."

"Are we?" He lights a cigar, taking his time, making us wait. Power play 101. "Because from where I sit, you're here to protect the past. Those bikers who killed my brother."

"Your brother died in a war he started," my father says bluntly.

Wrong approach.

Reyes' eyes flash, and his guards shift slightly, hands moving closer to weapons.

"My brother died because your friends didn't know when to stop." He points the cigar at me. "But you're marrying into them now, yes? The Raider's daughter?"

"In two weeks."

"Two weeks." He savors the words like wine. "Long time in our business. Anything could happen."

The threat hangs between us like smoke.

I count his men—six visible, probably more nearby.

Calculate angles, exits, possibilities.

I keep my voice level, almost bored. "Is that a threat?"

"An observation." He leans back. "Tell me, what's she like? This woman worth starting a war over?"

"There doesn't need to be a war."

"Doesn't there? Two of mine for two of theirs seems fair."

"Erik and Anders weren't yours," I point out. "They were prospects in a motorcycle club. Hardly cartel material."

"They were boys," he snaps, mask slipping. "Someone's sons, someone's brothers."

"And their deaths accomplish what? Your brother's still gone. The past is written. We're here to discuss the future."

He studies me through the cigar smoke. "You sound like a man with a plan."

"I'm a man with an offer."

"I'm listening."

I lean forward, entering his space. "The Port of Jacksonville. Shared operations. Thirty percent of gross, full access to our Eastern European network."

My father tenses beside me, but stays silent.

We discussed this—I take the lead, he backs my play.

"Thirty percent." Reyes considers, rolling the numbers in his head. "Of everything?"

"Of port operations. The Irish keep their routes, the Russians keep theirs. But anything coming through Jacksonville for the Culebra gets our protection and distribution."

"And in return?"

"The Raiders of Valhalla are off-limits. They're family now. My family."

He's quiet for a long moment, then: "I want to meet her."

"Who?"

"Your bride. This woman you're willing to share territory for." His smile is sharp. "At the wedding. I want an invitation."

My father starts to object, but I hold up a hand.

"You want to walk into my wedding. Surrounded by my people, on my territory."

"I want to see what all the fuss is about." He shrugs. "Call it professional curiosity. Or call it insurance. Hard to start a war at a wedding, no?"

He's asking me to let the wolf into the henhouse.

To put Revna in the same room as the man who's been hunting her family.

But he's also right—refusing makes me look weak, like I can't protect her even surrounded by my own people.

"One condition," I say.

"Which is?"

"You come alone. No guards, no weapons, no idle threats. You come as a guest, you act like one."

"And if I don't?"

"Then thirty percent becomes zero percent, and we see who really controls Florida."

The silence stretches.

Somewhere outside, a band plays, tourists laugh, life continues.

Two different worlds existing side by side, neither aware of the other.

"Deal," Reyes says finally, extending his hand.

I shake it, feeling like I just signed someone's death warrant.

Maybe mine. Maybe his. Definitely someone's.

The flight home is tense.

My father waits until we're airborne before exploding.

"You just invited him to your wedding. To stand in the same room as your bride, when his people killed two of theirs?! Have you lost your fucking mind?"

"I invited him where I can watch him."

"You painted a target on her back!"

"She was already a target." I pour myself a drink, needing the burn. "Now I know where the shot comes from."

"This isn't a game, Doran."

"No, it's chess. And I just turned his knight into my pawn."

"And if you're wrong?"

"Then you were right about eliminating problems." I down the whiskey. "But I'm not wrong."

"You're gambling with her life."

"I'm gambling with everyone's lives. That's what we do." I pour another. "The difference is, I'm playing for bigger stakes than just Florida."

My father goes quiet, studying me with those eyes that have seen too much. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Reyes is small-time. Regional at best. But his Cuban connections? That's international. That's Europe, Asia, South America." I meet his eyes. "You built an empire in America. I'm thinking bigger."

"And Revna?"

"Revna's the key. Going to be a lawyer, connected to the MC, married to me. She bridges our worlds." I check my phone—three texts from her, two from Rhiannon, one from my mother. "She's also probably going to murder me."

"Why?"

I show him Rhiannon's text:

Currently showing your future wife every embarrassing photo I can find. She really enjoyed the one of you in your emo phase!

"Your sister's a menace."

"She gets it from Mum." I scroll through Revna's messages:

Your sister is at the clubhouse.

She brought champagne and baby photos.

I'm going to kill you!

I can't help but smile. At least she's texting threats instead of running.

Rhiannon:

She's even prettier in person.

Also she threatened to sue me for harassment.

I LOVE HER!

My mother's text is simpler:

Everything's perfect. Don't come to the clubhouse until we're done.

"They seem to be bonding," my father mentions, reading over my shoulder.

"That's what worries me."

By the time we land in Tallahassee, it's early evening.

The dress fitting should be wrapping up, but knowing my mother and sister, they've turned it into an event.

Champagne, gossip, probably a full psychological evaluation of me.

"Want me to drop you at your place?" my father asks as we exit the jet.

"No. I'm going to the clubhouse."

"Your mum said not to?—"

"Since when do I listen?"

He almost smiles. "Your mother used to be the same way. Still is. Never could tell her no."

"Is that why you fell for her?"

The drive to the clubhouse takes twenty minutes.

I spend it reviewing Mikhail's updates—no threats, no unusual activity.

Njal's still sedated.

The dress fitting went smoothly.

Vadim tells me Revna laughed more than he's ever seen her laugh.

I’m just glad she's had a good time with my mother and sister, and that we might be turning a new leaf.

I pull up outside the clubhouse but don't get out.

Through the windows, I can see movement—my mother's auburn hair, Rhiannon gesturing animatedly, other figures moving in and out of view.

Normal. Domestic. Safe.

My phone rings—Mikhail.

"We need to increase security for the wedding," I tell him right off the bat. "Reyes will have eyes on us from the moment he lands."

"Already on it. How many additional men?"

"Double what we planned. Triple the surveillance on the venue." I watch as someone—Revna?—passes by a window. "And Mikhail? Start a file on Bembe Reyes. Everything. Family, associates, weaknesses. If he so much as looks at her wrong at that wedding..."

"Understood."

I end the call and sit there another moment, engine running.

Inside that clubhouse, my future wife is bonding with my family, trying on dresses, living a moment of normalcy.

Out here, I'm planning for war.

Two weeks to keep both worlds balanced.

Two weeks to keep her alive.

I drive away without going in.

Some moments aren't mine to interrupt—but I'll make damn sure she survives to have more of them.