Page 41 of Unhinged

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

ACID

Judge’s laugh is still stuck in my head. That wild, unfiltered belly laugh that only a kid can pull off. It echoes in my skull like it’s still bouncing off trampoline walls.

I hadn’t planned to enjoy myself. Hell, I thought I’d be playing babysitter and watching Brydgett avoid eye contact the whole time. But then Judge challenged me to the foam pit like it was life or death, and his eyes lit up when I pretended to sink like I was getting eaten alive.

I’d dive headfirst into a vat of lava for that kid.

And his mom?

Fuck.

I dared her to eat hot fudge and rainbow boba. She did it. I’d do worse if it meant getting that smirk again—the one where she thinks she’s tougher than me, smarter than me, better than me. She probably is.

She was glowing after. I kept my distance. I’m not Arrow. I’m not gonna lay hands on an omega who hasn’t invited it. Especially not her . Not after that basement scene. That still burns in my chest like motor oil in my lungs.

Gears pushed it. I backed him, because I always back my brother. But maybe this time, I should’ve told him to stand down.

I should’ve protected her.

The office door creaks as I push it in. Arrow’s leaning against the desk and Gears is seated in his chair, arms crossed, jaw tight. Stallion’s posted up near the window, flipping a knife between his fingers like he’s bored, but his eyes track me the second I enter.

Gears glances up as I step in.He glances up when I walk in. “How was it?”

I grab the back of the chair across from him but don’t sit. Just lean. “It was good. Real good. Judge ran himself half-dead, and Brydgett… she actually laughed. Like, really laughed. The kid is quite the showman in the foam pit and obstacle course.”

Arrow looks at me. “She okay?”

“Yeah. She’s in the shower last I saw. Her and the kid were gearing up for a movie night sleepover.”

Gears snorts. “She let you take him into the foam pit?”

“Not just let me. The kid challenged me. Had me sinking in ‘lava’ while he tried to rescue me.”

Arrow raises a brow. “You playing volcano monster now?”

I shrug. “Judge’s rules. I just fell in line.”

Gears snorts, shakes his head like I’ve personally disappointed the alpha species. “You’re getting soft.”

“Try saying that to my face after you’ve done three pit dives in denim.”

“Rest of the brothers are getting twitchy,” he mutters, changing the subject fast.

Arrow grunts. “Thinking a party. Beer. Girls. Let ‘em blow off steam before they start picking fights with each other.”

“Yeah.” I nod. “Sounds like the smart kind of dumb.”

Arrow shifts, flicks a glance my way. “You think Gidge would come?”

A low chuckle escapes before I can stop it. “You worried about her? I don’t think she needs our protection. That omega’s a category five hurricane with mascara on.”

“She scares the shit outta me,” Arrow mutters.

“Good,” I say. “Means you’ve still got a lick of survival instinct.”

Gears blows out a breath and scrubs a hand down his face. “Still can’t believe we’re in bed with the fucking Morozov mafia.”

I arch a brow. “You think Nikola takes us to dinner next or shoots us in the face?”

“Neither,” Gears says. “He respects her. That’s the crazy part. She walks in with demands and he listens. The guy runs a black market arms ring and smuggles diamonds in piano benches, and he listens to a goddamn omega.”

“She’s not just an omega,” I say quietly. “And you know it.”

Gears nods. “Still. She can’t pull that shit at the party. If she’s gonna be an Ol’ Lady—mine, yours, whoever’s—she can’t mouth off to us like she does. Respect matters in public. Sass is fine. Disrespect isn’t.”

Arrow grimaces. “She’s not the ‘yes, dear’ type.”

“No shit,” I mutter.

Prez changes gears. “Nikola’s meeting is on for next week. He’s setting the plan for the cartel. We’re observers. Support, not planners. That way, if shit goes sideways, we’ve got plausible deniability.”

“Good.” I drag a hand down my beard. “What about Franko? He knows something about where Kenny was getting his supply.”

“I’d rather mousetrap my dick than deal with him again,” Gears huffs.

Arrow snorts. “Want me to call him?”

“I’ll think about it. But when things start rolling—cartel or whoever the hell’s next—we send the kids and the women out. No debate.”

“Agreed,” I say, immediately.

Arrow nods. “What about Brydgett? You wanna be the one to tell her she’s gotta run and hide?”

I raise a brow. “You volunteering?”

He lifts both hands. “Hell no.”

“Didn’t think so.” I smile—just a little. “She’d kill the messenger, and then circle back for whoever gave the order.”

“Still,” Gears mutters, “we gotta figure it out. She and Judge are targets whether she wants to admit it or not.”

“And Earl’s still out there,” I add. “Lying low. Waiting. He’s not done. You think he forgot about them? Not a chance.”

“I’ll call Ike,” Arrow offers. “See if there’s been any sightings since the wreck. He hears shit before we do.”

We split after that. Arrow goes to find the brothers to start planning for the party. Gears heads off to Bettie, probably to break the news that shit might hit the fan again. And me?

I go find a clean shirt and a hot shower.

Water rushes over me, steam fogging the mirror. But none of it clears my head.

All I see is her.

Laughing at the boba.

Clutching her kid like the world’s gonna take him.

Calling me Mr. Inked and Sexy like it didn’t nearly undo me on the spot.

I want her.

Not just in my bed.

I want her in every damn corner of my life.

And that’s a problem.

Because wanting something that dangerous? That fierce?

It never ends well.

GEARS

The room smells like motor oil, burnt coffee, and tension. Church is packed, every patched brother in their seat, boots planted, waiting for answers. I’ve got the gavel in one hand, my other wrapped around the edge of the table hard enough to splinter it.

“We’ve got news,” I say, voice steady. “The Morozov mafia’s made their way into town. Don’s name is Nikola.”

A few groans. A whistle. Suave mutters something that sounds suspiciously like ‘Mafia? Great. Just what we needed.’

“They’re not here to start shit,” I continue.

“They’re here to burn the cartel to the ground.

Nikola’s sister was taken—trafficked. He wants blood.

We agreed to help. Support only. We're not the trigger men in this one, just the helping hand. That way if it goes sideways, we’re not the ones standing on the pile of bodies. ”

Arrow leans against the wall behind me, arms crossed. Acid’s at my right, flipping his damn lighter open and closed like a metronome. The sound fills the silences between my words.

“We also agreed to supply their party favors—coke, smoke, Molly, shrooms, angel dust. But nothing off the deep end. No tar. No Flakka. No Spice. That was non-negotiable.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Stallion pipes up, deadpan. “So basically, we’re still the moral drug dealers just supplying the less moral mafia.”

A few chuckles roll through the room. Arky throws a peanut at him and misses. Suave, lounging near the door with a toothpick in his mouth, doesn’t even flinch when it bounces off the wall behind him.

“Laugh it up,” I say, “but here’s where it gets fun.”

Keg leans in. “Oh, do tell, Prez.”

“Turns out Nikola was the one giving Kenny the tar.”

That wipes the smiles.

“But,” I go on, “Nikola wasn’t cooking it. He was getting it from a broker.” I pause for effect. “Franko.”

Groans, curses, someone slaps the table. Acid’s jaw clenches so tight I hear it pop. Nitro straight up says, “That shit stain?”

Everyone knows Franko. Knows he’s a loose cannon in denim with a handshake that means jack shit. Used to run low-level logistics before he started playing middleman for whoever had enough cash and no conscience.

We’re not coming down on him—yet.” I tell them. “But I’m gonna get ahold of him. If he’s moving tar, then he knows where it’s coming from. Let’s hope he wants to play ball.”

Nitro raises a hand. “And the mafia is just cool with all this?”

“For now,” I say. “But we’re watching. And Brydgett—our omega—she’s the reason we even got this deal. Walked in, stared down the Don, and walked out with an alliance.”

That gets a few low whistles and murmured “goddamns.” Stallion nods slowly like he's impressed, and Keg grins into his beer like he’s just realized we might all be a little outmatched.

“Any questions?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Suave says. “If she starts running the club, do we still gotta vote?”

I’m headed to Ma’s apartment, chewing on the inside of my cheek like it’s got answers. I need her to know what’s coming. If Nikola turns on us, if the cartel decides we’re useful enough to bleed—this place won’t be safe. Not for women. Not for kids. Not for Ma.

I knock once and let myself in.

She’s at the stove, red apron on, hair twisted up in a messy knot, humming something off-key. The smell of garlic and onions hits me square in the face like a damn hug.

She turns and beams. “There’s my boy.”

“Don’t start, Mom.”

“Oh hush. You still like it when I call you that.” She sets the spoon down and waves me toward her, wrapping her arms around me in a hug. “What’s got that wrinkle between your eyebrows deeper than usual?”

“The Morozov mafia moved into town. Don’s name is Nikola.”

She stills. One heartbeat. Two. Then goes back to stirring whatever’s in the pot.

I keep going. “Brydgett bartered us a deal with them. Walked in like she had a death wish and came out with an alliance. Now we’re aiding Nikola in taking down the cartel.”

She sets the spoon down real slow. Turns to face me, eyes sharp as ever.

“You’re working with the mafia?”

I nod. “Not as partners. Just backup. Nikola’s the one making moves. We’re just support. That way, if it all goes sideways, we’ve got room to breathe. Plausible deniability.”

There’s a long pause. Then she hums low in her throat.

“Smart,” she says finally. “Your daddy would be proud. You’re playing the long game now.”

My throat tightens at that, but I don’t say anything.

She crosses her arms. “And how’s your omega?”

I groan. “Don’t start with that, either.”

“Oh, I’m starting.” She grins. “What’s the look for?”

“She’s infuriating. Doesn’t listen for shit. Reckless like she’s got nine damn lives and already used up eight.” I rub the back of my neck. “Woman drives me goddamn crazy.”

Smack.

Her palm cracks the side of my head, and I flinch, scowling.

“Ma, what the hell was that for?”

“For being an idiot.”

I blink. “How?”

“You’re the president of a motorcycle club, you deal in drugs and god knows what else, and you expected your Kismet to be what, exactly? A doe-eyed little flower who brings you muffins and says ‘yes, sir’?”

I open my mouth. Close it.

She jabs a finger at my chest. “You wouldn’t know what to do with a roll-over-and-take-it omega. That girl? She’ll keep your ass in line. All three of you. She can stand with you, not behind you. That’s what you need.”

“You don’t know everything,” I mutter, but it’s weak.

She leans back against the counter, raising an eyebrow. “Then tell me.”

I glance at the window, like maybe someone’s listening. I lean in anyway, voice low.

“She’s the Alpha Slayer.”

Her eyes go wide.

For a second, I think she’s gonna faint. Or throw a pan. Maybe both.

Then—she laughs . A full-on belly laugh that shakes the damn rafters.

I scowl. “What the hell is so funny?”

She wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. “She’s perfect . Especially for Titus. That man needs a woman who might stab him just to keep him humble.”

“I’m serious, Mom.”

“So am I.” She softens, smile turning gentle. “It almost makes me feel at ease, knowing she could protect you boys just as much as you protect her.”

“Thanks.” I mean it.

She walks over, kisses my cheek like I’m still ten years old and just got a B+ in math. “Anytime, baby.”

I start to leave, and she smacks my arm lightly. “You’re having dinner with me soon. All of you. Including Brydgett. And the boy.”

I blink. “We’re throwing a party this weekend. Saturday, most likely.”

She waves a hand. “Perfect. Then Sunday night dinner it is. I’ll make Stromboli.”

I grunt. “We’ll be there.”

And I mean that too.

Even if Brydgett glares at the tablecloth. Even if Acid pretends to hate small talk.

We’ll be there. Because that’s what family does.

Even the fucked-up kind.