Page 42 of Wings (Heavy Kings MC #5)

Kiara

A ll of a sudden, it felt like a million things were happening at once. Gabe taking me into Church. All the brothers attending the meeting. Hushed conversation.

Planning, plotting, scheming.

I was trying so hard to keep myself calm, but it felt like my heart was trying to beat its way out of my chest. The only solution was to stay small.

I tucked myself into the corner, purple crayon steady in my hand as I filled in butterfly wings, trying to let the repetitive motion keep me floating in that soft space where scary things couldn't touch me.

Gabe—Wings, I had to remember to call him Wings here—had set me up with my coloring book and the good crayons, the ones that went on smooth like butter. "Just want you close, baby girl," he'd murmured, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Color something pretty while Daddy handles business."

All the main players in the MC were here.

Duke sat at the head like a king holding court, all contained power and calculated presence.

Tyson had taken the seat to his right, a leather folder thick with papers spread before him.

Wings claimed the chair where he could keep me in his peripheral vision, protective even when focused elsewhere.

"My contact inside the Serpents reached out last night," Tyson began, his voice carrying that particular weight that made my crayon slow despite my best efforts to stay disconnected. "Remember Baron? Used to ride with us before his old lady got sick, needed the Serpents' drug money for her chemo?"

Duke's expression darkened with memory. "Good man caught in bad circumstances. Always hated that he had to patch over."

"Well, he's been keeping eyes on certain situations for us. Specifically—" Tyson slid a stack of photos across the table with military precision, "—he's been watching Alex since the harassment started."

My crayon stopped moving entirely. Purple butterfly wings half-finished, suspended in time like my breathing.

"Turns out your brother's been playing a dangerous game, Wings."

I forced my hand to move again, selecting a pink crayon with trembling fingers. Just color. Just be small. Don't think about what dangerous game means in this world.

Even from my corner, I could make out Alex's familiar form on photos spread over the table. Night shots mostly, grainy but clear enough. Him at loading docks, outside bars, in parking lots exchanging packages and envelopes with the casual efficiency of someone who'd done it a thousand times.

"Every lieutenant kicks up thirty percent of their take to the Serpents' treasury," Tyson explained, producing a ledger that looked like something from an accountant's nightmare.

Columns of numbers in different hands, some neat, some barely legible.

"Standard practice. The money flows up, protection flows down. Except . . ."

He tapped one column with a finger that had seen too much violence to be gentle with paper. "Alex has been reporting lower numbers. Significantly lower. Pocketing the difference before it ever hits the club's books."

The pink crayon snapped in my grip. Two pieces falling to the floor like broken promises.

"How much?" Duke's voice could have frozen hell.

"We're talking fifty, sixty grand over the past six months."

The number hit like a physical blow. In the normal world, that was theft.

In the outlaw world, it was suicide with extra steps.

You didn't steal from your club. Not if you wanted to keep breathing.

The patches on their backs weren't just decoration—they were blood oaths with consequences written in brass and gunpowder.

"Fucking idiot," Wings muttered, and I could hear the conflict in his voice. Anger at his brother's stupidity warring with something else. Not quite grief, but maybe the exhausted recognition that Alex had finally crossed a line there was no coming back from.

"Baron can't report it himself without revealing he's been in contact with us," Tyson continued, systematic as a battlefield surgeon. "But if proof mysteriously appeared in the right hands . . ."

"His cash-app." Wings leaned forward, and I recognized his tactical voice, the one that turned problems into solvable equations. "Everything goes through encrypted apps now. If we could access his transaction history, match it against what he's been reporting . . ."

"The discrepancies would be undeniable," Duke finished. "The Serpents would handle their own house cleaning. We stay clean, Marcus stays protected, and the Alex problem resolves itself."

The Alex problem.

I selected a new crayon—blue this time—and returned to my butterfly. One wing purple, one wing pink, now blue spots because butterflies could be anything they wanted in my world.

"How do we get the phone?" Duke asked, ever practical.

"That's the trick," Tyson admitted. "He keeps it on him during runs. Paranoid about exactly this kind of situation. We'd need to get close during a pickup, create some kind of distraction . . ."

Their voices continued, planning with the casual efficiency of men who'd orchestrated violence before. I colored my butterfly's antennae, made them sparkle with silver, gave them tiny hearts at the tips because even butterfly antennae deserved love.

Later, in the nursery, Gabe was talking me through the plan. It felt good to have him explain it to me—like he cared about my enough to be honest.

"The Serpents do their main cash collection every Tuesday night," he said, rubbing soothing circles on my back that did nothing for the knots in my stomach. "It's like clockwork. Has been for years."

I forced myself to focus on facts, not feelings—especially not the scary ones. "How does it work?"

"Each lieutenant has a territory." His voice stayed clinical. "Alex handles the north side drops—three locations, always in the same order. Murphy's Bar at eleven, the strip club on Harmon at midnight, then finishing at an old body shop on Riverside around 2 AM."

"Body shop?" The words caught in my throat. I knew that place. Knew it too well.

"That's where he reconciles the numbers before heading to their clubhouse.

Counts the cash, logs it in the app, takes his pictures for the digital trail.

" Gabe shifted me slightly, pulling out his phone to show me surveillance photos.

"Baron says he's usually there for about forty minutes.

Alone except for two prospects who watch the doors. "

The images made my chest tight. Alex at the shop's entrance, face illuminated by security lights. He looked tired. Older. The drugs had carved hollows in his cheeks that hadn't been there when I left.

"How do you know he keeps the phone on him?" I asked, proud of how steady my voice came out.

Gabe swiped to another photo, zooming in. "See the chain on his belt? That's where he keeps the burner with the cash-app. Never leaves his sight during drops. Paranoid about someone doing exactly what we're planning."

Ironic. All that paranoia and he'd still stolen from his own club. Like wearing a bulletproof vest while playing Russian roulette.

"We'd need a distraction to get close enough," Gabe continued, tactical mind already three steps ahead. "Something to draw attention, create chaos. In and out while everyone's reacting to whatever fire we set."

The plan unfolded with elegant simplicity.

Create a diversion at the body shop. Lift the phone during the chaos.

Download the transaction history. Return the phone before Alex noticed.

Send the data anonymously to the Serpents' president.

Let their internal justice handle the rest while the Heavy Kings stayed clean.

Clean. Like there was anything clean about setting someone up to die, even if they'd dug their own grave.

"What kind of distraction?" I heard myself ask, though I was already forming ideas.

"Still working on that." Frustration bled through his controlled tone. "Need something big enough to cause chaos but not so big it brings cops. Can't have official attention on that shop when—"

When the Serpents come to collect their stolen money. And their thief.

"Kiara?" Gabe's hand stilled on my back. "What are you thinking?"

"Nothing." The lie tasted bitter. "Just . . . processing."

He studied me with those eyes that saw too much. "This isn't your fault. You know that, right? Alex made his choices."

"I know." I managed a weak smile. "It's just hard. Knowing what's going to happen. Knowing we're helping make it happen."

"We're not pulling the trigger," he said firmly. "We're just . . . providing information. What the Serpents do with it is their business."

Information that could get Alex killed.

"We’ve got three days," I said, changing the subject. "Is that enough time to plan?"

"Has to be." He shifted, all business again. "Duke wants this handled before my patch ceremony. Can't have this hanging over us when I take my full colors."

Of course. Everything had a timeline in this world. Even death came with a schedule.

"I want to see the full plan," I said. "When you have it. I want to understand everything."

He kissed my forehead, mistaking my need for control as simple curiosity. "Of course, baby girl. No secrets between us."

No secrets. Except the one already forming in my mind. The knowledge that I could help.

"It's getting late," Gabe said, checking his phone. "You have an early shift tomorrow."

"Will you stay?" I hated how small my voice sounded. "Just until I fall asleep?"

"Always, angel."

After I brushed my teeth, he carried me to the bed.

The fairy lights cast soft shadows on the ceiling. Gabe's breathing evened out beside me, his arm heavy across my waist.

"I want to help," I whispered into the darkness.

Gabe's arm tightened around me immediately, his whole body going rigid with rejection before I'd even explained. "Absolutely not. You're staying here, safe, while we handle this."