The tension in my chest hadn't eased by the time I made it back to the auto shop. I killed the engine of my truck, rubbing a hand over my face before stepping out.
The parking lot was empty—too early for the guys to be in yet—but something feltoff.
The kind of off that made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
The front door was locked, same as I’d left it last night, but as I stepped inside, the first thing I noticed was the sharp metallic scent in the air.
Not oil. Not grease. Something colder.
I turned toward the break room, and that was when I saw it.
A knife, its hilt buried deep into the corkboard, and a note pinned beneath it.
I crossed the room in two strides, my jaw clenching as I ripped the paper free.
The blade was still lodged in the wall, handle smudged like someone had wiped it down.
No prints. No mistakes.
A warning.
I unfolded the note, my pulse pounding.
Back off. Sell the shop. Or else.
No name. No signature. Just those few words, written in sharp, jagged strokes.
My blood ran hot.
I wasn’t stupid. I knew exactly who was behind this.
Hank fucking Lawson.
The bastard must’ve finally lost patience with his little game of buyouts and smooth-talking bullshit.
I crushed the paper in my fist.
I’d dealt with threats before—pissed off customers, drunk idiots looking to fight—but this? This was different. This was personal.
And the worst part?
He wasn’t just coming after me. He was coming after everything I’d built.
Everything my family had built.
I took a slow breath, forcing the heat in my veins to simmer instead of burn. If Lawson thought I was just going to roll over, he was dead wrong.
I pulled my phone from my pocket, my grip still tight around the crumpled note.
This wasn’t something I could deal with alone.
Lawson had crossed a line, and if he was willing to send a message like this, then we had to be ready for whatever came next.
I dialed Mason first. He always answered.
“Yeah?” His voice was rough with sleep.
“Get to the shop. Now.”