Page 82 of Wings
And in the shadows, Alex circled like a predator, thinking he could steal it all back.
I wouldn’t let him.
Just then, my phone buzzed. I glanced down at the screen and saw Tyson’s name. As I read what he’d sent me, a grin broke across my face.
Finally, some good news.
Slowly, a plan began to form.
Chapter 15
Kiara
Allofasudden,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 calculatedpresence. 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.
