Page 10 of Ravaged and Ruined
Hashtag twists his laptop around to face me and brings up images on the screen, “It’s solid, Prez. Good bones. Plenty of space. Could be a damn fortress once we fix it up.”
I nod, keeping my thoughts tight. “Looks promising. What’s the word on securing it?”
Tango leans back in his chair, a cocky grin tugging at his lips. “It’s in the bag, Prez. I leveled up an old favor. Morty, the slimeball realtor who still owes me for a job, said he’d make sure the paperwork goes through all nice and legal-like.”
“Keep him on the leash. If he twitches, choke the line.” I toss the flyer back on the table. “Rancor, Money?”
I lock eyes on my Treasurer. He frowns, “We’ve got about half what we need from the last job. It’ll get us started, but unless we take out a loan or find another stream, we’re gonna be short.”
Not what I want to hear, but I keep my face unreadable. A Prez doesn’t flinch. “Crank. Pike. Line something up, fast and fat. We need a big payday.”
Crank grins, all teeth and adrenaline. “Already got a few things in mind. I’ll bring options.”
Pike nods and I can see the wheels spinning in his head. The guy’s got a knack for finding money. I’m confident they’ll come up with something lucrative.
“Padre,” I say, turning to our Secretary. He’s calm as always. I trust him with the red tape so I can focus on everything else. “You got our paperwork lined up?”
“Permits are filed. Licenses in process. Shouldn’t take long.” He says it like it’s already done, and with him, it might as well be.
I give a nod, “Good.”
Everything’s falling into place. Slowly, but it’s getting there. It’s not perfect, but we’ve been through worse. I let the moment stretch for a second, the weight of the plan settling around me.
“Let’s take a ride. I want to put our eyes on this place.” I’m used to bearing responsibility, but sometimes, the load feels heavier than others. This whole Ritorno Holdings thing is messing with my head. My thoughts keep circling back to it, the pressure mounting. It’s like I’m constantly walking a tightrope, trying to keep the club’s interests safe while fighting off a threat that’s waiting to swallow us whole. But I’ll be damned if I don’t give everything I’ve got. “Meeting adjourned. Move out. We’ve got a damn kingdom to raise.”
Chairs scrape as the brothers rise, already moving. Focused. Ready. Just like they should be. We file out of Church and cut through the clubhouse, the familiarity grounding me in the life I’ve built from the ground up.
By the time we push through the outside doors, the sun’s a damn slap in the face. That’s when I spot Lacey perched on the steps, her arms looped around her bare legs, her shorts riding high on smooth skin. I don’t look twice. I don’t break stride. Boots hit concrete behind me, the crunch and scuff echoing as the crew fans out toward their rides.
Chapter Four
Lacey
The sun is already too damn bright, baking the front steps beneath me and turning the concrete into a skillet under my thighs. I loop my arms around my knees, pulling them to my chest and making myself as small as possible just as Aero storms out of the clubhouse door.
He’s moving like a man on a mission. His boots hit the concrete in a steady rhythm and don’t break stride. The rest of the crew follow, the adrenaline lingering in their wake as they spread out toward their bikes. Aero doesn’t even cast a glance in my direction. I hold my breath like a fool as he passes me by, ignoring the way the concrete bites into my skin.
The ache in my chest burns hotter than the sun overhead. I should be used to this part. The silence. The dismissal. I’ve been on the fringes of club life long enough to know how it works. Men like him, like my brother, they don’t bend for anyone. The club comes first, and women like me… we fall somewhere close to last. But that doesn’t stop the tears from threatening the edges of my eyes.
I watch as the ten of them swing onto their bikes and roll out in formation, the thunder of their engines vibrating through the foundation beneath me.
I shove to my feet, brushing the back of my legs with a little more force than necessary, like I can erase the heat or the humiliation. Then I storm inside. The door crashes behind me, but I don’t stop moving until I hit my room. A few people glance my way. No one says anything. No one asks if I’m okay. Not that I’d tell them if they did.
By the time I make it inside and shut the door, I’m shaking. My hands find the edge of the dresser, gripping tight like it might hold me upright. My stomach twists. My breath catches somewhere between rage and heartbreak.
God, what the hell am I doing?
This isn’t me. I don’t cry over men. I don’t fall apart. But here I am, flushed cheeks, red-rimmed eyes, and Ihateit. I’ve never been the type to sit pretty and wait to be seen. I don’t beg. I’m strong. I’ve had to be.
My shoulders rise and fall as I force the breath back into my lungs. Iwon’tfall apart. Not over him. Not over this.
My fingers dig into the dresser edge, and something sharp presses into my skin. I blink hard, forcing the tears away, and my gaze lands on the crumpled business card.
Garett Ricci’s name stares back at me. I stare at it for a long second before reaching for it. I drop onto the edge of the bed and slide my finger over the number.
I should throw it away.
Instead, I grab my phone and dial.
