Page 131 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
Health Department complaints filed after midnight courtesy of the same VOIP block that tried to redirect a crate to a lobby last week.
A simple diagram that shows money and malice moving together through small pipes.
I watch Nico’s eyes while Deacon clicks.
He does not flinch at his own voice.
He grows bored at the bounties and tries to look brave at the money.
Then Deacon drops the last slide and the little animal inside Nico remembers how to run.
A grainy photo, pulled off a dark board where old sins go to swap recipes.
A diner corner.
A man in a leather coat, not our cut, wearing a winter badge on his lapel as a joke.
Jonah Pike.
Our former road captain.
The one who walked during the fracture and never came home.
He sits with a slice of lemon pie he never touches.
Across from him sits Nico, laughing, hand on his coffee like he invented warmth.
The rental car in the snow outside belongs to the same shell.
The silver button on Jonah’s lapel is our retired run.
The timestamp matches the week before the first note.
“Your ghost sells old tricks,” Deacon says quietly. “And you buy them with her money.”
Nico shifts in the chair.
He tries to make his face blank. All he manages is a twitch that flickers across his mouth like a bad idea.
Roman takes one step forward. Not enough to crowd. Just enough tower.
“You want to be a man,” he says. “You hold a job until your knuckles ache and your back complains and your pride learns to sit down. You do not steal from the woman who fed you. You do not hire cowards to push notes through cracks then pretend the wind did it.”
Nico snorts. “I earned my say. She is family. She is property.”
I have to close my eyes for one second. If I do not, my hands will speak in a language I promised my daughter I would stop using.
When I open them again, I am steady.
“Family is not a drawer of possessions,” I say. “You do not get to keep what you did not build.”
For a moment none of us talk.
The drip from a broken pipe somewhere in the dark marks time.
A train horn bleeds across the yard.
The room knows what it is supposed to be again.
