Page 11 of Motorycle Daddies

I nod, knowing Grizzly is tense. The Prez is under a lot of pressure here, trying to keep his cool even though these are the people responsible for hurting his daughter. I would be losing my shit.

We approach the door leading to the VIP lounge, and a man in a suit with a serious face and mustache. “Name and password,” he says as we approach. In one hand he holds a tablet, and I’m assuming the admission list is on it. That list will probably either disappear or be used later for some kind of blackmail.

“Password’s ginger ale,” Grizzly says real smooth. “My name is Grizzly. Prez of Venom Vultures MC. That’s probably how you have us down.” We wait as the man scrolls through his list.

He finally nods. “Have a nice evening, gentlemen.”

I hold back a sneer. Not a single man here tonight is going to be a gentleman. The fact that they act like this is some fancy charity ball, despite knowing the truth, is ridiculous. It makes me sick.

We walk into the main space and down the spiral staircase. It resembles a speakeasy—red curtains, and large seating areas with tables covered in linen. A stage begins on the northeast side of the room, crosses to the center, and juts out through half of the room. It looks like a runway, and I’m filled with rage when I realize it is a runway—to show off the young women and sell them like sex slaves.

There are people chatting in various dark corners, and some just finding seats and smoking cigars or sipping expensive wines. We stand out like a sore thumb. Most of the men are here alone, and they certainly don’t look like us with our tattoos, beards, and torn-up jeans.

We’re not their type, usually. But we have to somehow convince the Bratva that we are.

“Grizzly, you made it!” The voice comes out of nowhere, and I turn my head around until I find the source. Walking toward us, wearing a very pretentious cream-colored suit, is a man a head shorter than Grizzly with slicked back hair and a five o’clock shadow. Honestly, if I met him on the street somewhere I’d think he was a car salesman.

“Romano, good to see you.” There’s so much in that one statement from Grizzly, I can feel the tension between them.

Lorenzo Romano. This is the guy from the Italian Mafia, the one who informed Grizzly of the location of this event, and got us the invite.

“You have been the talk of the evening thus far. It’s very rare that events like this get MCs to attend. A lot of them like to traffic their own women.” He flashes that perfectly white and straight grin, probably one that cost him a hell of a lot of money. I don’t exactly want to know how he’s made such money either.

I give him a side glance, letting out a low growl when he reaches us and slaps me and Grizzly on our backs. I’m not in the mood to schmooze when I don’t have to. This guy already knows we’re fakes.

“Is that so?” Dart asks, and I hold my breath. Of all the times to pop his mouth off.

“Well, I have certainly dealt with the type over the years. But I don’t think any have been so…accommodating to work with before. The Bratva are thrilled. I can’t tell if it’s because they are a little scared of you, or if they just didn’t want to waste the resources that would be necessary to eliminate your kind.”

The thinly veiled threat causes Grizzly to shove Romano away.

“You need to watch yourself,” Grizzly warns in a low tone.

“Just trying to be a friend. And call me Lorenzo. Enzo, even. Now, I’ve been putting in a good word like you asked. Let’s get you seated, and then I’d love to take you to talk to one of my associates. He’s been dying to find out your real motivations for being here.”

I grit my teeth. “What’s the point of this if no one is going to believe the lie that we’re trying to put on?” I look back and forth between Grizzly and Lorenzo.

Lorenzo shakes his head, that uncanny grin still spread across his face like a Cheshire cat. “You see, criminal masterminds will never trust each other. Alliances, those can be made, but they have to believe it to a point. And it takes a lot to get there when you’ve had some trouble in the past.” He rubs his hands together like a cartoon villain. Is this guy for real?

Without any further banter, we follow Lorenzo to a table near the center of the room. When the girls walk down the runway, we’ll see them up close and personal. It’s going to take everything I have not to jump up there and pull each one off to take them to safety.

“So, who’s this man that wants to speak to us?” Grizzly asks, nodding at Lorenzo.

“Victor. I doubt that’s his real name, but it’s the only one he’ll give me. I know he’s high-ranking among the Bratva. Though, I don’t think you’ve met him before. Events like this…let’s just say they’re his specialty. Shall I bring him to your table?”

Grizzly looks at each of us for confirmation. That’s the thing about Grizzly—he’s a fair Prez, and he knows when it’s time to get the opinions of others. To consider that we’re a team and not just peons.

I nodded my agreement with the idea. It makes it seem like we still hold some power. It’s a message.

Luckily, Dart agrees too.

“Excellent.” Lorenzo does that hand slapping thing again. “I’ll be back with him in a moment. In the meantime, you should order some libations. They have some of the best at these things, some things you’ll never find anywhere else.” He winks at us before walking away.

Dart turns to me and looks at Grizzly as well. As close to under his breath as he can get where we can still hear, he says, “Is it just me, or does that man seem completely insane?”

Grizzly’s staring in Lorenzo’s direction as he speaks to some man we can’t see over the crowd. “Yeah. I really hope I don’t regret this. I’ll have caused us so much hell if I made the wrong choice.” He shakes his head and turns away, surveying the room instead of having to discuss his possible failure any further.

He’s always thinking about things like that. Always in the negative. I think it stems from the death of his wife. He somehow feels responsible, like he could’ve done something about it.

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