Page 51 of Savage Fire

STELLA: I’M SORRY, FANG. I WAS UPSET. YOU CAN’T BLAME ME. YOUR ACTIONS ARE SO SUDDEN. AFTER 5 YEARS TOGETHER, YOU’RE JUST BLOWING ME OFF? I DESERVE MORE THAN THAT. PLEASE, CALL ME. WE NEED TO TALK.

STELLA: CAN YOU COME HOME TONIGHT? I CAN MAKE YOU YOUR FAVORITE, AND WE CAN TALK.

He would not be going anywhere with her alone, that was a bad idea wrapped in a shit mistake. But…. She was right, shediddeserve more than that. She’d been his lover, his friend, his sounding board for five years. But he knew she wanted more from him than he wanted to give her. She wanted everything from him, but everything he was belonged to Tessa.

Deciding to text her back when he didn’t have other shit on his mind, he kissed Tessa then headed out to tell his brothers about…his brother. And apologize. Fuck, this was going to get messy.

“Fuck, man, I didn’t know you had a brother,” Hawk remarked, rubbing his jaw.

“I don’t. We’re blood but he’s no brother of mine,” Fang scoffed. Fang and Jorge shared a father, but that was all they shared. And if Fang could kill the fucker, he would, and he’d sleep like a baby.

“What does he want?” Odin asked, his icy gaze hard, wary.

“He says he has information about the Medevs, but he’ll only share it in a meet with you,” Fang supplied, pissed about the position Jorge had put him in. He’d known he had to tell the brothers about his past, but he’d wanted to do it on his own time. Jorge was fucking that up.

“Shit. A Cartel connection in our own clubhouse,” Grimm grumbled. “Ain’t that some bullshit.” Fang glared at the man he called brother, who was glaring right back. “And you didn’t think to tell us this last year when we were dealing with Chavez and his cock puppet, Madrigal?”

Fang swore. “Chavez is a whole different breed of Cartel. The Colombians have nothing to do with the Mexicans, and vice-versa. Also, my past is my own fucking business. I have never once asked any of you about the ugly shit you have buried in your closets. Because we’re supposed to trust each other despite what shit brought us to the club in the first place. It has been seven years, I’m not the man I was then. I killed that man. He’s dead—wasdead, until my fucking brother resurrected me for whatever this shit is that he’s playing.”

Grimm opened his face asshole to say something, but Odin slammed his massive hand on the table, silencing them both.

“I don’t give a shit what you did before, Fang. I know the man you are now—I know that every fucking one of us have done shit we aren’t proud of, but whatever shit we did or endured, made us into the men we are today. Thebrotherswe are today.”

Grimm glowered, leaning back in his chair to cross his arms.

“The past doesn’t fucking matter. What matters is preventing a war in our goddamn city. My old lady is ready to fuckin’ pop, and I will not have my son born in a fucking warzone. So, tell me what I need to know about Jorge Calderone. Can he be trusted?”

“No, but what choice do we have? If we want to prevent war, if he has something that can turn the tide, we need to meet with him. I suggest bringing him here. He’ll be on our turf, and if he gets mouthy, we put a bullet between his eyes.”

“Yeah, because war with aColombianCartel is on my bucket list,” Grimm sneered.

“Shut the fuck up, Grimm,” Odin snapped. Turning back to Fang, he ordered, “Call him. Tell him our conditions. If he’s willing to walk through our gates—alone and unarmed—we will hear what he has to say.”

Three hours later, Jorge Calderone strode his haughty ass through the compound gates and into the Raiders’ loving arms.

The man didn’t bat an eye at the show of force as every brother in the clubhouse glared at him, ready to put a bullet in him if he so much as twitched.

He stopped in front of Odin, giving the larger man a once over before smirking.

“Odin, born Stellan Vikander. Thirty-seven, never married. Spent ten years serving your country in the Army Rangers.” His smirk deepened like he knew something Odin didn’t. “You are much bigger in person.”

With a simple sentence, he announced to the club that he’d had Odin—and probably everyone else in the club—investigated.

Without blinking, Odin evenly recited, “Jorge Geraldo Calderone, first born son of Luisa nee Martinez and Jose Calderone, scum of the earth. Married, no children. Three mistresses, one of which has applied for a new credit line—probably hoping you won’t notice. A vacation house on Cyprus, another in Vail, where you spend the ski season fucking slope bunnies while the wife gets ‘skiing lessons.’ You’re addicted to Netflix, have an unhealthy habit of gorging on candied pecans, and you’re coming up on a prescription refill for chronic heartburn meds.” Jorge couldn’t hide the shock on his face if he tried. Odin curled his lip, peering down at the Cartel leader. “You are muchsmallerin person.”

Fang didn’t bother hiding his shit eating grin. Yeah, Jorge could get information, but when Odin sicced his best on someone, they gotevery-fucking-thing. It was terrifying really. Fortunately, Odin was a good man. He never used the information he gathered for nefarious purposes. Unless he was pushed over the edge. An edge Jorge was standing on.

“Let’s get this over with, shall we?” Jorge bit out, his tanned face glowing red beneath the snide glares from a roomful of pissed off bikers.

Odin dipped his chin, grudgingly acknowledging the man’s request.

Following behind Trouble, Jorge climbed the stairs to the second floor, followed by Grimm, Hawk, Odin, then Fang. AFK was already in the room, waiting, with Hell Hound standing beside the door like the guardian to the gates of Hell he was named after.

Once they were all seated, Odin immediately began.

“So, tell us what was so important that you thought we needed to know?”

“Preciosa Dominguez,” Jorge spoke, leaning back in his chair like he owned the fucking city. The fucker had some brasscojonesafter what happened in the common room. “Her friends call her Peri.” Pulling a photo from his breast pocket, Jorge slid it across the table to Odin.

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