Page 29 of Their Princess

Chapter Seven

GRAFF

The Rumjacks sangan apropos theme song for today’s shitshow in my single earbud—“Saints Preserve Us.” I had one ear free to monitor what went down between the MC and the cartel, but I hunched over my sketchbook. As I dragged my pencil in an arced line across the paper, I couldn’t help but think how I agreed with the song’s chorus.

All the assholes I’d encountered since this morning, present cartel company included, were absolutely frying my nerves.

I peeked over my shoulder at all the posturing. No violence yet, so I kept my head bent, the Celtic punk on my earbuds a low hum. I tried to act natural—art and music—but the potential bloodbath made me hyperaware of the gun sizzling against my skin.

My grip tightened on the pencil, even as Sas leaned his weight onto the table, whispering to the Rojases in hushed, urgent tones. The rest of the members and prospects encroached on the table with every pencil stroke I made. Like them, I also wondered what the fuck Sas had gotten the club into.

Unfortunately, it didn’t matter, because with Angel’s decision to stay in Park Ridge, Sas was the highest-rankingpatched member in LA. Regardless, Angel, Wilde, and the other voting members allowed the deal to continue once Beans showed them the financial upside.

I didn’t have a vote at the time, and I couldn’t really fault anyone for the decision because no one anticipated the Gambinos would blow up the warehouse or that the Parisis were planning a takeover of La Famiglia in the Yuma Triangle. Now that Wilde made our MC structure more official, I did have a vote, but I couldn’t say how I would’ve voted on the deal.

No one understood the deal Sas had made—except him and Mav, a prospect who’d been shot and killed when the Mafia raided our PacWest warehouse to save Signora’s son. That death sat on Angel’s shoulders, and Angel would forever owe Duchess for sending her only son to his grave.

Thank fuck I hadn’t been in his shoes.

Fast forward to now, and the cartel came into our home and acted like they owned the place.

Ownedus.

The pencil cracked in my grip, and I opened my fist to let it fall on top of the drawing of all the people gathered here.

All the shit that’d gone down to date left us in a precarious situation with the MC wedged between the Medellín Cartel and the Mafia. Adelina’s presence made it even more tenuous. And her feistiness didn’t help.

Did Parisi know the danger he had put his daughter in? Did he care?

A new song started up in my ear: “She’s Kerosene.”

Yeah, that’s exactly what Adelina was—fuel to the fire.

Hopefully, the cartel hadn’t gotten a whiff of who she was in the Southwest’s criminal underworld. Sas had shut her down when she tried to speak up. Good thing too, because put in that place, she could pass as a new bunny. The worst they’d do if they thought she was a new sweetbutt was to try to fuck her.

That almost made me laugh—almost. She’d been less than agreeable with us so far, so that would probably turn into rape. And then, we’d have to slaughter these three. I had been looking forward to the evening fire, and really wasn’t up for burying more bodies today.

The risks we faced with the Rojas brothers was probably worse if they thought Adelina was anyone’s old lady. That knowledge would be a target on her back. If they knew she was the Don’s daughter, who knew what shit Caz, Acero, and el Fantasma would do?

Speaking of the devils, their leader, Caz, leaned back on two chair legs and kicked his cowboy boots up on our table with eyes narrowed on Sas. “Double our money is tempting, amigo.”

Our VP scowled at Caz, not moving a visible muscle. But I glanced down. Under the table, his heel bounced, the only tell that he was out of his depth.

The door to the rooms on the west side of the warehouse slid open, and out stalked Rafe, dropping his leather jacket on the back of an empty chair. Most of our brothers’ heads swiveled to watch as he took a stance with his back to the wall, arms crossed over his chest and feet wide. The recognizable military tattoos on his arms poked out from beneath the sleeves hugging his biceps, and the distinctive dog tag–chain he still wore disappeared below the neck.

Not many of us in this MC had served in the armed forces. There were other MCs for that—savior clubs. He’d probably be a better fit there, where most members didn’t belong to the one percent club. Then again, I didn’t expect many men in the Mafia families served either.

So, why had he joined the Marines?

He must’ve been running from something. Maybe like I had been when I came to this MC.

I picked up the broken half of my pencil with the lead and started sketching Rafe into the mix on the page, carefully shading the hairline to make sure it accurately reflected his military high-and-tight cut and square jawline. Rafe had been so quiet since coming to the Ridge, I wondered if it was his norm or because of the arrangement Massimo had made. He did seem like a good little guard dog for Adelina.

Instead of putting the tags inside his shirt, I drew them on full display.

Cazador turned back to Sas, Beans, and the Warden.

But his brother, el Fantasma, nudged him with an elbow. “Caz, man, is double good enough for el Tigre? He said?—”

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