Page 69 of Turmoil's Target

Jolt curses under his breath, dragging a hand over his close-cropped hair. “You think she clocked your ink? Or caught you slipping with club business?”

“No way,” I snap, anger flaring at the implication of carelessness. “I was careful. So fucking careful. Kept the tats covered, never mentioned the MC. I didn’t slip up.”

But even as the words leave my mouth, doubt slithers insidiously through my mind.

Did I fuck up somehow?

Did I leave a trail of breadcrumbs that Seraphina followed straight to the truth?

The thought makes me want to put my fist through the windshield.

I suck in a harsh breath through my nose, forcing my runaway thoughts back into some semblance of order.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Jolt breathes, his normally stoic face slack with disbelief.

The miles disappear beneath the Mustang’s tires as I white-knuckle the wheel, engine growling like a caged beast.

The Mustang screeches into the parking lot of Mariano’s, kicking up dust and gravel.

I barely wait for Jolt to climb out before stalking toward the entrance, a throbbing ache building behind my eyes.

Dixon and Damon are already waiting inside, faces grim as we take our seats at a corner booth.

The waitress bustles over with menus, but Damon waves her away with a tight shake of his head. “We’re not staying long. Just need some privacy to talk.”

He digs into his pocket and slips her two twenty dollar bills.

She shrugs and leaves us be, clearly sensing the tense undercurrent at the table.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, Damon leans forward, tattooed forearms braced against the scuffed tabletop. “So. You wanna tell us what the fuck happened?”

I scrub a hand over my face, exhaustion and frustration warring for dominance. “Honestly Prez... I don’t have a fuckin’ clue. One minute everything was fine, the next she’s coming back to the penthouse and has all this information.”

My mind races, replaying every interaction, every conversation over the past few weeks.

Trying to pinpoint the exact moment I slipped up, revealed too much.

But I’m coming up empty.

I was so careful.

Always watching my words, keeping up the cover identity the club crafted.

Dixon clears his throat, shrewd gaze boring into me from across the table. “You give her anything? Any piece of info that she could’ve used to connect the dots?”

I start to shake my head, then freeze.

Realization crashes over me like a bucket of ice water as a couple offhand comments slot into place.

Details about my childhood.

Favorite foods and holiday traditions that would’ve meant nothing to anyone else.

But to someone with Seraphina’s resources and connections?

It would be child’s play to trace those crumbs back to my true identity.

To my family.

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