Page 7 of Choices

“So, what did Nicolas do this time?” I tsk, taking in my surroundings. Huge paintings of the family in thick, gold-rimmed frames hang from every wall. It’s creepy as shit. Oversized pots filled with flowers sit proudly on decorative tables. The stench of vanilla clings to the air, sticking to the back of my throat. The floors are gloss marble, so shiny you can see your reflection in them.

My attention draws back to Michael. He curls his hands into fists as he speaks.

“He gave his bodyguards the slip.” His jaw tenses. “Managed to get himself into unfamiliar territory after chasing a drughigh.” Shaking his head, he continues. “We only got him back by sheer luck.” Tension creases his face. He laughs, but it’s sharp and without humor. “He claims he doesn’t remember why or how he ended up over there, and for once, we think he’s telling the truth.”

“Where was it?” I ask, curiosity piquing my interest.

“Redwing territory.”

My gaze darts to Callan, who’s scowling. We weren’t aware of this and we’re typically in the know about what goes on with the Carnell family. The Kings like to be well informed and make it our business to know these things. The Redwings are a growing gang into petty theft and cheap street drugs. We’ve never taken issue with them, but if they’re making a show of power and dominance, they’ll soon find themselves on our radar, and the Kings will put them back in their place.

“Do you think it was intentional?” Callan asks before I have time to voice my thoughts. “That they targeted him?” It’s not a secret gangs and other clubs don’t like being told where they can and can’t deal. It could be a point of showing the Carnells they’re accessible, a light warning, which will be their own mistake.

“That has crossed our minds, and to err on the side of caution, it’s being delt with.”

“Anything we can help with?” Callan offers. The thrum of adrenaline from last night’s kill hums in my veins.

“No,” Michael assures us, shaking his head firmly, his hand resting on Callan’s shoulder. “I appreciate your offer but no need. This is under control.” He smiles warmly at us before rotating on his heel and summoning us to follow with a wave of his hand. “I appreciate the offer. You’ve always been a loyal friend, and that doesn’t go unnoticed by me or my father. But this is beneath the Kings. They’re just a street gang getting above their station. This mistake will be a good lesson for others to heed.”

This is why we’ve always liked Michael. He was born of the same darkness. And when he couldn’t spill the blood himself, he had a long list of people willing to do it for him. The Redwings are in for a world of hurt.

Changing the subject, I say, “We hear your uncle is running for the Senate.” Preston Carnell is a racist, womanizing piece of shit with more scandals than a courtroom. But middle-aged women still seemed to like him, and so did his wealthy friends. He had a strong chance of winning.

“He’s making a serious bid for senate office, yes.” Michael nods over his shoulder.

That’s why we came to the Carnells’ private estate. With the family’s reputation on the line and headlines at stake, it’s safer to conclude our business behind these guarded gates—away from prying eyes or scandalous associations with the notorious Kings of Sin.

“Who knows? Maybe the White House next.” Michael chuckles, guiding us through a labyrinth of hallways. This place is bigger than most hotels and too posh for the likes of us walking through in muddy boots and leather cuts.

Eventually, we’re seen through a set of double doors into what looks like a study. Michael Senior stands behind a large wooden desk, his eyes clashing with ours as we enter the room.

“Gentlemen, please, come in.”

No one’s ever called me a gentleman before, and there’s a mocking glint behind his smile that raises the hairs on my neck. I’ve always liked Michael Jr., but the way his father permanently has a superior edge to his tone irks me. “I was hoping your father would be with you.” The lines crinkle around his eyes, narrowing on Callan.

“He doesn’t do collections,” Callan declares, taking a seat with authority, sending an unmistakable message to the manacross from him: no one is above a King or commands a room quite like one.

Silence descends for a few tense seconds before Senior clears his throat, flitting his gaze over Callan’s head to his son. “Of course,” he finally says. “Michael will handle your fee, and please tell your father I will be in touch to discuss further business soon.”

Standing, Callan walks around the table to meet him and motions with an outstretched hand. “We look forward to it.”

Slipping his palm into Callan’s, Senior gives it a quick shake and offers a tight smile before nodding to his son and exiting the room.

The door closes with a soft click, and Michael laughs, but it’s jarring and awkward.

“Forgive his departure and abruptness. He’s old fashioned and thought he’d be dealing with your father.” Michael heads to a cabinet, opening a door and retrieving a suitcase from inside. “Do you want to count it?”

Grease moves to the case, taking it from him without a word.

“We trust you.” Callan grins.

“I’ll show you out. Thanks for coming to the house.”

“It was good seeing you.”

The wind howls, rustling and creaking the branches of the giant trees surrounding the Carnell estate, the sun now replaced by the moon casting a blue glow in the sky. Swinging my leg over my bike, I wait for Callan to take the lead. Grease moves his truck into gear behind him, and I bring up the rear. It’sa lot of cash to transfer with only three of us, but it’s more inconspicuous when there’s not a whole fucking club riding out.

We pass through the same two sets of security gates we entered on the way in and put the Carnell estate in our rearview mirrors, taking backroads until we’re far enough away not to be associated with them.

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