Page 122 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
Shell LLC.
Duplicate payouts.
VOIP complaints.
Burner bounties.
The Bensonhurst IP. Kingsley.
I draw a thin line under it.
I pull the drawer and take out the burner phone.
It is small, cracked, stubborn.
It links to the only men we call when the law is a rumor and our rules are older than charters.
They do not wear patches.
They do not ask for stories.
They take names and return silence.
I type three words.
We have a name.
I press send.
The phone chirps once, soft and final.
The screen holds the message.
No reply comes.
That is fine.
It never does on nights like this.
I close the ledger.
The sound is louder than it should be.
The bulb flickers once then holds.
I sit for a long breath.
I look at the flag on the wall, the black jackal stitched into burlap.
We put the banner away when we chose independence over obedience.
The animal does not sleep; it waits. I let it look back at me until the quiet feels earned.
We are done reacting.
We move now.
We shield her money.
