Page 4 of Obsession
An actual commitment.
Which means working with Varina. A woman I'd gladly choose to slit my own throat over ever sitting across from.
"We move the next run tonight," I say, clearing my head of what the near future will bring. "Bricks, you and three others. Moth, reroute through the old quarry spur. Demo —" I finally look at the kid. "You ride drag. Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. Fuck this up, and I'll use your cut to patch the next hole in the road."
Demo straightens like someone shoved a rod up his ass. "Yes, VP."
I turn away before the kid can say anything else stupid. I head out of the warehouse, the evening chill sending a shiver down my spine. The Obsidian warehouse sits half a mile down the road from the clubhouse, far enough away from the local bar and other amenities that Obsidian offers to the community.
Someone could be breathing their last on the concrete floor, and just up the road, everyone would be downing another beer like it was their last. It's the perfect setup. XR3 paving Obsidian's way to the top. But just as powerful as our position currently is, it only takes one thing to make it come tumbling down.
I blow out a heavy sigh, drag a hand down my face before heading up to the clubhouse. I'm halfway to the side door when my father's voice cuts through the dark like a switchblade.
"Office. Now."
I don't break stride, just alter course, and follow him through the reinforced steel door that leads straight into the old factory's gutted admin wing. Sol's office is the same as it's been for fifteen years: scarred oak desk, leather chair cracked from too many asses, and walls lined with framed newspaper clippings that only ever mention Obsidian in passing —suspected inthis or that,never enough to stick. A single lamp burns on the desk, throwing long shadows across the Obsidian skull painted on the far wall.
Sol drops into the chair. My father, still president, still the man who built this club from nothing but guns and balls and bad decisions. His hair's gone iron-gray, but his eyes are the same ones that taught me at thirteen how to break a man's neck without killing him.
I move toward the desk, staying on my feet as I hope this won't take long.
Sol doesn't waste time. "Rogue alliance is locked. I've been talking to Canon Ward for three weeks. They're in."
I just nod. This isn't anything I don't already know.
Sol leans back, places his boots up on the desk, and lights a cigar the way he always does when he's about to drop something heavy. "They need revenue. Their last two shipments got hit hard — feds and some new crew out of Albany. They're bleeding. We give them a cut of the XR3 pipeline, they give us twenty patched members for security runs and enforcement. Clean split. No overlap on turf."
My voice comes out flat. "And the catch?"
Sol's mouth curves, but it isn't a smile. "Marriage. Between the clubs. One of Canon's heirs marries into Obsidian to seal the alliance."
That wasn't the plan. I was supposed to work with Varina, not fucking marry her. This was going to be a partnership where we agreed not to fuck each other's clubs over, but apparently that's not enough.
A fucking political spouse dropped into my clubhouse, my bed, my life. Someone who'd expect to be handled, watched, owned in public while I keep the machine running in private. I can already picture it — the loud-mouthed Rogue princess or whichever kid Canon decides is expendable, walking around like they have a claim on my patch, my time, my goddamn space.
I'm not even sure how many kids Canon has. I also don't care.
"No," I say.
Sol's eyebrows lift a fraction. "Son, I wasn't asking."
"I'll take the alliance. I'll take their bodies. I'll even shake Canon's hand and pretend I give a shit. But I'm not marrying some stranger so we can move more vials. I don't need a political piece of ass in my bed. I don't need anyone in my space."
Sol exhales smoke toward the ceiling. The lamp catches the gold of his president's ring, the one I stared at as a kid while Sol explained why emotions were liabilities.
"You don't have to love them," Sol says, voice rough with years of whiskey and orders. "You don't even have to like them. You have to own them. That's it. Put a ring on their finger, put your patch on their back, and make sure the Rogues know the deal is ironclad. They step out of line, you remind them who owns what. Simple."
My hands stay at my sides, but my knuckles itch.Own them.The same words Sol used when I was seventeen and brought home a girl who thought she could stay longer than one night.Own them.Like people were property. Like control was the only language that mattered. I learned that lesson so well, I breathe it. But this... this is different. This is inviting a variable I can't calculate into the one place I keep locked down tight.
I can feel the refusal building behind my teeth. I could tell Sol to go fuck the Rogues sideways. I could walk out and handle the eastern corridor the way I always handle threats — with bodies on the ground and a message written in blood.
But losing an argument with Sol isn't something I do. The old man taught me that losing meant weakness, and weakness got you left behind. Just like my mother.
My jaw tightens, copper trickling onto my tongue where my teeth dig into the inside of my cheek.
"Fine," I say. "I'll do it. But they stay out of my way. They stay out of the lab. They stay the fuck out of my head. This is business. Nothing else."
Sol watches me for a long second, cigar smoke curling between us like a noose. Then he nods once, satisfied the lesson landed the way it always does.
