Vic stared at the screen for a long second, the words sharp against the dim glow.His first instinct was irritation more than fear.He’d dealt with plenty of jealous ex-bandmates and barroom tough guys over the years.This felt like the same petty noise.
He deleted the message without replying and rolled over, pushing it out of his mind almost as quickly as it had arrived.He had real things to worry about—Bonnie’s absence from his bed cutting deeper than he wanted to admit.He missed her when she wasn’t here.But they both had rehearsals with OY ramping up, plus the club’s slow acceptance of him.One anonymous asshole wasn’t going to rattle him.
But three days later, another text came while he was loading gear after a long session at Slate’s.
*Tell your girlfriend to watch her back.Pretty girls break easily.Keep playing house with the MC and see what happens.*
Vic’s blood turned to ice.
The phone felt suddenly heavy in his hand.This wasn’t some random troll.This was targeted.This wasBonnie.
He didn’t hesitate.He grabbed his keys and headed straight for the clubhouse.
***
Myron, Mason’s techguru, was already in his tech cave when Vic walked in, the room lit by multiple monitors and the low hum of cooling fans.The skinny, intense man looked up from his keyboard, eyes sharp behind his glasses.
“Vic.What’s up?”
Vic handed him the phone without preamble.“Two texts.First one I deleted.Second one just came in.Threatening Bonnie.”
Myron didn’t ask questions.He plugged the phone into his rig and went to work immediately, fingers flying across the keyboard like he was conducting an orchestra only he could hear.The screens flickered with code, IP traces, and metadata windows.
“Resurrecting the deleted one,” Myron muttered, almost to himself.“Got it.Same sender metadata on both.Burner, but sloppy.Carrier logs...credit card purchase...routing through a dummy account...”
Vic paced behind him, jaw tight, the earlier dismissal of the first text now burning like acid in his gut.He should’ve taken it more seriously.He should’ve—
“Got him,” Myron said, voice flat and decisive.He leaned back, tapping one screen.“Burner phone, but it was bought with a credit card under a shell account.Traces back to Conner Montrose.Same guy who’s been sniffing around the edges lately.”
Vic’s stomach dropped.
Conner.
He pulled out his own phone and dialed Mason before Myron had even finished speaking.
***
The bar was a neutralspot on the outskirts of town—dim lighting, sticky floors that smelled of spilled beer and old cigarette smoke, the kind of place where deals were made and broken without too many questions asked.Vic stood near the back wall, arms crossed tight over his chest, heart hammering steady but hard against his ribs.He wasn’t the main player tonight, but he’d been asked to be here.Witness.Support.Backup if it went south.
Mason walked in first.
The national president moved like he owned the ground he walked on, three men at his back—Bear, Slate, and Bones, all high-ranking officers in the RWMC.They didn’t look armed.No visible bulges under their cuts, no obvious hardware.But Vic knew better.The impression was intentional:We don’t need to show force to have it.
A few minutes later, Conner sauntered in, cocky as ever, with only one man at his back—the same bastard who’d taken a baseball bat to Hurley’s ribs weeks earlier.The sight of him made Vic’s fists clench so tight his knuckles ached.
Mason didn’t waste time.
“You’ve been making noise in my town,” he said, voice low and even, carrying across the room like a blade.“Threatening my people.That stops tonight.You and your crew pack up and decamp.Immediately.”
Conner laughed, the sound ugly and too loud in the tense space.“Or what?You gonna send your pet drummer after me again?”He glanced at Vic with a sneer that made Vic’s blood heat.“He’s still not patched, is he?Just another stray you picked up.”
Mason’s expression didn’t change.“This is your one warning.Leave.Or we make sure you regret staying.”
Conner shook his head, still smiling like he thought he held all the cards.He waved a hand around the mostly empty bar.“You and what army, old man?”
About the same time, the front, side, and back doors opened with a quiet, coordinated flurry.
Black vests flowed in—more than two dozen patched members, moving with purpose, boots heavy on the sticky floor, filling the room without a word.They came to stand at Mason’s back, a silent, overwhelming wall of leather and loyalty.The air thickened instantly, charged with the low threat of violence barely held in check.
