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Five men I knew were seated there. One was my brother-in-law.

Simon sat at the head of the table, sleeves rolled up, jacket draped over the back of his chair. Roan Thatcher leaned against the wall near the whiteboard, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Jase Drakos lounged in his chair like he owned the place, one ankle hooked over his knee. Nolan O’Rourke sat beside him, posture alert, jaw tight. Code Drakos was at the far end, laptop open, fingers hovering over the keyboard like he’d paused mid-thought.

They all looked up at once.

And then their focus turned to me.

For a heartbeat, no one spoke.

Code was the first to break it. His gaze flicked from Zarek to me and back again. “You sure this is a good idea?”

Simon snorted softly. “Good luck keeping an Avery woman out of something dangerous,” he said. “I’ve been trying for years. Doesn’t take.”

Jase grinned. “It’s not just Avery women,” he added, nodding at Code. “You only think that’s not true because you spend half your life in L.A. with Kit. Come back to Tennessee long enough and she’ll be wanting to ride shotgun before you know it.”

Code shot him a look. “You’re hilarious.”

Zarek squeezed my hand again, firmer this time. “Enough,” he said. “We’re not here for comedy hour.”

The room sobered instantly.

Simon gestured to the empty chair beside him. “Sit, Chloe.”

I did, still trying to wrap my head around the fact that this was happening—that Zarek had brought me here, into this room, into whatever storm he’d been standing in alone.

Simon folded his hands on the table. “How much have you told her?”

“Nothing,” Zarek said.

Every head turned to him.

He glanced at me, something soft and apologetic flickering across his face. “I wanted you to be a part of this, so I figured I’d tell you here.”

My stomach tightened, but I nodded. “Okay.”

Zarek took a breath, the kind that started low in his chest, like he was bracing himself.

“There’s a guy named Maurice,” he said. “That’s who found me. Approached me at the gym.”

I leaned forward without realizing it. “Found you how?”

“He runs… recruiting,” Zarek said carefully. “For underground fights. Not Cappy’s. Not gym smokers. Something else.”

Across the table, Simon shook his head once. “Maurice isn’t the real problem.”

I turned toward him, startled. “What do you mean?”

“He’s a recruiter,” Simon said. “A middleman. Loud, visible, expendable. He brings fighters in, handles logistics, keeps his hands clean. If he goes down, the organization replaces him within a week.”

Zarek let out a bitter huff. “Figures.”

My stomach tightened. “So… what did Zarek get pulled into?”

Zarek met my eyes then, really met them. “Feeder fights,” he said. “Smaller events. Illegal, but not the worst of it. They draw fighters in with money. Escalating purses. Bigger crowds. More secrecy.”

He paused, jaw tightening. “I fought at a distillery. An old one. Not like the livestock barn which was my first fight with them. This one had money behind it. Real money.”

Images I didn’t want formed anyway—dark buildings, strangers watching, Zarek bleeding for people who didn’t care if he lived.