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“Is he scouting?”

“Possibly.”

“Do you think the Sons are looking to expand?”

“I would be.”

“Are they looking for us, or is this just an unhappy coincidence?”

Samuel doesn’t answer immediately, but his silence is answer enough.

“Our last three shipments have encountered him,” he says finally.

“He attacked the men?”

“No.”

“He stole the shipments?”

“No.”

“He warned the police?”

“No.”

I lower the file. “What exactly did he do?”

“He watched.”

I blink. “...Watched?”

“He appeared where he shouldn’t have appeared.” Samuel is clearly irritated by this turn of events.

“And?”

“Our men withdrew.”

I stare blankly, trying to make sense of his words. “They backed down from one man?”

“They believed he wanted them to.”

“That’s embarrassing.”

“It’s dangerous.” Samuel leans forward. “Walker Creed didn’t survive a war and becoming a Sons of Sin Nomad by being reckless.” His voice is calm. Measured. “The Sons of Sin don’t send ordinary members to test another club’s borders.”

I tap the photograph against the desk. “So, he’s important?”

“Very.”

“And if he’s here...”

“They’re interested in something.”

I don’t have to ask what. Our routes. Our territory. Our business. Or my father.

Samuel stands, and the room somehow feels smaller. “I built the Forsaken Saints because the Sons of Sin became weak.” I roll my eyes behind his back. I’ve heard this speech before. “When men begin believing mercy is strength, they lose everything.” His hand settles on the back of his chair. “We survive because we strike first.” His eyes meet mine. “You are my first strike.”

Weapon. That’s all I am to him. Not a daughter. Not blood. Just another tool to sharpen until it cuts. That old ache stirs beneath my ribs, sharp and hollow. It stopped hurting years ago. Now it just sits there, part of me. A scar I stopped noticing.