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A LAND ROVER with blacked-out windows picked us up at our hotel at eight in the morning. Two more vehicles joined us. One led the way to our undisclosed meeting spot while the other took up the rear.
This felt off.
Fuck.
We left Cobra and Hustler for our brunch meeting. I told them I wanted to get the hell out of here immediately after and to have their plane ready. Now I wondered if we should’ve brought them for backup.
I cut my eyes to Raul in the front seat and noticed his tense jaw. Not a good sign. The sight of him put me more on edge. Track was between Dodge and me with his thumb tapping his knee.
If Track, the calmest brother in the club, was nervous, we might be headed for a fucking ambush. It should’ve been me talking to Ciro Remotti about the meeting. Not Storm. I loved my brother, respected the fuck out of him, but our business in Canada was my gig. I knew the ins and outs of it. He didn’t.
Double fuck!
This wouldn’t have happened if I wasn’t locked up. I’d make that Deputy fucking Sonny pay, probably with my fists, for fucking with my life.
Enough, you’re getting lost in your thoughts.
But I couldn’t help it. The tension inside the cage was stinking up the air worse than spoiled, curdling milk. It reeked of bad intentions, manipulation, deceit, and death.
Triple fuck!
“How much longer,” I shouted to the driver, wholly unnerved, sounding a bit like Dodge during our last run when I called him a five-year-old. Seriously, though. It was nearly nine. How far out into no man’s land were they taking us?
“Another hour,” the driver muttered.
“For fuck’s sake, man. What the hell is going on?” Raul snapped.
“Alessio’s orders. Take it up with him.”
“Christ,” Raul hissed.
Track and Dodge remained silent.
I dragged my hands down my cheeks. I should trust Storm. He would never send us into a dangerous situation blindly. But fuck, maybe he was off his game after nearly losing Madeline to the Dirty Hunters. That sort of thing messes a man up. We could get sloppy.
Over the last several years, my dealings up in Canada had been only with Stephen Morrison and his family. The Morrisons were a mid-sized organized crime family with a foothold in the southern regions of Alberta, Sasscatchuan, and Manitoba. They had control at the border. Patrol agents on their payroll. It made our deliveries less risky for the club.
A year and a half ago, Stephen married Alessio Remotti’s only daughter, Rosa, to bridge the two families. Remotti wanted to move his business into Morrison’s territory. A financially beneficial merger to elevate the Morrisons above dozens of other crime families across Canada. There was a bright spot. The Morrisons’ illegal gun business wouldn’t conflict with the Remottis casinos and drugs.
Stephen had beamed with pride when he told me about his arranged marriage. Claiming his young betrothed, a girl of eighteen, was the key to growing his family’s business. He gained power, money, and protection from the merger.
I didn’t like treating marriage as a business arrangement. Especially not when the groom was fourteen years older than his virgin bride. I wasn’t into such dirty dealings.
I checked my phone and stifled a groan. No fucking cell service.
Why the fuck would the Remottis want to meet with an MC? Storm didn’t have an answer. He said the club wouldn’t mix with the Mafia, yet here we were at their request.
When I’d briefly spoken to Stephen yesterday, he assured me it was a friendly meeting. So if that were true, why the fuck were we driven out into the middle of nowhere? Why not meet in a restaurant or warehouse?
Shit, I was getting worked up. There were too many unanswered questions.
Returning to Roja as I’d promised was my priority. But this could wind up being a trap. There were only four of us against… who knew how many. Although, they hadn’t searched us. Or made us leave our weapons behind. Maybe this situation wasn’t the gloom and doom my overactive brain conjured.
Time flew by while I stayed in my head. Off in the distance, the blue waters of Lake Manitoba came into view. The driver turned on a road leading into the woods. I looked sidelong at Track and Dodge, then glanced at Raul. They appeared curious and a helluva lot less stressed than I was.
“The estate is to the right,” the driver told us.
As we came upon it, my mouth dropped open as we stopped at the guard shack. Massive black iron gates opened. From my vantage point, the vast property behind the stone walls was large enough to be a town on its own.
