The women who’d been trafficked with Cleo when she first arrived had been reclaimed. Reclaimed and rejuvenated and heading back to health and normalcy—it was a damn sight better than being whores for men who didn’t fucking deserve them.
The girls had been “gifted” to other presidents in turn for their loyalty. It’d been Wallstreet’s idea: * and money—a fail-safe for fealty—but I hated that Cleo had seen me stoop so fucking low.
I didn’t trade in skin. I didn’t deal drugs. I didn’t sell guns. I wasn’t out to hurt anyone. I was out to reform the wrong and uphold justice. I couldn’t be such a goddamn hypocrite by selling women for my own purpose.
“Good to hear. Let me know when they’re detoxed. Need to know if we can do anything else.”
Mo raised an eyebrow. “Do more for them? Shit, Kill. You’ve given them a life they didn’t even have in the beginning. They were the ones who caught their idiotic asses with bikers and spread their whorish legs.”
“I know. They joined this game, but I sent them deeper. It’s on my fucking head.”
Topic closed, I turned to the next speaker and cleared my throat. “Next agenda, Matchsticks. Did you hear back from Black Diamonds in England?”
Matchsticks sat higher in his chair, his large belly squashed against the table ledge. “Yep. Jethro Hawk said he’d provide use of his diamond shipping routes for anything we need transferred and also mentioned a face-to-face meeting with you next time you’re in the UK.”
I cracked my knuckles. The English tycoon who outweighed my bank balance by almost double—which was no mean feat—had been of great assistance over the past few years. I’d met him at his diamond-processing plant and been so fucking jealous of the son of a bitch for what he had. Not because of the wealth or glittering rocks all around him, but for the woman standing by his side.
There’d been so much fucking tension between them, but all I could think about was Cleo. Cleo rotting in a grave. Cleo burning alive in her family’s home. I’d wanted to wring his neck for being so lucky. But I never got the chance, because we ended up forming a grudging respect.
Along with respect, I also found a kinship I never expected. He had a strict father—a family that expected far too much of him. I recognized the trap he lived in and our similar family issues strengthened a bond I knew I could trust. To be honest, my circumstances were a damn sight better than his. At least I had the freedom to kill my father and brother. Jethro? I doubted he’d ever be free.
“That’ll work. Pass on my thanks. Fingers crossed we won’t have to call on him, but it’s good to have everything in place.”
Looking around the table, I racked my brain to see if I’d scratched everything off the list. Wasn’t there something else to discuss? My fucking headache still wouldn’t leave me alone. It’d eased a little, thank God. Mainly thanks to the two releases I’d had inside Cleo.
My lips twitched remembering her head bobbing between my legs. She’d been so fucking pretty.
I grew hard just thinking about her.
Beetle announced, “By the way, our snitch has been busy.”
Everyone’s attention shot to the youngest member, waiting for him to continue.
Playing with the gauge in his ear, Beetle said, “The snitch in Night Crusaders. He said Dagger Rose is overstaying their welcome. Making plans to move due to a fight they had last night with the Crusader prez. A few men got hurt. They’ve been told to fuck off before the end of the week.”
“Shit!”
Grasshopper slammed his palms on the table. “But that’s in two fucking days.”
Beetle shrugged. “I know. We need to move fast on those assholes. Already told the boys; they’ve stockpiled more guns and prepped the bikes.” His eyes fell on me. “I’m on it, Prez.”
My heart raced. Two days.
The timing didn’t really matter; in fact, I’d planned on ambushing them this week regardless. We couldn’t afford to let them fuck off. Not now.
But two days? Could we be ready?
“Is Alligator with them? The fuckwit who hurt Cleo?”
The men shifted in their chairs. The bonfire last night had firmly rooted Buttercup into our family. The men wouldn’t be fighting just because I said so, but because she was theirs now. We had a joint interest. An investment into her future.
“Sure is,” Lance muttered. The biker was a weathered man with faded tattoos of his beloved Yorkshire terriers on his forearms. He was an enigma but was fucking brutal in war. “Been spotted with Rubix. He’s there. Ready to be executed.”
Excitement inched through my veins. Despite my weakness, fuzziness, and occasional dizziness that made me stumble like a freak, I was able enough to fight.
I want to fight.
I’ve been waiting eight long years for this.
I had every intention of enjoying it.
Fisting the gavel, I brought it down onto the table with a smack. “Good work, boys. You know what else you have to do. We attack in two days. Gather ammo, clear the roads of local police, stockpile everything else we might need.”