The smell of bacon and burnt toast tangled in the air like rival crews sizing each other up. Graduation morning. Supposed to be all caps and gowns and sentimental speeches. But my mind was already down at the club, where Liam had been stirring up trouble like he owned the place.
Luca leaned back in his chair, arms folded like he was guarding something. His voice was steady, but clipped—like he’d already made peace with the storm.
“I called in L.O.V. yesterday. They talked everything out with GreenLee and Tosha. Met the girls. Liam’s been poking around—club, warehouse, even tried sniffing near the old poker room. He’s not subtle.”
Sal let out a low whistle. “That’s bold. Or stupid.”
Luca’s smirk was all teeth. “GreenLee told them—and I quote—‘I need Dalton. Patrick Swayze, not Jake Gyll
