CRUZ:
The air in the clubhouse was thick with the kind of tension you couldn’t see—but you felt. It clung to your skin like sweat, crept down your spine like cold steel. I walked through the doors and instantly knew something was off. Not just the sideways looks or the silence that fell too fast. No, this was deeper.
Something had shifted.
Knox looked up from the bar, his cigarette half-burned, the edge of his knuckle still split from the job last night. He didn’t smile, didn’t joke. Just pointed with his chin toward the hall.
“Prez wants a word.”
Fuck.
I didn’t answer, didn’t need to. My boots were already pounding against the concrete floor, the weight of each step dragging the heat in my blood higher. I could feel it building—slow and sharp, like the first twist of a knife before
