DENVER.
The club’s backroom was darker than usual—just a single hanging bulb casting shadows across the concrete walls and the faces around the table.
My father sat at the head, shoulders tense, jaw clenched like he was ready to kill someone with his bare hands. Trigger leaned back beside him, chewing the end of a toothpick and watching everyone with the slow calm of a man who'd seen too much.
I sat across from them, arms folded, listening.
“They’re still doing it,” my father said, voice gravel-sharp. “The Hell Benders. Still smuggling underage girls. The last drop was three nights ago. Six girls. Young. Bruised. One was barely fourteen.”
The room shifted. Blade cursed under his breath. Trigger’s eyes narrowed.
“We need to shut that operation down,” my father continued. “Not next mon
