(LANCE)
The prospect was already on his knees in the middle of the garage when I walked in, hands zip-tied behind his back. His name was Tommy — nineteen years old, fresh patch, stupid enough to let a Diablos scout slip past the east gate during the shootout. One mistake. In my club, mistakes get punished.
I cracked my knuckles, the sound echoing off the concrete. Eliona stood beside me in nothing but her leather cut and heels, fresh tattoo still glistening on her thigh, my c*m from the tattoo chair still leaking down her legs. She watched with wide eyes, but she didn’t look away. My good girl was learning.
“Rico’s cartel tactics are surgical,” I said aloud, circling the kid slowly while my brothers formed a loose ring around us. “He doesn’t just kill. He breaks people first. Sends sica
