Chapter Eleven

Kyle

Leaning against the cold steel of my bike, thoughts of Annette hijack my mind. She's back now, dragging memories of Lochlan along like shadows clinging to her heels. And she's not alone, not since Beathan came into this world with his father's defiant chin and a laugh too pure for the likes of us.

The kid got snatched because some goons got it twisted, thinking he was Tyson Reed's offspring. Tyson, who took them in and gave them a penthouse view of New York, is in love with Annette. He's admitted it to us. But does she love him? That's the million-dollar question, isn't it?

But Beathan… he's innocent in all this, a pawn. And I swear on Lochlan's grave, I'll burn the whole damn world down before I let that kid get caught in the crossfire again.

This place is used for two things—partying and disposing of enemies. There's a woman in the pit—Carlotta Vaughn, Tyson's ex-lawyer turned thief and kidnapper. I can't see her in the twilight as I peer into the pit. It is an old well with enough water in it so you can't sit and deep enough so climbing out is almost impossible, but I know she's trembling down there in the dirty water, her designer clothes now nothing more than rags clinging to her.

I can't help but let my thoughts drift to her treachery. She skimmed off Tyson's millions with a lawyer's precision, thinking she'd never get caught. But when Tyson played his retirement card, planning to hand his empire over to some corporate suits, Carlotta panicked. She figured a dead boy would stop it all and keep her secret safe. It's a cold move, even by our standards.

Sean moves to stand next to me, his gaze hard and unforgiving. He's always been the one to remind me that justice in our world isn't blind—it's an eye for an eye. Cutter stands a few paces away, flicking a knife open and closed in a rhythm that syncs with my irritated heartbeat. The man's got a reputation that makes grown men cross the street, but he's loyal to the bone.

And then there's Logan, the kid I'm trying to mold into something more than what this life usually offers. He's got that fire, but it needs direction. He watches from the shadows, silent, learning how this world turns, maybe pondering his place in it.

"Should have known better than to snatch a kid," Cutter grumbles, almost to himself. "Especially one of ours."

I nod, my mind already made up about Carlotta's fate for Beathan, Annette, and the code we live by. She played a dangerous game and lost. And the Loyal Rebels MC—we're not ones for giving second chances.

The sound of gravel in the distance and a car engine signals the arrival of Tyson Reed. Tension coils in my gut like barbed wire as I stand sentinel over the pit, its dark mouth open and waiting.

"Tyson's wheels," Cutter says, his voice a low growl.

I nod, my gaze sweeping over my brothers-in-arms. Sean's eyes are flinty with the resolve that comes from years of living by the Special Forces' and MC's code. Cutter's hand rests casually on the hilt of his knife, a silent testament to his deadly skills. And Logan, he stands apart, his youthful face a mask of determined calm. Each man here knows the weight of what's coming.

Tyson's car slides into view. Resolute steps carry me to the edge, and with a grunt, I heave the rope ladder down into Carlotta's makeshift cell.

"Up you come, Carlotta," I call, my voice hollow against the earthen walls.

Each creak of the ladder is a drumbeat to her doom. She emerges, once the picture of poise and professionalism now reduced to a disheveled mess, her designer clothes smeared with mud and defeat.

Tyson arrives at the pit as Carlotta stands, her fearful eyes searching each of us.

"Quite the fall from grace," Tyson observes, his tone flat.

"Grace has no place here," I reply. "Not after what she did."

Carlotta's eyes dart between us, searching for mercy where there is none to be found. It's in this pitiless tableau that Tyson must find his footing if he's to stand with us and protect Annette and Beathan. He needs to grasp the harsh realities of our world. This is not just about punishment but about survival, loyalty, and the relentless pursuit of justice as defined by the Loyal Rebels MC and the MacKenny family.

"Welcome to the family, Tyson," I say, clapping him on the shoulder as I try to lead him away from the pit, leaving Carlotta to reckon with the consequences of her greed and deception.

Tyson's brows knit together, a shadow of pity fleeting across his face before it hardens into something more unforgiving. His gaze locks on Carlotta, drilling into her like a cold, accusatory spotlight.

"Carlotta," he starts, the name seemingly tasting bitter from the twisted expression on his face. "Why? You had everything."

The words hang in the air, heavy and sharp. I watch closely, searching for any sign of weakness in Tyson's stance, any hint that the glittering world he comes from has softened him too much for our brand of justice.

He turns to me, and I brace myself for the plea for mercy, the clemency I'm sure he'll beg for on behalf of his once-faithful lawyer. But it doesn't come. Instead, there's a steeliness in his eyes that wasn't there before—a resolve that speaks of a man pushed beyond his limits.

"Kyle," he says, his voice low and even. "What needs to be done?"

It takes me a moment to hide my surprise, to mask it with the cool indifference expected of a man in my position. A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth, approval and respect mingling in the depths of my chest. Tyson Reed might just have what it takes, after all.

Carlotta's legs buckle as if the gravity of her betrayal finally weighs her down, and she crumples to her knees in the dirt. Mud cakes her once pristine suit, a stark contrast to the polished image she's always maintained. Desperation twists her features as she raises her eyes to Tyson.

"Tyson, please… you have to save me," she pleads, her voice cracking with fear, hands clasped as though in prayer.

I glance at Tyson, expecting some flicker of hesitation, a crack in his resolve, but there's none. His face is stone, unreadable, and distant. I step forward, filling the silence that stretches between the three of us, my voice cutting through the tension like a knife.

"Fast or slow?" I ask, keeping my tone neutral, almost bored.

Carlotta's eyes dart between us, confusion etched on her brow. "What does that mean?" she whispers, hope and dread mingling in her voice.

"Fast," Tyson replies without missing a beat, his gaze never leaving her dirt-streaked face. There's no warmth there, none of the camaraderie that must have existed between them once upon a time. It's just a cold, hard reality. "We worked well together, Carlotta. At one point, I thought you were a friend. But what you did…" His voice trails off, disgust replacing the pity I saw moments ago.

The finality in his tone says it all. This is a man who knows the cost of betrayal and understands the harshness of our world. I can see now that he's prepared to pay the price and do what's necessary. He's one of us, whether he likes it or not.

I sling my arm around Tyson's shoulder, the fabric of his coat rough under my palm. He stands rigid as a statue, his eyes still on Carlotta, where she cowers in the dirt. Her pleas spiral into a crescendo, "Tyson, please!" But we're already turning our backs, walking away from the broken figure and her desperate cries.

"Save me, Tyson!" she screams, her voice cracking with terror.

The two of us stride toward the clubhouse, the heavy thud of our boots a grim drumbeat against the gravel. As we reach the door, I pull it open and usher Tyson inside. The moment it closes behind us, an eerie silence swallows Carlotta's wails. We're enveloped by the dimly lit warmth of the building, the stench of spilled whiskey and cigarette smoke comforting in its familiarity.

I know without looking that Cutter is doing what needs to be done—swiftly like Tyson wanted. Sean and Logan will handle the rest, ensuring no trace of Carlotta is left to mar the earth of Loyal Rebels' territory. They're good soldiers, loyal, and they understand the stakes better than most.

"Drink?" I offer, moving behind the bar and grabbing a bottle of bourbon—the good stuff reserved for occasions that need forgetting or celebrating. It's hard to tell which this is.

Without a word, Tyson nods, his hand trembling ever so slightly as he takes the glass I slide toward him. He knocks it back in one gulp, the liquid fire undoubtedly scorching a path down his throat. His face remains impassive, but his eyes are haunted.

A while later, the door opens again, admitting Sean and Logan back into the sanctuary of the clubhouse. Their expressions are somber, yet there's relief there too. It's done.

"Remember…" I say, locking eyes with Tyson, who is nursing his second drink, "… you never breathe a word of what happened here tonight. The MC looks after its own. Annette and Beathan will always have our protection. And now you… you're part of this family." My voice is low, infused with the weight of the unspoken oath between us.

He looks up at me, shadows playing across his face as he nods. "I understand," he says, and there's steel in those words, a newfound resolve that tells me he means them.

Tyson's nod is slow and deliberate, his jaw is set as though he's absorbing the gravity of his new reality. The silence in the room feels heavy like it's soaked up the echoes of Carlotta's last pleas. I watch him closely, gauging his response to the unspoken covenant he's just entered into with us.

"Good to hear," Cutter suddenly chimes in, his voice slicing through the tension as he strolls into the room. "Because I really didn't want to have to dig another hole tonight." His laugh rumbles low in his chest, dark humor glinting in his eyes that doesn't quite reach the rest of his face.

The mood shifts as if Cutter flipped a switch. A collective exhale rolls through the room as Sean and Logan crack grins, the grim atmosphere dissipating. Even Tyson's lips twitch, a reluctant smile acknowledging the absurdity and the camaraderie in Cutter's words.

"Man's got a point," Sean adds with a chuckle, clapping Tyson on the shoulder.

I can't help but join in the laughter, albeit mine is more subdued. My gaze finds Cutter again, and I'm hit with an unsettling mix of respect and concern for the man. Something about him has always been untamed, a ferocity that Elaine might just be the key to softening.

Elaine. I almost lose my smile thinking about her. That woman has been through hell and back, and I'm not sure I've done her a kindness by pairing her with Cutter. It's a gamble keeping them together, but sometimes the broken pieces fit in a way that whole ones never could. Maybe they'll find a kind of healing in each other that neither could achieve alone. It's a hope—faint, but there.

"All right, enough of this sentimental crap," Cutter says, breaking into my thoughts. "Let's get back to business."

We all nod, the laughter fading, but the sense of unity remains. Tyson still has that half-smile lingering as he puts down his empty glass. It's clear he's seen a side of our world that can't be unseen, but instead of running, he's standing with us, bound by blood-soaked loyalty.

"Welcome to the family," I say again, and the phrase rings true this time. Tyson is one of us now, for better or worse.

One by one, the men rise from their seats. Sean claps a hand on Tyson's shoulder with a brotherly firmness that speaks volumes. Logan lingers by the door, his prospect patch worn like a badge of survival rather than mere affiliation.

Cutter stands, the joke still smoldering in his eyes, but the twitch of his scarred knuckles and the restless shadow that dances across his face tell me he's ready to step back into the darkness where he thrives. There's a quiet understanding between us—maybe even respect—for the monsters we've both learned to harness in the name of loyalty and necessity.

"Take care, brothers," I say, my voice low but carrying through the now-silent room. They nod, each carrying the weight of what's transpired tonight, the gravity of our shared secret binding us tighter than any spoken oath.

Tyson pauses at the threshold, glancing back at me with a complexity in his eyes that wasn't there before—acknowledgment, gratitude, maybe the stirrings of kinship. He's crossed into our world, and there's no stepping back. I nod to him, affirming his new place in this chaotic family.

With heavy boots thudding against the wooden floor, they leave the room, their silhouettes swallowed by the night outside. The door swings shut behind them, leaving only silence.

And then it's just me, alone in the cavernous space that has played host to countless celebrations and secrets. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding, the sound eerily loud. My fingers trail over the scarred surfaces, the residue of revelry and reckoning alike.

I slowly walk to the switchboard, feeling the ghosts of a thousand memories whispering around me. This building, our sanctuary and council chamber, stands as a testament to the lives we've led—gritty, raw, but ours.

My hand hovers over the switches snuffed out with a flick. One by one, the bulbs die, their filaments cooling until all that's left is the faint glow of embers in the air.

Finally, the last switch clicks down, and darkness floods the room, save for the sliver of moonlight that slides through the window. In this stillness, I can almost hear the echo of Carlotta's pleas, the ghost of her screams.

I take a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness, feeling the mantle of leadership settle heavily on my shoulders.

Turning, I stride toward the door, my hand finding the cool metal knob. I give it one final glance, the outlines of tables and chairs blurred shadows in the dimness, and then I step out, pulling the door closed behind me with a definitive thud.

The lock clicks into place, sealing away the night's deeds. Standing here, bound by blood and secrets, the brotherhood of the Loyal Rebels MC wraps around me like a cloak.

Whatever comes next, we'll face it together.