Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

Turmoil

Jolt's lips curl into a sly smirk as he looks over at me. "Rita said it's a go. We're meeting them at the bar around nine tonight."

My pulse quickens at his words.

This is it—our ticket into Seraphina's inner circle.

If we play our cards right, get her to let her guard down... we might finally have a shot at taking her operation down from the inside.

I nod slowly, letting Jolt's news sink in. "Good. That gives us a few hours to get ready and go over the plan again." My mind is already racing ahead, plotting out my next moves like pieces on a chessboard.

Jolt chuckles, shaking his head. "Always thinking ten steps ahead, huh Turmoil? You need to learn to live a little, enjoy the moment."

He claps a hand on my shoulder. "But that's what I like about you, man. Always on your game."

"Have to be in this life," I reply with a shrug.

Especially when I'm playing with fire, trying to get close to a woman like Seraphina without getting burned... or made.

One wrong step and this whole thing could blow up in our faces.

"True that." Jolt stretches and stands up from the couch. "All right, I'm gonna go get cleaned up, throw on something that'll make me look like I belong in whatever fancy ass bar Rita picked out."

I smirk at that, remembering Jolt's unease around the high class joints.

My brother's more at home throwing back beers at a dive than sipping cocktails with the city's elite.

But that's where I come in—I can blend into Seraphina's world while Jolt works his angle with Rita.

"Sounds good, I'll do the same. Meet you back down here in an hour and we'll head out early, scope the place out."

Jolt nods and heads off to his room as I lean back against the couch, mind already spinning with ideas.

One way or another, we're going to get the answers we seek.

We have to. There's no fucking doubt about it.

I'm determined to be the one to do it, even if it means playing the devoted playboy lover.

I head into my room and strip down, stepping into the steamy spray of the shower.

The hot water pounds against my muscles, washing away the day's tension.

As I lather up, my thoughts drift to Seraphina.

The way her cool gray eyes rake over my body appreciatively, the sultry curve of her crimson lips when she smiles.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't enjoying this undercover gig, at least certain aspects of it.

Seraphina is a knockout, all dangerous curves and smoldering glances.

The fact that she's a cold-blooded criminal mastermind only seems to add to her allure.

I shake my head ruefully as I rinse off.

I can't afford to get sucked in by Seraphina's charms.

She's the target, nothing more.

I'm here to bring her down, not get tangled up in some twisted romance

Stepping out of the shower, I towel off and head to my closet, selecting a tight black muscle shirt that clings to my chest and arms like a second skin.

I know how much Seraphina loves my muscles. It's fucking obvious.

Hell, the way her gaze lingers on my biceps and pecs anytime I'm around her is a dead giveaway.

As I'm getting dressed, my phone buzzes with an incoming text.

I grab it off the dresser, assuming it's Seraphina confirming tonight's plans.

But the name on the screen makes me pause.

Morozov.

Dear old Dad.

I open the message warily.

I'm in Las Vegas for a couple weeks working on a new project. We should have dinner while I'm in town. It's been too long.

I snort derisively.

More like not long enough.

My relationship with my father has always been contentious at best, the Hollywood mogul perpetually disappointed that his only son chose a life of grease and gasoline over glitz and glamor.

I tap out a quick response.

Would be good to see you Papa, but I'm tied up with the club right now. Lots going on. Rain check? I'll come to CA soon for a visit.

His reply is immediate and terse.

Right. Of course. The club comes first, as always. Nevermind then.

I can practically feel his disapproval radiating through the phone.

Whatever.

I've long since given up trying to please my father.

The Reapers are my family now, my brothers.

At least they don't judge me for making my choices.

I toss the phone aside and finish getting ready, my mind already shifting gears to tonight's operation.

Jolt and I need to be on our A-game if we're going to pull this off.

I head downstairs and find Jolt waiting for me in the living room, sprawled on the leather couch.

He looks up when I walk in.

"Yo, you ready for this?" he asks, an eager glint in his eye.

Jolt's always down for a little trouble.

I nod. "Yeah, but we should probably grab some grub first. It's gonna be a long night—we'll need the fuel."

"Good call. I'm fucking starved." Jolt hefts himself off the couch. "What're you thinking? Pizza? Wings?"

I consider it for a moment. "Nah, I could go for some Mexican actually. Something hearty, you know? There's that place a few blocks over, Casa de Lupe. Heard good things."

"Hell yeah, I'm down. Let's roll."

We head out to the parking lot, the sun just starting to sink below the horizon, casting everything in a fiery orange glow.

We get into the Mustang and head down to the restaurant.

Casa de Lupe turns out to be a hole-in-the-wall joint, but the delicious aromas wafting from inside more than makeup for the shabby exterior.

Colorful papel picado banners flutter in the warm evening breeze and mariachi music spills out onto the street.

We grab a booth near the back, the cracked vinyl seats held together with duct tape.

A bored-looking waitress takes our order—a mountain of nachos, chicken enchiladas, and cold cervezas.

As we wait for the food, I lean back and fix Jolt with a look.

I keep my voice low, even though the restaurant is mostly empty. "So, you think this is gonna work? With Rita and Seraphina?"

Jolt takes a swig of his beer and shrugs. "Don't see why not. Rita seems into me, and Seraphina was practically eye-fucking you that first night we met her. As long as we play it smooth, we should be golden."

I nod slowly.

The plan is solid—get close to Seraphina, gain her trust, and hopefully get the dirt we need to bring her mother's plan down.

"Just remember, we can't come on too strong," I caution. "Gotta make it seem natural, like we're actually into them."

Jolt smirks. "Speak for yourself, brother. I am actually into Rita. Have you seen that body? Goddamn."

I snort out a laugh and shake my head.

Classic Jolt.

Always thinking with the wrong head.

"Yeah well, keep it in your pants, all right? At least until I've sorted things out with Seraphina tonight."

"Yeah, yeah, I know." He waves a dismissive hand. "It's just been a minute since I had me some high-class pussy, ya know?"

I arch a brow, teasing him. "You mean you've never had high-class pussy."

I'm saved from responding by the arrival of our food, the waitress unceremoniously dropping the overflowing plates in front of us.

We dig in, the conversation turning to lighter topics—club gossip, the latest drama, who's hooking up with who.

Apparently, Jolt's getting lots of updates from Shiver while we've been away.

But even as we joke and laugh, my mind keeps circling back to the task at hand.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't looking forward to seeing Seraphina again, to feeling her soft curves under my hands, tasting her sweet lips.

There's a definite spark between us, an electricity I can't deny.

I just have to remember it's all an act, a means to an end.

I can't afford to actually catch feelings for this chick.

That's a complication I don't need.

Still, I can't help but wonder what it would be like if things were different.

If she wasn't Sally Bernard or Lunatic's daughter, and I wasn't a biker playing dress-up to bring her mother down.

In another life, maybe.

I shake off the wayward thoughts as I polish off the last of my food.

No use dwelling on might-have-beens.

This is the hand I've been dealt, and I intend to play it out to the end.

I drop a few crumpled bills on the table. "You ready to head out?"

He drains the rest of his beer and nods. "Yeah, I'm good."

We walk out into the rapidly cooling desert night, the first stars just starting to peek out overhead.

I glance down at my phone, seeing a text from Seraphina light up the screen.

With that, we get in the Mustang and head further into the Vegas lights, ready to see just how deep this rabbit hole goes.

The bar Rita picked is swanky as hell, all glass and chrome and mood lighting.

Definitely not the kind of dive Jolt and I usually frequent.

I can practically feel him tensing up beside me as we walk through the door, his shoulders hunching like he's trying to make himself smaller.

I elbow him lightly in the ribs. "Relax, man. You belong here just as much as anyone else."

Jolt shoots me a skeptical look. "Easy for you to say, Mr. Hollywood. Some of us didn't grow up with a silver spoon in our mouths."

I roll my eyes at the old nickname.

Just because my dad made it big in Tinseltown doesn't mean I'm some kind of trust fund brat.

But I get where Jolt's coming from.

This place reeks of money and privilege, two things that have always been in short supply for guys like us.

"Just fake it till you make it," I tell him with a shrug. "Confidence is key. Act like you own the place and nobody will question it."

Jolt takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and nods. "All right, let's get this over with."

We spot the girls almost immediately, tucked away in a cozy booth near the bar.

I guess planning to come here early didn't really work out for us.

Seraphina looks like a million bucks as always, her golden hair gleaming under the soft lights and her red lips curved in a welcoming smile.

I slide into the booth next to Seraphina, slipping an arm around her shoulders like it's the most natural thing in the world.

She leans into me, her subtle perfume tickling my nose as she presses a kiss to my cheek.

"Glad you could make it," she murmurs, her breath warm against my skin. "We weren't sure you boys would actually show, since you kept us waiting."

Jolt slides in across from us, giving Rita a quick smile. "Wouldn't want to leave you ladies hangin'," he replies, and I'm proud of him for keeping his cool so far.

The bartender comes over to take our order and we each opt for a round of drinks—whiskey for me and Jolt, something fruity for the girls.

As the conversation starts to flow, I allow myself to relax into the night.

I keep an arm around Seraphina, her body pressed close to mine.

The music in the bar is a soft lull, just loud enough to fade in with the idle chatter and clink of glasses.

Seraphina's laughter rings out, breaking through the humdrum as Rita tells another one of her horrendous dating stories.

She leans even closer to Jolt, her shoulder brushing against his chest.

Jolt seems more at ease now, chuckling along and tossing in a smartass remark or two.

The girls are charmed, and I can't help but feel a sense of satisfaction.

We are fitting in, blending seamlessly into this world that is so far removed from ours.

Just as I'm about to suggest we take a break from our drinks and pull Seraphina out to the dance floor, I spot a face across the bar that brings me back to reality.

My father.

I excuse myself, leaving Seraphina with a soft peck on her cheek.

As I approach him, I swallow hard, curious as to why the fuck he's here.

The bar lights reflect off his olive skin, casting deep shadows under his sharp cheekbones.

He's aged well, with a few silver specks in his curly hair that matches my own chocolate brown hue.

Our same ocean blue eyes lock onto each other's from across the room.

My father, Anatoly Morozov—Hollywood royalty turned billionaire producer.

He looks away first, breaking our gaze in favor of the drink in front of him.

His presence here is a stark reminder of the double life I lead.

Turmoil, the rough, charming MC prospect by night; Abram Morozov, the estranged son of Hollywood's elite by day.

I plaster on my most nonchalant face as I step up to him at the bar, feeling like I'm walking into enemy territory.

The thud of my heart pulsates in my ears as I approach him.

"Papa," I greet him in Russian. The word tastes bittersweet on my lips.

It's been at least three years since I last saw him.

He grunts in response, not looking up from his glass. "Abram," he says, finally acknowledging my presence as he takes a swig of his vodka.

"Imagine meeting you here," I continue, ignoring the sharp twist in my gut at the sound of it.

I order a whiskey from the bartender and lean back against the counter, trying to appear casual.

My father eyes me warily, taking in my tight muscle shirt and ripped jeans, so different from the tailored suits and designer clothes he's used to seeing. "It seems you've fallen far from the tree, haven't you?"

I shrug nonchalantly. "Just finding my own way, same as you did."

Something flashes in his eyes then—a mix of surprise, perhaps a hint of respect.

Or maybe it's just the dim bar lights playing tricks on me.

"I'm undercover for the club right now. I can't have you fucking shit up for me."

My father shakes his head, "I will never understand your loyalty to that damn biker club."