Nitro: MC Biker Romance (Dark Pharaohs Motorcycle Club Romance Book 4)

by Ivy Black

  I cut a glance at Prophet and judging by the pinched expression on his face, I’d say he’s come to the same conclusion. I can’t even begin to imagine what must be going through his mind right now. I wasn’t out there on the raid that killed Miguel Zavala so my stake in everything that went down isn’t as personal as it is to Prophet.

  “My name is Emiliano Zavala,” he says. “I am Miguel’s brother. Or at least, I was before you murdered him.”

  Prophet chuckles. “Murdered him? That’s an interesting way to put it,” he says. “Especially after your brother clipped a couple of my guys and tried to take me out. Still got the scars from the four bullets he put in me. Want to see ’em?”

  “My brother wasn’t a perfect man. I won’t even make the case that he was a good man,” Emiliano says. “But at the end of the day, he was my brother. And what kind of a man would I be if I let his death go unavenged?”

  “You’d be a smart man,” Prophet says. “You can kill me, sure. But you’ll only bring a war to your doorstep. You kill me and the Pharaohs will make it their life’s mission to hunt you down and gut you.”

  “You think so, do you?” Emiliano asks.

  “I don’t think so. I know so,” Prophet replies. “Listen, your brother fired the first shots. He declared war on us. We finished it. Just leave it at that.”

  Emiliano’s voice doesn’t carry one hint of his native accent. His words are precise, his tone cultured and educated. He’s not what I would have expected from a cartel boss. Emiliano unbuttons his jacket and starts to pace the floor in front of us, looking as if he’s contemplating something—and I don’t get the idea that letting us go is involved in his musings. My stomach churns, and my heart is racing. There’s something about the fact that he’s so refined that I find... chilling.

  He stops pacing and turns to Prophet again. “I left Mexico when I was still young. I wanted a chance at a better life. I had no desire to get into the family business,” he says. “I went to school here. Graduated from Princeton with a master’s and have a very successful business, a commercial real estate development firm.”

  “Great, you should go back to that,” Prophet says. “Nobody’s stopping you.”

  Emiliano sighs. “You are. You’re stopping me from going back to my work,” he says. “And that is because I can’t stop thinking about the fact that you murdered my brother.”

  “So, the fact that he tried to kill me first isn’t even a blip on your radar, huh?”

  “You say he tried and yet... here you are while Miguel is in the ground.”

  “It’s not my fault your brother was a failure.”

  The sharp crack of flesh meeting flesh fills my ears, and I see Prophet’s head snap to the side. Emiliano shakes the sting out of his hand, his expression growing darker. A thin rivulet of blood spills from the corner of Prophet’s mouth, and he straightens up, glaring at Emiliano as if he’s going to kill him. He spits a red glob at the cartel boss’ feet, a malevolent grin on his face. It’s as if Prophet doesn’t realize we’re not walking away from this. Or maybe he does and he doesn’t give a shit, refusing to give Emiliano the satisfaction of showing him fear.

  When I was overseas, I contemplated my death many times over. I knew that every firefight I engaged in could be my last. Hell, things were so volatile over in the shit, I knew every second I spent over there could be my last. But since rotating home, I’ve never really given all that much thought to dying. Not until today anyway. I don’t want to die. There’s so much shit I still want to do and see. And being shot to death on the dirty floor of an old warehouse is most definitely not on that list.

  “After you murdered my brother, I thought long and hard about it. And my anger was so great and so unrelenting, I realized I couldn’t let it pass,” Emiliano goes on. “I had lived my life in peace and had no desire to have blood on my hands. But your actions forced me to act and I cut a bloody path through all of the pretenders to my brother’s throne and took control of the cartel myself.”

  “Any particular reason you’re givin’ us your life story?” Prophet asks.

  “Because I want you to understand that getting to this point, to where I have you on your knees in front of me, was a sheer act of will,” he replies. “And because I want you to understand what I’ve given up just to be here with you today.”

  “Fascinating,” Prophet mocks.

  That feral smirk flickers across Emiliano’s lips, and I silently try to will Prophet to shut up. To stop speaking and stop enraging Emiliano even further. There’s still some small grain of hope that we’re getting out of this alive, but if Prophet pushes Emiliano over the brink, that chance goes down to zero.

  “I heard a story and I’d like you to tell me if it’s true,” Emiliano starts.

  “Aren’t you a little old to be believin’ in stories?”

  “I was told that you had my brother down on his knees, put a gun to his head, and pulled the trigger. Is that true, Mr. Holt?” he asks. “Also, is it true that my brother said you would end up on your knees one day as well?

  I’m so used to simply calling him Prophet that to hear Emiliano use his actual last name, it’s kind of jarring. It also tells me that he’s been looking deep into our backgrounds. Or at least, into Prophet’s. I find that sort of attention to detail disturbing as hell.

  “It was a while back. And besides, there was a lot going on. I don’t actually remember everything that was said right now,” Prophet replies.

  “Pity.”

  “Yeah? Why’s that?”

  “Because I wanted you to appreciate the irony of your situation.”

  “Yeah, well—”

  Emiliano’s movements are lethally fast and in one blur of movement, he’s withdrawn a .45 from beneath his jacket, presses the barrel to Prophet’s head, and pulls the trigger. The sound is muted but still echoes around the warehouse, startling a flock of pigeons that are hiding up in the rafters. As the sound of the shot reverberates through my ears, I watch in horror as Prophet’s head snaps backward, a spray of viscous gore splattering the ground behind him.

  The scream of denial that’s torn from my throat seems louder than the gunshot but when I try to rise to go to Prophet, one of the sicarios drives the butt of his weapon down on the back of my neck. The pain is intense and immediately drops me to my knees. A vicious kick to my side sends me sprawling, and I curl into a fetal position and find myself staring at Prophet’s limp and lifeless body.

  Emiliano stands over him, a strange expression on his face. Then he raises his weapon again and starts to fire. Prophet’s body jumps and twitches with each impact, and the cartel boss keeps firing until he’s dry firing, his magazine empty. He just stands there, looking down at his handiwork for a long moment, then slips his weapon back into the holster at the small of his back and straightens the cuffs and hems of his jacket.

  My stomach is roiling, and I’m fighting back both the tears and the urge to vomit as I stare at Prophet’s body, watching the pool of thick crimson blood and gore spreading out around him. Emiliano smooths down his hair and turns to face me, his face a mask of cool indifference. His obviously expensive wing tips thump hollowly on the concrete floor of the warehouse as he approaches me, his eyes glued to mine.

  I know he wants me to show fear. To show him my weakness. But if I’m going to die, I’m not going out like that. I’m going to follow Prophet’s example and be defiant right to the end. I had gotten back on my knees; I stiffen my spine and glare at the cartel boss even though my heart is hammering so hard I feel like it’s going to burst out of my chest and land at his feet.

  “Do it,” I say, impressed that my voice barely wavers.

  Emiliano gives me a vicious smirk. “What makes you think I want to kill you?”

  “The bodies all around me make a pretty compelling case.”

  He stares at me, his eyes cold and reptilian. It takes a Herculean effort for me to not quiver with fear or puke all ov
er his shoes right now. But I’m determined to go out like a man. I’m not giving him shit. I clench my fists behind my back and say a silent prayer, trying to make peace with my impending death.

  “Mr. Holt was the only one who owed me a blood debt. I have no desire to kill you. What’s your name?”

  “Just call me Volt.”

  “Very well, Volt. As I said, I have no desire to kill you. You have not done anything to me personally,” he says.

  “Beaker and Axle didn’t do anything to you personally either,” I point out.

  “This is true. My men can sometimes be… excitable. And I apologize for that,” he says. “But believe me when I say that I will be satisfied if the killing ends here. I’ve got too much blood on my hands as it is. I’m not going to kill you, Volt.”

  His words send a wave of relief washing through me, and I have to keep from letting out a long shaking breath. But I know this act of mercy doesn’t come without strings. I look up at him, still trying to maintain my outward expression of defiance and disdain.

  “And what is it you want in return?” I ask.

  “Simple. I want the Dark Pharaohs to be nothing more than a memory.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask.

  “Disband your MC. Abandon your clubhouse, strip yourselves of your patches, and scatter to the winds. You’ve lost all rights and privileges to Blue Rock Bay,” he says. “The town is mine now. You have thirty days to dissolve your club and get out.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “If, on the thirty-first day, the MC is still up and running, I’ll take that as a declaration of war,” he says. “And I will act accordingly.”

  “You actually expect us to disband?”

  “That’s your choice. You can either disband, or you can die,” Emiliano says. “I don’t want to go to war with you. I personally abhor all the killing I’ve had to do to get to this point. But make no mistake, I will continue killing until I get what I want.”

  “And what is it you want, Zavala?”

  “The extinction of your kind. The extinction of the MCs as a whole,” he says. “And a clear corridor to distribute that runs the entire length of the West Coast.”

  “Yeah, that’s not too ambitious or anything.”

  Emiliano quirks a grin at me then gestures to the men gathered around. One of his men walks over to me and slices through the plastic cuffs around my wrist before he heads over to the vans with the rest of the sicarios. Zavala’s driver opens the rear door to his SUV. Before he climbs in though, he turns back to me.

  “Thirty days, Volt. And not one second more,” he says. “Do the smart thing and get out of town. All of you.”

  He climbs into the back of the SUV, and the driver shuts the door, the smoked glass keeping me from seeing him, but I have the feeling he’s staring at me all the same. The vans follow the SUV out of the warehouse, leaving me there on my knees surrounded by the bodies and blood of my friends. My brothers. And as I look over at Prophet, staring into his wide lifeless eyes, the tears start to flow.

  I bury my face in my hands and let them come. I haven’t cried like this since I was a kid, but I have no problem with letting myself sob for my loss. For the club’s loss. Losing Prophet is going to rip a hole in the MC—one that will never be truly filled—and maybe Zavala is going to get what he wants after all.

  Volt Preview

  Chapter Two

  Fallon

  I step back and look at the canvas in front of me. It’s good, but it’s not great. Not yet. It still need some work. It still needs… something. I can’t figure out what that something is though. I move to the right and look at it from a different angle then over to the left and do the same. From a technical aspect, it’s good. Perhaps even gallery-worthy. But it’s not the kind of piece that’s going to hit somebody in the gut and knock the wind out of them—metaphorically speaking, of course. And that’s what I always aim for with my art—that gut-wrenching, visceral, emotional reaction.

  I sigh and set my brush into the cleaning solution. I need to give this a little time to simmer in my mind. Maybe a little time and distance from it will give me the perspective I need to figure out what’s missing. I take my smock off and hang it on the peg by the door then walk out of my small studio and into my loft-style apartment. Frustrated, I walk over to the kitchen and grab a bottle of apple juice out of the refrigerator and take a long swallow.

  As I stand in the kitchen drinking my juice, my eyes fall on the large oak bookcase that’s set between the two large windows that overlook Baker Street, the main drag of Pineville. I walk over to it and take the picture off the shelf and feel a faint smile touching my lips. The picture is of me and my parents on our family ski trip to Brian Head, Utah. It was the last trip we ever took together as a family.

  “I miss you guys. I miss you guys more than anything,” I whisper.

  I carefully set the picture frame on the shelf among the rest of the knickknacks and personal family mementos I kept. I didn’t keep much—just some of the most treasured remembrances of them that I have. A lot of it, I couldn’t bear to keep. It’s sometimes too painful to even look at these things. But this shelf is like my shrine to them, and most days, it brings me a sense of comfort. My parents were the kindest, most generous people who ever lived as far as I’m concerned. They were great parents to me and never failed to remind me how much I was loved. The day I lost them was the worst day of my life.

  Turning away from the shelf, I stare through the windows to the street below and try to fight back the tears that are welling in my eyes. After they died, I learned that my folks had purchased this loft and had intended to give it to me after I graduated from college. This was going to be my first home away from home. They thought it was perfect for a burgeoning artist—something they encouraged me to pursue with all my heart. Which I did—am.

  But they hadn’t finished paying it off yet so I had to use most of my inheritance to do that. With the rest, I was able to get through a few semesters of school at the San Francisco Art Institute, but the money was quickly drying up and I didn’t qualify for enough scholarship money to finish my education. I needed to survive and make what I had last. I felt so desperate that I considered selling the Ducati that was bequeathed to me to do it. In the end though, I couldn’t sell it. It’s not just that I’d coveted the bike forever while my dad was alive, it’s that I felt like it was one of the few tangible links I have left of them. So, since I refused to sell the bike, I had to get a job to get by. But at least this loft is mine, free and clear.

  Some businessmen have tried to get me to sell it from time to time, wanting to convert the entire building into one cohesive structure, but I refuse every time. Much to their consternation. My dad was a commercial architect and loved the idea of mixed-use buildings—businesses on the bottom floor, residences above—and this was one of his projects. I’ve been offered a lot of money to sell, but this is one of the few things I have left of them—this loft and all the furnishings in it, of course—so I continue to refuse. I’ll never sell this place. Ever.

  Pineville is a small sleepy town along the Northern California coast. It’s a blend of the forest and the sea. It’s gorgeous, and I have always loved living here. It’s quiet. Peaceful. There’s a certain tranquility in the air here that rarely fails to soothe my nerves. A ride along the coast, with the sea air on my skin and the wind in my hair always makes me feel like a new woman. A ride always helps strip my cares and anxieties away. Or at least, makes them dull to a roar low enough that I can get my equilibrium back.

  I walk over to the doorway of my studio and lean against the frame, looking in at the canvas on the easel. I look at the swaths of color and how they blend with the cutout words and other elements of the work. The canvas is done primarily in reds, oranges, yellows, and black, all of the swaths of color meant to give it a dynamic feel of motion. Like a canvas of flames. And within the fire is the shadowed suggestion of
something—a car perhaps.

  I’ve embedded the glass from a vodka bottle into the paint, giving it a shiny, shimmering look. There are also other messages hidden throughout the canvas, using newspaper headlines and cuttings from other media sources to portray my own meaning of this piece. I know what it means to me, but I’ve always thought great works leave it up to individuals to determine what is being represented in a given work.

  I started off as a painter, and I still love the form. But I’ve since evolved into more of a mixed-media form of artistic expression. I feel like mixed-media, being able to use my painting in conjunction with words and pictures, gives me a broader range and ability to express myself. I feel like there’s more freedom in what I’m doing now. That doesn’t mean I’ve abandoned painting as a whole. I still paint. But what I’m working on now is a series that means a lot to me. That’s very personal.

  But regardless of whether I used just paint or this mixed-media form, the criticism from my instructors at the SFAI was the same—they didn’t feel it. They say the emotions are dulled and blunted and say it stems from me being disconnected from my own work. After all, how can I expect them to feel the emotions I want them to feel if I’m not able to feel them myself? And while I understand what they’re saying on an intellectual level, on an emotional level, it’s left me at a loss.

  I just don’t understand the criticism. It’s never made much sense to me. This series in particular hits so close to home and is so intensely personal, I don’t understand how they can’t feel it. The pain and grief in these works are pain and grief I’ve lived with every day of my life for years now. I wake up and go to bed every day of my life steeped in this misery. I don’t understand how it doesn’t translate to the canvas since it’s imbued with every stroke of my brush. I don’t get how they don’t feel it because I sure as hell am.