Page 16 of Life Or Death

I drag a hand down my face, feeling the stubble scrape against my palm. “You make it sound so fucking simple, Dread.”

“It is simple.”

“It’s not.” My fingers curl around the edge of the table. “You’re not factoring in a goddamn thing. I don’t know of another hospital that has the capabilities to treat her burns. The specialists here are the best in the region. Transferring her means moving her to Tulsa or Oklahoma City, and that’s a two-hour drive, minimum. You think Tori’s gonna be able to commute that every day? She’s got a twelve-year-old daughter to take care of, a job to hold down. I’m already asking her to bend over backward.”

Dread opens his mouth, but I keep going.

“And that’s assuming Jess is even stable enough to be moved. The doctors have her on a ventilator, she’s sedated, and they’re monitoring her grafts every few hours. You want me to throw her in an ambulance and bounce her down the highway like she’s a fucking package?”

Dread’s jaw tightens. “So, what’s the plan, then? You’re running out of time, brother.”

The roar of engines cuts through the air before I can fire back, vibrating through the chapel walls. The windows rattle, and the bourbon in my glass trembles. I push to my feet, my chair scraping against the concrete floor. Dread rises beside me, and I grab his arm before he can move toward the door.

“Not a word,” I growl. “About the marriage. About any of it. You breathe a single syllable to anyone in this club, and I’ll bury you.”

His gray eyes hold mine for a beat before he pulls his arm free.

“I don’t need to be told twice, and I’m fucking insulted that you think I do.”

The chapel doors swing open, and the club files in, all my brothers taking their respective seats around the table, except for Shadow. He stands behind the empty chair to my left, bracing his hands on the back of it as he glares at me.

“You tell Maddox to halt construction on Della’s dude ranch?”

The chapel goes silent as every pair of eyes lands on us. It’s Mammon who breaks the silence, though, muttering a curse under his breath.

I lean back in my chair, my fingers drumming against the armrest. I’m in no mood for his bullshit right now, and honestly, he’s got some pair of balls even confronting me about this nonsense. Yeah, I paid Maddox a visit, and yeah, I asked him to halt construction on the fucking dude ranch, but he shot me down real quick. Apparently, things move quickly over there, seeing as they wasted no time hiring an architect. Halting construction means losing all the money spent on retaining him, plus whatever else they dropped on building supplies.

“I did.”

“And you didn’t think to run that by me first?”

I hold his stare, my patience teetering. “Out of respect for the patch and the fact that you sit to my left, I’m going to give you a minute to collect yourself before we continue this conversation.”

His fingers flex around the back of the chair, and his nostrils flare.

“That dude ranch is Della’s project. You can’t just pull the rug out from under it.”

“No one is pulling the fucking rug out from anything, Shadow. Too much money has already been dumped into your woman’s pet project, which is a real fucking shame because we could’ve used that fucking money.” I tip my chin toward his seat. “Sit the fuck down and I’ll clue you in.”

His jaw tics, but he pulls out his chair and drops his ass onto the seat. After a beat, I reach for the gavel, tapping it against the grain of the table.

“Church is in session.” I set the gavel down and turn my attention to Shadow. “The club is tapped out. We invested everything we had in the ranch.”

“I’m not understanding,” Shadow says, leaning forward. “You approved the plan.” He points a finger across the table at Mammon. “And you went over all our finances to make sure it was feasible for us, even after we added the dude ranch to the initial proposal.” He braces his hands against the edge of the table and pushes back against the chair, his gaze sweeping around the table. “We all voted on it for fuck’s sake.”

“That was before Landry Oil decided to blow up our fucking bar,” Dread grinds out.

The room falls silent. I can feel the weight of it pressing down on my chest—the failure, the responsibility, the knowledge that every decision I’ve made has led us here. To a table full of broke, exhausted men sitting in a chapel that feels more like a tomb.

Mammon clears his throat. “The insurance claim on Rodeo Roundup is gonna get denied. Arson investigation is still ongoing, but they’re already dragging their feet.”

“Denied or not, we don’t have the capital to rebuild,” I continue. “We need cash, and we need it quickly. The only way to get it is to unload all the guns in the bunker. That will give us the capital we need to rebuild the bar and provide us with enough fluid cash to keep us afloat should any other issues arise.”

Like if the insurance decides not to pay my new wife’s medical bills.

My gaze slides to Dread. “Under my order, Dread reached out to the Satan’s Knights of Knightdale, and their president, Maverick, has agreed to a meeting. Now, if they wind up taking our guns, we’re going to have to figure out the logistics of transporting them.”

“Hold up,” Shadow interjects. “Just how many guns are we talking about here?”