Page 38 of North’s Claim

The room’s warm, alive with noise and scent, leather, grease, hops, and smoke. My brothers are loud, unruly, and occasionally one step from feral, but right now, they’re exactly what this place should feel like.

Family.

My eyes drift to the kitchen, to her. Standing there in that flowery blue dress, and a nervous smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

The girls are huddled around her, making pancakes and teasing each other like sisters. But she’s fidgeting. That smile’s plastered on like war paint. I tilt my head slightly.

She catches my eye. Hesitates then smiles back, tight, thin.

Yeah, fake.

With two fingers, I motion her over.

She shakes her head, quick and small, like she thinks I’ll miss it.

Wrong move, Firefly.

I cock a brow, slow and smug.

Her lips part, caught.

Win.

I don’t push it. Not yet. I break eye contact, leaning back as Iron pulls out a cigar and waves it dramatically like he’s a fucking magician. “Anyone seen Rook?” He asks. “He left the garage early and hasn’t answered his damn phone.”

“He’s probably buried under that ’69 rebuild,” Colt mutters. “Told him it was cursed. Bet the transmission’s eaten him alive.”

“Should we light a candle?” Tornado deadpans. “Hold a vigil?”

“Shut up,” I grunt, smirking. “He’s probably balls deep in grease. Or someone.”

Iron huffs. “We got that arms drop Tuesday. I want him briefed before we go.”

“Speaking of which…” Soul shifts, more serious now. “We tightening routes after last month’s tail?”

I nod. “Yeah. We’ll add two more spots to throw off heat. Ghost will trail behind with another truck. If they’re dumb enough to follow, we’ll know.”

“Sounds good,” Iron says, tapping ash into a tray. “What about the Iowa pricks?”

“Handled,” I say flatly.

Colt whistles low. “That kind of handled or North-handled?”

I shoot him a look. “That we-don’t-speak-of-it-again handled.”

He grins. “Got it. Classic murder-vibes only.”

I shrug. “You want a different kind of party, go join the Chamber of Commerce.”

More laughter. Tornado tips his beer toward me. “Happy birthday, Prez.”

I shake my head. “Don’t start.”

“Fuck you.” He laughs. “You didn’t think you’d get away with it this year, did you?”

“Every year, I hope.”

Iron raises his glass too. “To the man who built this place better than anyone could have. Even if he’s a moody bastard.”