Veiled Amor by V. Theia
TWO
“Sandwiches for the insomniac.” - Giancarlo Mercado
It was known by many that one-percenter bikers lived an enriched life.
They wanted for nothing because there were no laws to stop them from getting anything desired.
Only, there was one thing unavailable to him for days now.
Capone wasn’t getting much sleep, at all.
He was ready to sell his immortal soul to The Holy Mother Magdalene to get some shut-eye. Existing on power naps that made Capone feel like sluggish shit. The Butcher wanted to give him sleeping pills, fuck that. His Abuela relied on that shit until the day she died, and Capone didn’t want to be doped up to catch some decent sleep.
Having faced a greasy gut feeling all week, he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. It made the Sergeant at Arms officer restless until he paced.
Things were good at the MC lately. Nothing much was happening—bad news-wise, so he didn’t know why his instincts were telling him to get on his bike and ride.
The sandwich shop he was investing in was coming together. They had the interior ripped out, a new chrome counter fitted, and an open kitchen so customers could watch their food being made. The staff were ready for opening any day now.
He liked sandwiches and money. It seemed like a good investment and not something that would need his attention very often. The last thing Capone needed was to strap on an apron and slop lettuce to the public, but he sure as hell would profit from that lettuce slopping.
Rubbing the center of his chest where his family ink sat deep in his skin, he rolled up to his knees on the cemented garage floor, tossing aside the wrench. He reached for another tool and distracted his dread-filled gut with hard labor. And used the remote to turn up the music to deafening levels.
Preacher, the most prominent and soft-hearted bastard, broke Capone’s concentration sometime later when the music dimmed. Capone cranked his head to see the big shadow in the doorway. “God Almighty, how do you listen to that shit?”
“Bajito isn’t shit, papi. You haven’t risen to the heights of good taste, sí?”
Preacher guffawed a booming laugh while he pulled on his overalls to get down to work. “Keep telling yourself that shit. I’m here if you need an education, bro.”
Capone rolled his eyes at his club brother.
These fools loved picking at him about his excellent taste in music.
“Oh, hey, a call came through for you on the office line,” Preacher informed as he sorted through the worksheet.
“Sí? Who was it?” Weird, because he never got calls to the office. Everyone had his cell number. He slid it out of his pocket. No missed calls.
“Don’t know. Some chick, Zara said she hung up when she told her you weren’t around. Have you been holding out on us, brother? You caught a groupie, huh?” Smirked the bigger man.
Not recently.
And any woman he might have fucked for a release, he wouldn’t give the office number to. It was used for business reasons. Some treated the club like they were Batman with problems to sort for a price, or they wanted to rat on someone if they were Souls loyal. It came in useful sometimes, especially with cutting off new dealers at the knees. The city knew by now the Souls didn’t put up with anyone trying to push drugs in their territory.
“So, who is it?” Preacher pressed.
“No idea.”
“Could be a baby daddy situation.” Preacher joked. “Some chick is gonna drop a baby off at the front door.”
Capone went cold all over.
He knew that wasn’t possible, but what a fucking nightmare it would be.
Kids in his future sounded like a punishment.
If any man was not meant to be a papá, it was Capone. If he didn’t have a family of his own, then he’d never feel the debilitating grief ever again.
“I always wrap up, Preach.” He answered finally. “Unless a woman dug in a trash can for my condom.”
He put the phantom woman out of his mind for that day and the next few. Whoever it was didn’t mean a thing to him. If he’d fucked her and she was looking for a repeat, she was out of luck.
She’d be better off trying to attach to a crocodile.
Capone didn’t do relationships.
Not anymore.
And not in the future either.
Being a lone wolf was coined for the likes of Capone, and that’s how he preferred his life.
Nothing was going to make him change his mind.
Famous last words.