Their Queenpin (The Ridge MC #6)

Chapter 37Sas

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Sas

The air in Massimo’s Red Room was thick, suffocating, like every breath I took was dragging in the weight of the blood that had already been spilled here.

Ghost sat bound to a chair in front of me, his face bruised, his eyes wild with fear and defiance when he was alert. Cloudy and bleary when he slipped toward unconsciousness. But I wouldn’t have him passing out, so the next time his eyes lost focus, I reared back and clocked him.

Left.

Then right.

“Stay the fuck with me,” I ordered, sharp and hard. My voice detached from any kindness my black soul had ever known.

I swung again, the knife still in my hand, and the blade grazed his cheekbone. Blood dribbled over purple bruises.

His head whipped and then he blinked repeatedly until he focused on me again. He curled his lip, still trying to act tough, but revealing a sheen of red blood over his white teeth.

“Do your worst, Tate, I’m not talking.”

He spat blood. Then wheezed. I had to give it to the sleaze, he was putting up a good fight, trying again and again to bring himself back from near death.

Pointless, though that was.

He knew. The second I dragged him into this room, he knew his life would end here. That was the price for a traitor to get out of the MC—torture, then death.

I flexed my fingers around the knife, sticky with Miguel’s blood and now Ghost’s. My knuckles ached, my muscles burned, but those pains were nothing compared to the fire inside me. Hot rage simmered beneath the surface, waiting to explode.

I stood over Ghost, watching the way his chest heaved, and his black eyes stared up at me without him lifting his head. Ever since I’d known him, Ghost had always been good at hiding his fear, or really everything. He’d always watched from the sides, taking in the happenings with little to say.

Now, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was spying. “You won’t get sympathy from me. Never a-fucking-gain!”

He turned his head and drooled spit and blood onto the floor. The room, while named the “Red Room,” was mostly black. The red, Massimo had explained before leaving us here, was because so much blood had been spilled. Torture instruments lined the walls and there were several drains scattered across the black-painted floor.

“You know why you’re here, don’t you?” I said, my voice low, steady.

He didn’t answer. Just stared up at me, lips pressed tight, still too proud to beg. That was how Ghost had always been—proud, too confident that he could slide his way through any situation. He twisted the truth, shifted the blame, and walked away without a scratch.

But more lurked deeper within this man. Something hovering outside my mind’s reach.

There was a nugget of memory, buried deep. From before the MC.

I leaned closer, so close I smelled the sweat pouring off him. The knife in my hand trembled, and I gripped it tighter, my breath coming harder, faster. I wanted to rip him apart, piece by piece, make him hurt for everything he’d done, every betrayal, every lie.

But my mental grasping, my need to know the mystery before he died, held me back.

Then, the reason hit me upside the head. That buried memory stirred, clawing its way to the surface.

A traitor to the MC, yes. But he’d betrayed me personally. Long before any of this.

Throwing my head back, I laughed. Almost cackled with how wicked the sound was. And then, I leveled my gaze at him. “I forgot, but it’s coming back.”

I watched his eyes, the rapid blinking, the crack in his mask. He didn’t know what I was talking about—yet.

“Juvie.” I spat the word out, letting it hang in the air between us. “Central Juvenile Hall in LA. You thought I’d never remember.”

His breath hitched. “I… don’t know… what you’re… talking about.”

It had taken me a while, too long maybe, but now the memories came rushing back. Unlike some—our Prez with his ice-blue eyes or Adelina with her molten chocolate, doe-like gaze—Ghost’s eyes didn’t define him.

But the shape of his face, too round like an innocent child, gave away everything. Without the beard he had always groomed to a point at his mid chest and without the chin-length shaggy hair, that face was the same. Weathered and aged thirty years, but it still looked like a baby’s.

“You set me up,” I growled, the rage swelling in my chest. “Back then. When we were kids. You’re the reason I spent six fucking months in solitary.”

He blinked, but he couldn’t hide the recognition. I wanted to see guilt creeping up behind his bravado, but he laughed.

“How many others have you stabbed in the fucking back?” I pressed harder, stepping closer, the knife hovering over his throat.

“I’ve never.” He raised his eyes. “I’ve always had to care of myself. I needed friends. Crips, Bloods. Mafia. Cartel. Whoever was offering protection.”

“Horseshit!” I pushed the blade harder until a drop of blood slid over the already soiled metal. “You planted the stash in my cell. The drugs, the cigarettes, all of it. Was that the orders of the fucking cartel?”

He blubbered. “I don’t remember who.”

“And why should it matter? The officers found it, and you fingered me. Your pinning me with that landed me in the hole, while you walked around the common areas clean. Like you were innocent.”

Ghost swallowed hard. “Self-preservation, mijo.”

“You walked away sometime while I spent those six months rotting in the shithole,” I snarled, my voice dropping lower. “I thought you were my brother, Ghost. Then, and again in the MC. But you played me. Twice.”

He tried to shake his head, but the knife cut deeper. “Not. About. You. Bro?—”

“You used me,” I hissed. “I rotted in solitary for six fucking months. Do you have any idea what that does to someone? You have no right to call me brother!”

His lips parted like he was about to say something, but I wasn’t done.

“Every single day in that hole, I thought about killing you. Every second I spent in isolation, I imagined ripping you apart. But you—” I shook my head, fury thrumming in my veins, “you walked away, disappeared like a ghost.”

Ghost finally spoke, his voice barely a whisper. “It wasn’t like that?—”

“Bullshit!” I snapped, cutting him off, the anger roaring through me like fire. “You played me. Used me. Like you’re doing now. But you’re not getting out with anything this time.”

The flash of panic in his eyes was enough to make me want to bury the knife in his chest right then. To end him. But that sadistic beast inside me wasn’t satisfied with a quick death. No, I wanted him to experience what I had back then—the isolation, the rage, the betrayal. Every torturous second of those six months in solitary.

And worse... I wanted him to know the weight of the life I’d lost because of him. Because while I had been rotting in that cell, my brother needed me. And I wasn’t fucking there.

The knife in my hand trembled, my grip tightening until my knuckles ached. My breath came harder, faster. I grabbed his hand—the one I hadn’t already maimed—and slammed it onto the table.

The knife flashed between his fingers, stabbing the wood over and over.

Stab. Stab. Stab. Stab-stab-stab. Stabstabstab.

The rhythm sped up, my rage fueling every movement. Each time the blade hit the table, the memories came back—of my brother’s voice on the phone begging for my help. To come and protect him from the gang that’d dragged me into its fold. Targeted me to take the fall on one of their jobs and then him after I went to lockup.

I’d been so helpless, trapped in that cage.

All because of Ghost.

“Vega,” I barked through gritted teeth. “Ale”—stab—“jandro Vega. That’s what we called you then.”

STAB.

I pierced the center of his palm, the blade sinking into the flesh with a sickening squelch. He let out a strangled cry, but I didn’t pull the knife back. I left him pinned to the table like the rat he was, his blood pooling beneath his hand.

“You took him from me,” I growled, leaning in, my breath hot against his ear. “You set me up, and because of you, I wasn’t there for my brother. I missed my release date. And rotted in a hole while you ran your stupid little juvie empire.”

His eyes widened, panic flooding them as my words sank in.

“That’s right,” I snarled. “I don’t give a shit about myself. Six months in solitary wasn’t the worst of it.”

I trailed my hand over an array of torture devices and settled on a razor knife, flipping it like a switchblade.

“No,” I continued. “The worst part of it all was losing Jake because I wasn’t there when they shot him in front of our apartment building. A drive-by, written off by the cops. And helpless, my mother offed herself before I got free.”

Ghost whimpered, his fingers twitching under the blade, but I twisted the knife. “You don’t deserve to live.”

He sobbed.

“You should have been the one to suffer. You should have been the one locked away, missing your family. But you don’t have anyone else, do you?

“I do,” he whined.

I came into his face. “I don’t believe you.” Standing, I circled him in the chair.

“Sas… there’s more… there are bigger peo?—”

“Shut the fuck up.” I cracked my neck. “Remember juvie, Vega. Then remember the promises you made to the MC. Loyalty. Brotherhood. Respect. Secrecy. Pro-fucking-tection.”

His eyes shifted for a second, but I caught it. A crack in his mask

The betrayal cut deep, even after all these years. I had trusted him once, but Ghost had always been about himself. He’d done anything to survive, even if it meant throwing me to the wolves.

And he was here again. Another knife in my back.

Ghost’s lips parted, a quick intake of breath, his fear rising. He knew what I was capable of. Hell, he’d probably made me capable of murder. But this wouldn’t end until I had everything I needed from him.

Before I pushed further, the door creaked open, and the air shifted. Cold. Calculated.

Massimo.

I didn’t have to turn to recognize his presence—a snake slithering into the room, watching, waiting. His gaze burned into my back, but I stayed focused on Ghost. I wasn’t done with him. Not yet.

Massimo’s voice came from behind me, low and smooth. “You’re doing well, Sas. You’ve got a gift for getting what you need. One I can use.”

I gritted my teeth. My grip tightened on the knife, but I didn’t respond. I wasn’t doing this for him. I wasn’t doing this for anyone but myself.

“Tell me,” Massimo continued, his voice casual, like we were discussing the weather. “Do you still think your brothers in the MC have your back?”

I froze. My chest tightened. I didn’t want to think about them. Not now. Not when the rage was so close to boiling over.

“None of them are here with you now. So, what makes you think they’ll protect you when it comes down to it?” Massimo’s voice dripped with poison. “Or will they leave you alone to rot? Hang you out to dry like Ghost did? Or maybe they’ll toss you overboard where the biggest sharks in our world are circling?”

He had been listening. How else would he know what Ghost did? And what the hell did he mean by the biggest sharks?

“They don’t understand you like I do,” Massimo continued, his voice soft, almost soothing. “You and I are the same, Sas. Ruthless. Powerful. I see your potential. I see the control you can have. I can pull strings and help you unlock that potential.”

I wanted to block him out, to keep my focus on Ghost, but Massimo’s words wormed their way into my head, slithering through the cracks in my resolve.

He didn’t stop. “You’re wasting your talents in the MC. They’ll never give you the respect you deserve. But with me... with my help and the help of my... associates, you will be unstoppable.”

My heart pounded. My ears heard truth in his words. I’d felt it before—being overlooked, underestimated, used. The MC took, and took, but what had they really given me? I’d fought for them, bled for them, killed for them. I’d planned how to make money after they legalized pot. So, where was my power? My respect?

I glanced down at Ghost, his eyes wide with terror, blood dripping down his neck. He was trembling now, the confidence gone. I could end him right now, and no one would stop me.

But Massimo’s voice cut through the fog again. “The diamonds, Sas. Think about what they represent. Wealth, power. The control. With them, we will take over more than Vegas and LA. We will expand—New York, La Famiglia. I will make you a part of something bigger. Something that matters.”

I swallowed hard, my grip on the knife loosening a little. The thought of power. Even as VP, I had none. The idea of being more than a soldier in the MC gnawed at me. I’d never had the chance to rise above. Not like this.

“And Caterina,” Massimo added, his voice dropping even lower. “I’ve been working on an arrangement with one of the NYC capos. A marriage that would solidify everything. The details are almost done.”

That hit me like a punch to the gut. Caterina? My wife’s sister? The marriage was about power, about control. Like mine with Adelina. And it was almost finalized.

Massimo was a slick bastard who knew what he was doing. Exactly how to manipulate me, to dangle the one thing I’d craved in front of me—power.

I stared down at Ghost, his blood pooling on the floor, and for the first time, I hesitated. Was this the way to finally get what I deserved? Or was I falling into another trap, letting someone else pull the strings?

The room spun, the walls closing in. And as I stood there, knife in hand, I realized I was on the edge.

The question was—should I jump?