Our boots clink and drag against the concrete. This place is a shithole. It looks like a little brick trailer with a sagging fence and grass that's dry and dead. The TV blares inside, it sounds like wrestling.

Brick slaps me on the back of my vest. "Wulf, what do you wanna do?"

"You know the drill. Life for a life. Body for a body. We take the girl. Unless he can pay up."

Brick snorts, knowing there's no way in fucking hell Joey Northcutt can pay. This man doesn't have two nickels to rub together, let alone eighty grand. Rod steps up to my back right. I've brought my top two men with me.

"Ready?" Brick asks, hovering his hand above the door.

As President of the club, it's my move. I crack my neck and my knuckles and nod. There's a bang like we're the fucking police knocking at the door. The house goes silent, and we don't wait for an invitation. Knowing they aren't stupid, we have our guns ready, like I'm sure they do too. With a kid in the house though, no one is eager to fire.

The little pixie from the street corner looks like she just got out of the shower. Her chestnut brown hair is wet. It clings to the back of her Def Leppard shirt. It's old and faded. This is probably what she wears to bed. Joey's little boy is in her lap in a beat up old recliner and she protectively squeezes him to her chest before turning around to see who just barged in her front door.

Joey and some blonde, rail thin, woman stagger down the hall, looking like we just interrupted them in the middle of fucking. His shirt and pants are twisted around and she's got hair in wild tangles. Joey's old man sits at the table, smoking, like he's been expecting us this whole time.

"What'd my son do?" he asks, calmly, looking past us down the hall.

I look between him, Joey, and the girl in the brown recliner. A smile creeps across my face, making this deal that much sweeter. I thought I was taking Joey's bitch, but his beautiful kid sister? Even better.

Brick and Rod stay in the living room to keep an eye on Joey the prick, while I talk to the old man. He's probably not even that old, but fuck if he doesn't look it. Wrinkles have worn into his skin, making him look twenty years his age.

"What's your name, son?" he snubs out the cigarette.

"Wulf," I say, pulling out a chair. This place smells like a fucking ashtray, no doubt from him. Little burns in the peeling linoleum scatter around his seat, telling me that's his chair. Where he must always sit.

He nods and says nothing. I'm not going to ask for his name. He could be Jimmy Crack Corn for all I care.

"Mark," he finally says with a dead look in his eye. "What do you boys want?"

"Well Mark, we're here for a payment. You might want to take Junior into another room, I'd hate to see things get ugly in front of the boy."

His eyes flash to his grandson. He might be pure white trash, but he's a man who seemingly cares about his family. Forming a hard line, his lips press together. He nods to the girl, and she stands with the kid.

"Not you. Just him," I hear Brick say from the other room. My back is to them and I watch the scene unfold through Mark's eyes. He's realizing what's about to happen.

"You can't have her," he says, trying to sound tough, but there's a tremor in his voice. He knows he can't stop us.

"We're owed a debt," I say simply, giving him a shrug. "It's that or eighty grand. And that's a bargain, Mark. Vito was our best smuggler. Was until your boy here shanked him in prison. Now, Vito could bring in a hell of a lot more than eighty grand. But I'd settle for that. So what do you say? Do we have a deal?"

"I'll get you the money," he says, sitting forward in the chair. His blue eyes are like fire.

"Need it now." My tongue clicks as I lean back.

His eyes dart between me and the living room, looking at, I assume, his daughter. He licks a nervous tongue over his lip. "Take Joey. He's the one who wronged you."

"Now what good is a trash ass junkie with a bad foot going to do me?" I ask, steeling my gaze.

He looks slightly confused. Then the gun goes off. Joey Northcutt didn't have a bad foot before, but he fucking does now. He howls and the girl with him screams. If the little pixie makes any noise, I can't hear it.

I stand up, knowing that our conversation is done. Mark Northcutt knows he doesn't have eighty grand. He knows his son fucked up. And he knows his daughter is mine.