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“Abuela, I can feed myself—” he protested.

“Eat!”

He sighed and closed his mouth around the fork, taking the bite. His abuela beamed and patted his shoulder.

“You’re a good boy. But you shouldn’t be single at your age. Why don’t you have a wife yet?”

Blackbeard glanced up and noticed Hattie and me by the door. He waved us in, looking somewhat relieved at the distraction.

“It’s about time you two showed up,” he said. “I was getting ready to send out a search party. Maybe you can convince Abuela that I’m not the marrying kind, and any woman who bothered to marry me would be miserable.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Hattie countered, setting the gift on a nearby table with the other gifts. “Abuela, keep wearing him down.”

Blackbeard swore softly. His Abuela swatted him and clucked her tongue.

“Watch your language, Diego. Such a filthy mouth.”

“Believe me, Abuela,” he replied. “The ladies don’t have any problem with that.”

She gasped and swatted him again. He laughed, skirting out of reach.

I watched Hattie during the party. Searching for signs that would indicate why she’d been so distracted and reserved lately. If something was bothering her, she would tell me in her own time. But I hated waiting. Hated thinking that she was fighting some invisible battle alone, without me.

The only thing that brought me some measure of comfort was seeing her wearing the cut I had made for her. Kingpin’s Property arched across her back in bold letters, announcing to the world that she was mine. And my ring glittered on her finger. She never took it off these days.

After the gifts had been opened, and half the food had been demolished, the door opened. Nine bikers filed in.

Instantly, everyone in the clubhouse bristled at the newcomers’ colors.

Forsaken MC.

I pushed my chair back, wood scraping against wood, rising to my feet. I caught Hattie’s eye on the other side of the room and beckoned to her. She practically flew to my side.

The Forsaken fanned out, surveying the room. They weren’t here for the party.

“What the fuck do you want?” I demanded.

The leader, Al “Popeye” Bradbury, stepped forward and gestured at the room. He was a grizzly old man—older than me—with a patch over one eye, a brawny build, and forearms covered in sailor tattoos from his time spent in the Navy.

“We were in the area and we thought we’d drop by to extend a neighborly hello.”

“You’re not welcome here,” Blackbeard said, gruffly. “So you can take your neighborly hello and shove it up your ass.”

Crash dropped his beer, glass shattering on the floor, and started forward. Vlad grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and yanked him back.

“Youfuckerskilled my brother,” Crash spat.

Popeye put a hand over his heart in nothing but a condescending gesture.

“And I sincerely apologize for that. Why don’t we let bygones be bygones?”

Crash swore and fought against Vlad’s hold. Vlad shoved him down into a chair, one meaty hand clamped on his shoulder to keep him in place.

“You know damn well you’re not welcome here, Popeye,” I said.

The Forsaken had been a thorn in our side for years. Testing the boundaries of our turf. On more than one occasion, we got into a heated skirmish or two, protecting what belonged to us, what we’d fought so hard to build.

Popeye held up his hands in surrender.