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“Good to know,” Luna snaps. “In that case, I better call up my Parisian exes.”

“As long as you’re happy for me to break the neck of whoever so much as looks at you,” I growl.

“I’m rolling my eyes so hard my head hurts,” she says, and I can almost see her doing it.

“Have I told you how much I love you?”

“Save it, jackass.”

I don’t dwell on the heavy pause or the way her breath catches. I’m too busy grinning.

My watch pings again, and I straighten from my seat. I toss the tablet into the open backpack on the bed, followed by the chef outfit. Finally, I roll up the kill list and stuff it into the hidden side pocket.

“Alright. Showtime, baby. Gotta go make the world right again.”

“Be safe,” she whispers, unable to mask the worry in her voice. “And, um, thanks for calling me. It meant . . . Cade, you mean . . . the world to me.”

And she’s back to being shy. The woman is lethal. Sweet fucking poison.

Ten minutes later, I’m swinging my leg over my rental bike and hitting the road that should take me toward the theater. To the charity event where Antonov waits, oblivious to the judgment coming for him.

47

Luna

I’ve been at this exact spot every night since Cade left, but tonight feels different. Darker. The kind of night that swallows everything whole.

Rain drums against the clubhouse windows, each drop an echo of passing time. It’s almost midnight, and most of the bikers have gone home or passed out—worn down from today’s charity run.

I sit alone on the velvet bench in the corner of the common room, swirling the melting ice in my glass. Pretending to drink is what’s keeping me here. But the truth is, I can’t face that empty room upstairs.

“When I finish,”he said.

That was eight days ago.

And here I am, waiting as if my patience could somehow pull him back.

The clink of glasses on the bar being cleaned up by a coupleof sweetbutts barely registers—I’m that lost in the hum of my thoughts.

Suddenly, the gleaming double doors at the far end of the room leading to Phoenix’s quarters open. I look up, startled to see Phoenix walk in, still fully dressed in his cut. His presence is imposing, and, as usual, his mouth turned down in a frown. His eyes scan the room until they find me in the corner.

Shit.I groan inwardly. I’m at my lowest point right now and have zero energy to play the sunny grin-and-bear-your-grouchy-ass-in-hopes-that-you-deem-me-worthy-of-your-son role tonight.

My stomach truly drops when I see who steps in behind him. Nico Fucking Vitelli. His face also looks like he’s borrowed some of the thundercloud from outside. Not even his casual look with tailored pants and rolled-back sleeves takes away from his intimidating presence.

I straighten in my seat, my fingers tightening around the glass. Phoenix has been circling me like a wolf since Cade left, and now with Nico here . . . Something’s wrong. These men don’t make social calls.

They make a beeline for me and apart from Phoenix sending the sweetbutts off to their favorite bikers’ beds, they don’t waste time with pleasantries.

“Morning, Romano.” Nico sits across from me, his stare prickling at my skin. The faint yellow-green bruising around his nose and the fading shadow of a black eye make me wonder where he buried whoever did that to him.

Phoenix settles beside him, arms crossed, his gaze glued to the rosary wrapped around my wrist.

I wish, more than anything, for Cade’s solid warmth behind me, glowering right back at these grouchy bastards.

“Don Vitelli. Prez.” I greet with a cheer I don’t feel. “Good to see you both.”

Phoenix begins without preamble. “Since the day Cade left, you’ve been your usual perfect Mary Poppins ray of sunshine, blowing fairy dust all over my clubhouse. Yet you sit here every night, mooning for hours on end, guzzling ice water. What’s your game plan?”