Page 21 of Claimed By the Bikers (Black Wolves MC #4)

I drop behind the prep counter as bullets punch through the kitchen walls, sending splinters of wood and metal flying. Finn dives for cover beside the industrial refrigerator, eyes wide with terror.

“What the fuck is happening?” he shouts over the gunfire.

“Los Serpientes,” I shout back, adrenaline flooding my system as training kicks in. “Stay down and stay quiet.”

The gunfire intensifies, coming from multiple directions now. Through the kitchen doorway, I can see customers huddled under tables while Atlas, Garrett, and Silas return fire from defensive positions. Professional response, coordinated movement—these men know how to fight.

But there are innocent people in here. Families who came for dinner and got caught in a war zone.

A figure in appears in the kitchen doorway, rifle raised. I don’t think, just react, grabbing the nearest weapon—a heavy cast iron skillet—and hurling it at his head. It connects with a satisfying crack, and he goes down hard.

“Finn, get to the walk-in cooler and stay there,” I order, already moving toward the fallen gunman.

“What about you?”

“I’ll be fine. Go!”

I strip the rifle from the unconscious cartel soldier, check the magazine, and move toward the dining room. Through the pass-through window, I can see the scope of the attack. At least six men coordinating an assault on multiple entry points.

They’re not here to negotiate.

“Atlas!” I call out, and he turns from his position behind the overturned bar.

“Stay down!” he shouts back.

“I’m armed!” I hold up the rifle. “Where do you need me?”

His eyes widen slightly at the sight of me with military hardware, but he doesn’t waste time with questions. “East wall! They’re trying to flank us!”

I move to the position he indicated, noting how the brothers have automatically formed a defensive triangle that protects the maximum number of civilians while maintaining fields of fire. Professional tactics from men who’ve done this before.

A cartel soldier rounds the corner, weapon raised, and I put two rounds center mass before he can acquire a target. He drops like a stone, and I shift position before his friends can pinpoint my location.

“Nice shooting!” Silas calls out, grinning despite the bullets flying around us.

“Thanks! How many more?”

“At least four!” Garrett responds, firing a burst that forces two attackers back behind cover.

The fight continues for what feels like hours but is probably only minutes. The cartel soldiers are well equipped, but they’re fighting on our territory, and we know every inch of this building.

That’s when I notice movement near the bathroom. A cartel soldier, smaller than the others, moving carefully between overturned tables. He’s heading toward a family huddled behind the counter—parents and two young children, frozen with terror.

I shift position to intercept, but another gunman opens fire from the front door, forcing me back behind cover. When I look again, the soldier is almost on top of the family.

“Please,” the mother whispers, clutching her children. “Please don’t hurt them.”

The soldier raises his rifle, finger on the trigger, and I realize I’m not going to make it in time.

That’s when Mrs. Hernandez, all seventy-five years of her, stands up behind her overturned birthday table and hurls her dinner plate at the gunman’s head.

“Leave those babies alone, you bastard!”

The plate connects, throwing off his aim, and I use the distraction to close the distance. But instead of shooting, I grab the first thing I can reach—a broken wine bottle from the floor—and drive the jagged edge into his throat.

Blood sprays across my hands and face as he drops, gurgling and choking. Real blood, hot and sticky, not like the movies. The smell of copper and death fills my nostrils as he tries to speak and only manages more blood.

I’ve killed people before, but never this close. Never with a broken bottle. Never while looking into their eyes.

“You okay?” Atlas appears beside me, rifle in hand, scanning for more threats.

“I’m fine.” I wipe blood from my face with the back of my hand. “Is it over?”

“For now. Garrett’s checking the perimeter, Silas is securing the wounded.”

“Wounded?”

“Three of theirs, none of ours. You did good work.”

I look down at the dead man at my feet, at the blood on my hands, at the broken bottle still clutched in my grip. “I killed him with a wine bottle.”

“You protected innocent people. That’s what matters.”

“Mrs. Hernandez—”

“Is fine. Shaken up but fine. She’s checking on the family you saved.”

The family. I look over to see the parents holding their children, whispering reassurances while Mrs. Hernandez fusses over them like a mother hen. They’re alive because I acted without thinking, because I chose protecting them over my own safety.

“The pregnant woman,” I realize suddenly. “The one who was here earlier—”

“Went home hours ago. She’s safe.”

Relief floods through me. For some reason, the thought of something happening to her terrified me more than the gunfight itself.

“Ember.” Garrett appears at my other side, blood on his shirt but moving normally. “You hurt?”

“No. You?”

“Flesh wound. Nothing serious.” He looks down at the dead cartel soldier, then back at me. “That was brave as hell and stupid as fuck.”

“Thanks?”

“He’s right,” Silas says, joining our little group. “Brave and stupid. Perfect combination for this family.”

“Is everyone else okay?”

“Customers are shaken up but unharmed. Finn’s having a minor breakdown in the walk-in cooler, but he’ll live. Mrs. Hernandez is demanding we reopen so she can finish her birthday dinner.”

“Seriously?”

“Her exact words were ‘I’ve been planning this party for weeks, and I’ll be damned if some young hooligans are going to ruin it.’”

Despite everything—the blood, the bodies, the adrenaline still coursing through my system—I laugh. “I love that woman.”

“She’s something special,” Atlas agrees. Then his expression grows serious. “This isn’t over. This was a probe, a test of our defenses. They’ll be back with more men and better tactics.”

“How long do we have?”

“Hard to say. Maybe days, maybe hours.”

I look around the restaurant—shattered windows, bullet holes in the walls, blood on the floor. The place where I’ve served coffee and taken orders and learned to be part of a family. Now it’s a battlefield.

“What do we do?”

“We clean up, we prepare, and we get ready for the real fight.” Atlas reaches over to take my bloodied hand in his. “But first, we take care of each other.”

“I’m okay.”

“You killed a man with a broken bottle to save a family you don’t even know. That’s not something you just shake off.”

He’s right. The adrenaline is starting to fade, leaving behind the reality of what I’ve done. The weight of taking a life, even one that deserved it. The knowledge that this is my life now—violence and blood and the constant threat of war.

But looking around at these men who’ve become my world, at the customers they protected, at the community we’re all part of, I realize something important.

I’m not sorry. Not about the killing, not about the choice, not about standing my ground when innocent people needed protection.

This is my family. This is my home. And I’ll spill blood to defend both.

The cartel wants a war? They can have one.

But they’re going to discover that some families fight back harder than others.

And we’re just getting started.