Page 62 of Claimed By the Bikers

“Or what?”

Atlas’s expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his posture. “Or I’ll help you find the door.”

“You threatening me?”

“I’m offering you choices.”

That’s when the shorter drunk decides to solve the problem by taking a swing at his friend. His fist connects with the tall guy’s jaw, and suddenly we’ve got a full brawl happening in the middle of the dining room.

Garrett appears from nowhere, grabs the tall drunk, and hauls him away from the other customers. Silas moves to intercept the shorter one, who’s now throwing punches at anyone within reach. Atlas coordinates the response, making sure innocent diners stay clear of the violence.

“Get them out of here,” Atlas orders, and his brothers comply.

The whole thing lasts maybe three minutes, but it leaves everyone’s adrenaline pumping. The drunk guys get thrown out into the parking lot with warnings not to come back, and gradually the restaurant settles back into normal dinner conversation.

“Exciting night,” Mrs. Hernandez comments from her birthday table.

“Never a dull moment,” I agree, refilling her iced tea.

By nine thirty, things have calmed down completely. The pregnant woman and her family finish their meal and head home, the truckers settle their tab, and most of the dinner crowd clears out. I’m in the kitchen helping Finn with the last of the dishes when we hear what sounds like firecrackers going off in the parking lot.

“Jesus,” Lizzy mutters. “Are those idiots back?”

More popping sounds, followed by what might be shouting. I exchange glances with Finn, who’s already moving toward the back door.

“Probably just the drunks acting up again,” he says. “I’ll go tell them to?—”

The front windows explode inward in a shower of glass and gunfire.

“GET DOWN!” Atlas’s voice roars from the dining room as automatic weapons open up on the building.

This isn’t drunk locals. This is war.

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 ironskillet—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.