Page 40

Dante

“So, you’re staying?” Ellie smiled. “Like really staying?”

“That’s what Danny told Missy.”

Ellie squealed as she threw her arms around my neck. “Oh my God! We’ve got to start planning. We need to start looking at houses and furniture. Dani is going to need everything, but don’t worry, I’ve got that covered, mostly.”

“Easy, Ellie.” I laughed, still a little dazed by her enthusiasm. “One step at a time. Danny and I just decided yesterday; we haven’t really sat down and talked about anything yet.”

“Babe,” Ryder chuckled, removing his giddy wife from around my neck. “Let the man breathe.”

“They’re staying, Ryder!” She clapped happily as the smitten man kissed the side of her head.

“I heard. Come on, beautiful, let’s help the others finish up,” Ryder interjected, clapping me on the back. “You and your bestie can plan tomorrow.”

I nodded, grateful for his level-headedness as they walked off together.

Everyone was gathered for a welcome back/do it again, I’ll kick your ass party. Any reason for bikers to get drunk and party, they were all for it. Even the women agreed apparently as they hurried around the main room, clearing tables and putting up streamers and balloons the second they saw Melissa head upstairs.

I glanced over at Danny and Nav, their intense conversation making me uneasy. I knew that look on Danny’s face, that determined set of his jaw.

Whatever they were planning, it wasn’t going to be pretty.

I felt a sense of unease settle over me. I knew Danny well enough to know that his mind was never far from the war we were embroiled in. And with his newfound clarity, I feared the darkness he would have to wade into to protect what was his.

“Mind if I take a seat?”

Smiling, I nodded as Amber sat down beside me. “She’s in the kitchen with Maureen and Hash, along with the other girls. They are having an early dinner. Once the party kicks off, I will take them upstairs for a movie night.”

“You’re not staying?”

“No.” The pretty woman sighed. “Not really my cup of tea anymore. Besides, tonight is for the club brothers and the old ladies.”

“I wish you would stay.”

“I like you, Dante.” She smiled. “But I’m not an old lady. I’m just a club whore.”

Frowning, I said, “No, you’re not. I’ve been around club girls before and Amber, you are no whore.”

She shook her head. “That’s kind of you to say, but I’ve been a whore for as long as I can remember.”

I was intrigued why she would think that and asked, “How so, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“It’s a long story, but the CliffsNotes version is I haven’t had the best life, and when the Golden Skulls rescued me from a trafficking ring several years ago, they gave me a new identity and money to start over in Chicago as a barista. It was a good job, and I liked it until I had to leave. Anyway.” She sighed. “I better go check on the girls. I’m sure they are making a mess in the kitchen. I’m glad you’re staying, Dante.”

Silence clawed at me as she turned and walked away, her words a phantom sting at the back of my skull. A prickling unease, like a half-remembered conversation just beyond my grasp, coiled in my gut. Amber wasn’t like the other girls, no cheap smiles, she didn’t flaunt her body; she wasn’t desperate for attention. She was... different. Pure. And she shunned the brothers, utterly. Their usual hungry gazes softened around her, replaced by a strange, almost reverent protectiveness.

The taste of bile rose in my throat as I racked my brain, trying to decipher what it was she said that bothered me. Watching her navigate the suffocating press of bodies, I saw King sidle up, whispered confidence in his voice. He didn’t touch her, not even a graze. It had always been that way; a respectful distance, a protective barrier, unlike the usual animalistic possessiveness of the club.

Then the kiss. King pressed a kiss to her temple—not a lustful press, but something... familial. Brotherly, almost. But Danny’s wink, directed at Amber as she melted into the crowd, sent a jolt of icy fear straight to my core. My neck prickled, a shiver snaking down my spine. The hairs stood on end as I pushed myself to my feet, the memory of Haizley’s words and Danny’s callous confession, a burning brand in my mind.

“I told the bitch she used to be a barista in some Chicago coffee shop before she vanished. Went by Bethany Norwood. That’s all.”

Bethany Norwood. My sister. My twin.

The sister Danny had sacrificed to Jane Craven—to save me.

The kitchen swallowed Amber whole. My gaze locked onto Danny’s. His confusion was evident. His eyes, usually slick with knowledge, were now wide, lost, drowning in a sea of something I couldn’t quite place, something that tasted suspiciously like guilt. But beneath that, a cold, hard fear mirrored my own. The air throbbed with unspoken accusations, with years of buried secrets now clawing their way to the surface, threatening to tear us apart.

Amber was my sister.

No wonder Danika looked like her. She was her aunt!

My sister was right here all this time, and I didn’t see it. We looked alike. Her hair color and eye color were different, but those could easily be changed. We had the same smile, yet I didn’t notice because I was too wrapped up in my own shit to see what was right in front of my face.

Everything made sense now. Why King kept a watchful eye on her. Why the brothers protected her. Why Danny needed to make sure she was safe. Why Nav was helping Danny. Everyone around me fucking knew. They knew she was my sister and not a single fucking one of them told me.

“Dante?”

Blinking, my eyes focused on Danny, who was now standing right in front of me. The urge to yell, to scream at him, clawed at my throat, but I was paralyzed. I stared at the man I’d vowed to spend my life with, the man I wanted to build a future with... a future that felt like a house of cards, built on a foundation of lies. The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow: I didn’t know him at all. Not the real him. This man, Sypher, the enigmatic hacker of the underworld I’d glimpsed in stolen glances and whispered conversations, was a stranger, and the Danny I loved was a carefully constructed facade.

“Babe, what is it?” His voice was a low rumble, distant and muffled by the sudden eruption of applause as Ghost and Melissa descended the stairs. Their happiness felt like a cruel mockery.

“Dante, what’s wrong?” Haizley’s concern was a sharp stab of guilt. She deserved honesty, yet telling the truth meant shattering everything. The weight of it pressed down on my chest, suffocating me.

I couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t just about the secrets; it was about the betrayal of my own values. I hated lies; I abhorred deception, yet here I was, complicit in Danny’s elaborate charade. Keeping his secret, protecting him, meant protecting a lie, a lie that was slowly poisoning my soul. It felt like a compromise with a part of myself I despised, a part that was willing to sacrifice its integrity for the illusion of love.

A choice clawed at me, sharp and brutal. Do I expose him, risk shattering his world and ours, sacrificing the dream I’d envisioned? Or do I continue this charade, knowing that every day I participated, I’d be slowly dying inside, betraying not only Amber but also myself? My hands trembled; the easy path, the path of silence, was tempting, a siren song of comfort in the face of overwhelming chaos. But my silence felt like cowardice, like a slow, agonizing surrender of everything I believed in. The knowledge that choosing to remain silent meant choosing a future riddled with more secrets, more lies, more compromises, filled me with a sickening dread. It was a bad choice; I knew it, but the fear of the alternative was paralyzing. The fear of failure, of destroying everything, was stronger than my desire for truth. This moment, this choice, felt like a certain path to regret. And yet, I remained silent, already tasting the bitter fruit of my compromise.

A cold wind blew into the room, and it chilled me to the bone.

A dog growled.

The music stopped and then I heard Bane. “What the fuck are you doing here, Sinclair?”

Spinning around, I stared into the dead eyes of the Devil himself as he pointed at me and clearly articulated, “I’m here for Dante, of course.”

“Think again, motherfucker.” Bane’s rasp, thick with venom and cheap whiskey, scraped against the air. The metallic scent of gun oil stung my nostrils as Bane’s hand, a gnarled claw, tightened around the cold steel, the barrel a blunt finger aimed dead center at Sinclair’s chest. Sinclair, however, remained unnervingly calm, a predatory stillness in his eyes that belied the chaos swirling around him.

The air crackled with unspoken menace.

King’s roar, a guttural bellow that shook the very floorboards, ripped through the tension. He shoved past the onlookers, his presence a physical force, the scent of expensive cologne clashing violently with the reek of sweat and determination. “Who the fuck are you?” King’s voice was a sledgehammer, each syllable a blow. Sinclair’s smile was thin and cruel.

“Crispin Sinclair. And this”—he gestured to Rowen Shay, whose icy gaze cut through me like a shard of glass—“is my associate. I believe you’re acquainted with my... charge, Dante Sharp, and his... husband, Sypher.” His voice dripped with a chilling politeness, the perfect mask for the storm brewing behind his eyes.

King’s gaze, a burning coal, fixed on me and Danny. “You know this... fucker?”

Danny’s snarl was a low growl, a primal response to the palpable threat. “Yeah, we’ve met.” His knuckles, white as bone, showed the strain he was battling to control. The bitter taste of fear rose in my throat.

My whisper was barely audible, a choked gasp lost in the cacophony of adrenaline and dread. “I shot you.” The memory—the sickening thud, the spray of blood, the chilling emptiness in my gut—slammed into me with brutal force. I hadn’t believed Sinclair would be here, wouldn’t dare show his face... but here he was, a predator stalking his prey.

Sinclair’s voice, like ice cracking, sent a shiver down my spine. “Yes, you did, dear Dante.” The word ‘ dear ’ was laced with such venomous sweetness it was almost physically painful. Sinclair’s eyes, the color of a winter sky just before a blizzard, hardened, glacial.

The air grew colder, heavier, as he continued, each word a carefully placed stone in the wall closing in around them. “Which reminds me...” The unspoken threat hung in the air, a suffocating weight promising a reckoning long overdue. With shocking speed, the son of a bitch lashed out, his fist a brutal projectile that slammed into my face, sending me sprawling against Danny. And that was all it took for Bane to charge the fucker, knocking Sin to the ground, punching him repeatedly until Rowen placed a gun at the back of Bane’s head.

In the blink of an eye, every brother in the Silver Shadows had their guns out and pointed at Rowen as King walked closer and sneered. “You come into my motherfucking house, disrupt my fucking party, and start making demands. Motherfucker, I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but this is fucking Silver Shadows territory and I’m the motherfucking King!” the furious president roared. “Gunner, Ghost, take these two fucking assholes and throw them in the hole!”

“Touch me and you will never see Grace again.”

The room went deathly still.

No one moved.

No one breathed as Sinclair got to his feet and dusted himself off before smirking. “Did you honestly think I would walk in here without a backup plan, Mr. O’Rourke? You may be the bastard son of Braesal O’Malley and the president of a second-rate motorcycle club, but you are no Steele and you are certainly no Reaper. Now, before things get out of hand, say goodbye, Dante. We are leaving.”

A phone shrieked, a jagged tear in the silence. King’s hand, slick with a cold sweat, snaked into his cut, his knuckles bone-white as he wrestled the phone free. The metallic tang of blood filled my nostrils, a faint, coppery scent clinging to the air like a silent scream. He didn’t speak, didn’t need to. His spine, a rigid question mark, conveyed the chilling answer.

Sinclair wasn’t playing games.

Grace was gone.

Their relationship—King and Grace—was a simmering unspoken truth, a wildfire hidden beneath polished surfaces. But the raw, primal fear that flickered across his face left no doubt: she was his anchor, his lifeline. Just as Danika and Danny were mine.

My blood pulsed a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

Sinclair. I knew the labyrinth of his depravity. The chilling symphony of his violence echoed in my soul. I couldn’t let him touch her, not one hair on her head.

“Danny,” I breathed, his name a prayer, a curse.

“Don’t even fucking think about it,” Danny growled, his voice a low, guttural rumble that vibrated through the room. His eyes, usually pools of molten gold, were glacial, hard as granite.

Shaking my head, I met the gaze of the man I loved, a bitter smile twisting my lips. The taste of ash and betrayal filled my mouth. “He’s got Grace. I can’t let him hurt her. You need to stay with Danika. She needs one of us.”

“You’re not going!” His voice shattered, splintering into a thousand shards of agony.

Ignoring his pleas, I cupped his face, the rough stubble scratching against my palm. Our kiss was a desperate plea, a farewell etched in fire and heartbreak. The taste of him—sharp, clean and utterly devastating—lingered on my tongue. “I love you,” I whispered, my words as fragile as spun glass.

Stepping back, I met the unwavering gazes of Ghost and Ryder, two shadows sculpted from granite. “You’re going to have to lock him down.”

“You’re not leaving!” Danny’s roar echoed, a primal scream against the impending doom.

Ryder and Ghost moved with the lethal grace of predators, their hands closing on his arms like steel manacles. “We’ll get him back, Sypher,” Ryder promised, his voice an inaudible murmur, but his eyes burned with a fierce, unwavering loyalty. His words were meant to comfort, but they only intensified the fear that clawed at my insides.

“NO!” A scream tore from Danny’s throat, raw and ragged.

Ignoring him, my gaze found Bane’s. “Call Malice. Tell him I’m going home. He’ll understand.” The silence that followed was thick, suffocating.

I turned to King, his face etched with grim resignation. “The second we’re airborne, he will release her. He never wanted her. He only used her to get to me.”

“I’m sorry, kid,” King whispered, his words lost in the suffocating silence of impending doom.

I shrugged, my movement brittle, defiant. “I knew he’d come for me the second I shot him.”

“Next time, aim higher,” he murmured, his voice laced with grim amusement.

A bitter smirk touched my lips. “That’s what Danny said.”

Rowen’s grip on my arm was like a vise, his knuckles bone-white. “Let’s go, Dante.”

I took one last, lingering look at everything I had ever cherished, at the men I loved, at the life I was leaving behind—a life that now felt as distant and unreal as a faded photograph. Then I turned and walked out of the clubhouse, into the cold, bitter night, leaving the echoes of Danny’s screams behind.