Page 29 of Fang (Underground Vengeance MC, NOLA Chapter #3)

I ignore him, continuing my circuit. Four steps, turn, four steps back.

My mind races through variables, contingencies, failure points in the plan.

What if Rory isn’t where we think? What if the cartel moved him again?

What if one of us gets captured or killed?

The scenarios multiply like viruses in a compromised system, each more catastrophic than the last.

“Mina,” Fang says, finally looking up from his weapons. “Come sit down before you vibrate out of your skin.”

I stop mid-stride, suddenly aware of how manic I must appear.

With deliberate calm, I perch on the edge of the desk chair instead of joining him on the bed—still needing some distance, some boundary between us despite everything we’ve shared.

I can’t begin to think about anything else until Rory’s safe.

Once that happens, I can figure out what to do about this thing between me and Fang.

“Why did you join the motorcycle club?” I blurt. “What made you choose that life?”

Fang’s hands go still, a bullet held between his fingers. The silence stretches long enough that I think he might not answer, then he sets the bullet down in the case.

“It’s because… because of my brother,” he says finally, his voice tight. “Tommy.”

I wait, giving him space to continue or not. His glasses catch the light from the blueprints, turning his eyes into unreadable blue pools.

“He disappeared when we were kids,” Fang continues. “I was ten. He was eight. We were playing basketball at the park near our house.” His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Tommy wanted to go home. I wanted to play one more game. I told him to ride his bike back without me.”

The pain in his voice is raw, immediate—not the dull ache of an old wound but something still bleeding beneath the surface. I recognize it instantly; it’s the same pain I carry for Rory.

“He never made it home,” Fang says, staring at his hands. “No body, no evidence, no witnesses. Just… gone. Like he evaporated between the park and our house. Three blocks.”

“Fang, I’m—”

“I should have gone with him,” he cuts me off, the words sharp-edged. “I was his big brother. I was supposed to protect him. If I’d just left when he wanted to, if I’d just walked him home—”

He stops abruptly, pushing his glasses up to pinch the bridge of his nose. When he continues, his voice is steadier, more analytical, as if he’s discussing someone else’s tragedy.

“Intellectually, I know it wasn’t my fault. I was a kid myself. Whoever took Tommy—they’re the ones responsible. Not me.” His mouth twists in a bitter smile. “But knowing something intellectually doesn’t fix how you feel about it.”

I understand this dichotomy too well—the gap between what your brain knows and what your heart believes. My entire life with the cartel was built on that divide.

“The club gave me resources,” Fang continues.

“Connections, skills, purpose. We have a network across the country—brothers looking for missing kids, tracking trafficking rings, sharing information outside official channels.” His fingers resume their methodical check of the weapons, finding comfort in the routine.

“Every child we find, every family we rescue—it doesn’t bring Tommy back, but it matters. It has to matter.”

The pieces click together—why Fang believed me about Rory when others didn’t, why he’s risking everything to help me. It’s not just about me; it’s about the brother he couldn’t save.

I stand and cross to the bed, sitting beside him close enough that our shoulders touch. The mattress dips beneath our combined weight, bringing us slightly closer. I place my hand over his, stilling his movements with the weapons.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I tell him firmly, the words inadequate but necessary. “You’re right. Whoever took your brother is the only one to blame.”

His eyes meet mine, and for once, I see past his carefully constructed defenses—past the genius hacker, past the calculating biker—to the ten-year-old boy still looking for his little brother.

“You’re a hero, Fang,” I say softly. “Maybe not the kind they write comic books about, but the real kind. The kind who saves people even when no one’s watching. The kind who uses his pain to prevent others from suffering the same way.”

Something shifts in his expression—not quite a smile, but a softening around the edges. I lean forward and kiss him gently, a brief press of lips that carries more meaning than our most passionate embraces. When I pull back, his eyes remain closed for a moment, as if holding onto the sensation.

“You’re going to rescue my brother,” I tell him with absolute certainty. “I believe that. Not just because you’re good at what you do, but because you understand what he means to me. You understand in a way no one else could.”

Fang opens his eyes, meeting my gaze with an intensity that steals my breath. “I promise you, Mina,” he says, his voice low and fervent. “I will do everything in my power to bring Rory home tonight.”

We sit together in the charged silence, the weight of his promise hanging between us.

On the nightstand, the digital clock blinks its red numbers—7:23 PM—counting down to the mission with merciless precision.

Less than three hours until we attempt the impossible.

Less than three hours until I potentially see my brother again—or lose everything trying.

Fang’s hand turns beneath mine, our fingers interlacing in silent understanding. We don’t speak of what happens after—whether there is an after for us, whether this connection survives beyond the mission. Such considerations are luxuries we can’t afford right now.

But his hand in mine feels like a different kind of promise—unspoken, undefined, but real nonetheless. And for this moment, that’s enough.