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CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Ruger

Morning light filters through the blinds, casting stripes across the bed. I’m too stuck staring at my ol’ lady to notice the ruckus coming from the main hall, everyone laughing and having a good time.

She looks so peaceful for the first time in weeks, her body curled against mine, one arm draped across my chest like she's afraid I might disappear.

I brush a strand of hair from her face, memorizing the curve of her cheek, the slight part of her lips as she breathes.

Last night brought an end to Striker. My uncle, my blood. Dead at the hands of his own daughter.

I can't pretend to mourn him.

Whatever family loyalty I had died the night he laid hands on Aunt Ellie, and Kinsey made her choice when he tried to kill her.

But Marco is still breathing, locked in our basement.

That ends today.

Tildie stirs, her eyes fluttering open to meet mine. "Morning," she murmurs, voice groggy with sleep.

"Morning, darlin'." I press a kiss to her forehead. "How'd you sleep?"

"Better than I have in months." She stretches, wincing slightly at her sore muscles. "No dreams about Marco. No waking up in a cold sweat."

"That's because he can't hurt you anymore," I assure her, choosing my words carefully.

She studies my face, those amber eyes missing nothing. "What happens to him now?"

"Don't worry about that. I'll handle it."

"I want to be there," she says, sitting up. "I need to see it happen, whatever you decide."

I shake my head. "You've seen enough violence, Tildie. Let me deal with this part."

"After everything he's done?—"

"Exactly," I cut her off gently. "After everything he's done, you deserve peace. Not more blood on your hands or in your memories."

She doesn't look convinced, but doesn't keep trying to argue with me.

"I need to check on Sarah this morning," she says instead. "And Kinsey. She killed her own father last night. No matter how much he deserved it, that's got to be messing with her head."

I nod, relieved at the change of subject. "Go. Take Ellie with you. I'll handle club business."

Relief flashes briefly in her eyes, making me wonder if she actually wanted to be present for Marco's end or if she just felt obligated to witness it.

Either way, I'm not letting her watch what I plan to do to the man who stole her child.

Forty minutes later, she and Ellie head out to visit Sarah at the makeshift medical room we've set up in one of the cabins.

Porter's been there all night, refusing to leave his ol' lady's side.

The moment their car clears the gate, I call Bloodhound, Ounce, and Maddox to my office.

"Today we deal with Marco," I tell them without even saying hello. "I want this handled before Tildie returns."

Maddox’s massive frame fills the doorway. "What'd you have in mind?"

"Something fitting." I meet each man's gaze. "You all know what he did to Tildie. Pushed her down a flight of stairs when she was pregnant. Killed her unborn child."

"Poetic," Ounce comments with a cold smile.

"There's an abandoned office building off Highway 19," Bloodhound suggests. "Three stories, concrete stairwell. Secluded enough that no one will hear anything."

I nod. "Perfect. Grab him from the basement, make sure he's secured. We leave in twenty."

As my brothers move to do what I’ve asked, a commotion erupts outside.

There’s shouting, bikes revving, the sound of the gate alarm blaring.

I stride out, hand automatically reaching for the gun at my waistband.

Through the gate, a familiar figure approaches on a black Harley, flanked by three others wearing Grim Vultures patches.

"Viper," I mutter, tension coiling through my body.

Bloodhound appears at my shoulder. "Want me to send them packin’?"

"No," I decide, watching the riders approach cautiously. "Let's hear what he has to say."

Viper kills his engine just inside our gates, removing his helmet as brothers surround him, weapons ready.

He looks older than when I last saw him, silver threading through his dark beard, deep lines etched around his eyes.

The road has taken its toll, just as it does to all of us eventually.

"Ruger," he greets me with a respectful nod. "Hope you don't mind the unexpected visit."

"Depends on why you're here," I reply, maintaining a neutral expression.

He dismounts, motioning for his men to stay where they are. "But circumstances change. I'm here to see my daughter."

"Your what?"

"Kinsey," he clarifies. "She called me this morning. Told me everything that happened."

Surprise ripples through me. "How'd she even contact you?"

A small smile crosses his weathered face. "You think I wouldn't make sure she had a way to reach me? Even when she was with Striker, I kept tabs on her."

The pieces click into place—Kinsey's comment about Viper teaching her to shoot.

"She's inside," I tell him, making a decision. "But your men stay out here."

He nods, understanding the terms.

As I lead him toward the clubhouse, curiosity gets the better of me. "How did you know to come now?"

"Like I said, my daughter called me."

Before I can process his choice of words, the clubhouse door swings open. Kinsey steps out, her face brightening when she spots Viper.

"Dad!" she calls, rushing down the steps.

Viper's expression softens as he opens his arms, catching her in a tight embrace. "Hey, kiddo," he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. "You okay?"

She nods against his chest, then pulls back to look at him. "I... I killed him."

"I know." He cups her face, studying her with concern. "You did what you had to do. Same as I would have."

The genuine connection between them is unmistakable.

This isn't a normal relationship, but of a father and child who've chosen each other.

Viper looks at me over Kinsey's head. "We need to talk, President to President."

Inside my office, with Kinsey and Bloodhound present, Viper gets to the point.

"Kinsey needs her family," he says. "Whatever beef existed between our clubs before this, that's in the past as far as I'm concerned."

"Just like that?" I can't hide my skepticism. "After Striker played us both?"

"That's exactly why." Viper leans forward. "Striker wanted war between us. Why give him what he wanted, even in death?"

"What are you proposing?"

"Peace. New territorial agreements. Maybe even some joint ventures down the line." He glances at Kinsey. "And I need someone trustworthy to keep an eye on my little girl while she's at college here. Someone who'll make sure she stays safe."

He's offering an alliance, with Kinsey as the bridge between our clubs.

It's smart. Practical. And frankly, after the bloodshed of the past few days, the prospect of one less enemy is appealing.

"We can discuss terms," I agree. "But first, I have unfinished business to attend to."

Viper nods, understanding immediately. "Santini. Good. That piece of shit's had it coming for a long time."

"You know him well?" I ask, curious about the connection.

"Our paths crossed in Pittsburgh. He dealt to the rich college kids, used our distribution channels." His expression darkens. "Always heard rumors about how he treated women. When Kinsey told me he was the one after your ol' lady..." He shakes his head in disgust. "Some men deserve what's coming to them."

"She was with him for years," I say, feeling a fresh wave of anger. "He nearly destroyed her."

"Then don't let me keep you." Viper stands. "Family business comes first. We can talk terms after."

As he leaves with Kinsey to catch up, I turn to Bloodhound. "Get Ounce and Maddox. We're moving forward as planned."

Marco sits in the basement, secured to a metal chair, his designer clothes wrinkled and stained.

A gag prevents him from speaking, but his eyes burn with hatred as we enter.

"Morning, sunshine," I greet him coldly. "Sleep well?"

Maddox removes the gag, allowing Marco to speak.

"You're making a mistake," he says immediately, voice hoarse. "My family has connections. This won't end with me."

"Your 'family' connections dried up years ago," I counter, recognizing the empty threat. "The Santini name doesn't carry the weight it once did. No one's coming for you. If I’m remembering correctly, almost all of you fled back to Italy. Something about a cousin of yours, right? Guess that’s what happens when the family fucks up that horribly."

Fear flickers across his face before he masters it. "What do you want? Money? I can pay whatever?—"

"This isn't about money." I crouch to his eye level. "This is about what you did to Tildie."

"Elizabeth," he corrects automatically. "Her name is Elizabeth."

"Not anymore. She chose a new name, a new life." I pause, letting the next words land with full force. "A life without you."

"She'll come back," he insists, desperation creeping into his tone. "She always does. She needs me."

"See, that's where you're wrong." I stand, nodding to Maddox and Ounce to untie him from the chair. "She doesn't need you. She never did."

They haul him to his feet, securing his hands behind his back with zip ties.

Real fear enters his voice now. "Where are you taking me?"

"Somewhere private," I tell him. "For a conversation that's long overdue."

We take him to the abandoned office building we discussed earlier, windows broken or boarded, graffiti marking its concrete exterior.

We don’t even bother blindfolding him, because he won’t be alive to tell anyone where he went after this.

No one comes here anymore—not since the company went bankrupt and moved operations overseas.

We park around back, out of sight from the highway.

Marco struggles as we drag him from the van, but goes quiet when Maddox presses a gun to his ribs.

"Inside," I order, leading the way through a rusted service door.

The interior smells like mildew and decay, abandoned cubicles still dotting the open floor plan of the first level.

Dust particles dance in the shafts of sunlight that manage to penetrate the filthy windows.

We bypass the elevator, heading for the stairwell at the far end.

"What are you doing?" Marco asks, voice echoing in the empty space.

I don't answer, pushing open the stairwell door.

A flight of concrete steps disappear upward into what’s almost like an abyss.

I nod to Bloodhound, who flicks on a flashlight, illuminating our path.

"Third floor," I tell them.

Marco grows more agitated with each step, trying to dig his heels in as Maddox and Ounce force him upward.

By the time we reach the third-floor landing, sweat beads his forehead, eyes darting wildly between us. "Whatever you're planning, stop and think," he pleads. "I'm a businessman. We can make a deal."

"A businessman," I repeat, the word tasting foul. "Is that what you call yourself?"

"I have money, connections?—"

"I'm not interested in your money or your connections." I move closer, invading his space. "I'm interested in justice."

Fear widens his eyes. "Justice for what?"

"For Tildie. For the baby she never got to hold."

All color drains from his face. "That was an accident. I never meant?—"

"Bullshit." My voice echoes in the stairwell. "You pushed her down a flight of stairs when she was five months pregnant. You killed your own child because she dared to consider leaving you."

"She was being unreasonable," he argues desperately. "I just wanted to scare her, to make her understand?—"

My fist connects with his face before I even realize I've moved.

Blood spatters from his nose as his head snaps back.

"Understand what?" I demand, grabbing his shirt. "That you owned her? That she had no right to her own life?"

He spits blood, glaring at me. "You don't know anything about us. About what we had."

"I know everything I need to." I release him with a shove. "I know you controlled her, isolated her, made her believe she was nothing without you."

"I loved her!"

"No," I say quietly. "You possessed her. There's a fuckin’ difference."

I move him toward the edge of the stairwell, the long flight of concrete steps stretching down into shadowy depths below us.

Understanding dawns in his eyes. "You're going to kill me."

"Yes, I am."

"She'll never forgive you," he tries, desperation making his voice crack. "Elizabeth has a soft heart. She'll hate you for this."

A cold smile crosses my face. "Tildie's stronger than you ever gave her credit for. And if she hates me for killing you, well, that’s a gamble I’m willing to take."

"Please," he begs, all pretense gone now. "I'll disappear. Go overseas. Never contact her again."

"Like you promised last time?" Bloodhound interjects. "When you tracked her across state lines?"

Marco's shoulders slump. "What do you want from me?"

"Nothing," I tell him honestly. "Not a damn thing. This isn't a negotiation."

I nod to Maddox, who cuts the zip ties binding Marco's wrists. Marco immediately rubs his raw skin, confusion crossing his features.

"You're letting me go?"

"Not exactly."

I turn him to face the stairwell, my hand firm on his shoulder.

"I've been thinking about justice," I say conversationally. "About what form it should take in your case. Something fitting."

He tenses under my grip, sensing the danger.

"And then it occurred to me—what could be more appropriate than ending your life the same way you tried to end hers?"

Realization dawns in his eyes a second before I push him—hard.

His arms windmill as he tries to catch his balance, a strangled cry escaping his throat as he pitches forward.

The sound of his body tumbling down the concrete stairs echoes through the stairwell—each impact, each crack of bone against unforgiving edges marking the end of the man who destroyed Tildie's life.

When the echoes finally fade, I descend slowly, each step bringing me closer to what remains of Marco Santini.

He lies crumpled at the bottom, limbs at unnatural angles, blood pooling beneath his head.

His eyes are open, staring sightlessly upward.

I check for a pulse, feeling nothing. "It's done."

Bloodhound nods, no judgment in his eyes, only understanding. "I'll handle the cleanup."

We've done this before—disposed of bodies where they'll never be found, erased evidence of our involvement.

It's an unfortunate necessity in our world.

By the time we return to the compound, all physical evidence of Marco Santini has been erased from our lives.

The basement has been cleaned, the van scrubbed down.

No one outside our inner circle will ever know exactly what happened to him.

Viper's still there, sitting with Kinsey in the main room, deep in some conversation.

He looks up as I enter, a question in his eyes that I answer with a single nod. "Business concluded?"

"Completely."

He doesn't ask for details, and I’m glad.

I find Bailey next, still locked in the storage room where we've kept her since discovering her betrayal.

She looks up as I enter, fear and defiance warring in her expression. "Come to kill me too?"

"That depends on church," I tell her. "The brothers will vote on your fate tonight."

Bitterness laces her words. "And what will you vote for, mighty President?"

I study her for a long moment. "I haven't decided yet."

It's the truth. Part of me wants her blood for her betrayal, for endangering Tildie and my aunt, for the brothers who got hurt in the attack.

But another part recognizes the truth in her accusation—that women like her have been treated as disposable by the club for years. Used, discarded, forgotten.

"Why did you do it?" I ask, genuine curiosity overriding anger for a moment.

Her laugh is hollow. "Because he made me feel like I mattered. Like I was more than just a convenient hole for brothers to use when they got bored."

The crude assessment makes me wince, not because it's shocking, but because I can't entirely deny it.

"That's not who we are anymore," I tell her. "Not who we're going to be under my leadership."

She looks skeptical. "Pretty words. But actions matter more."

"You're right." I move toward the door. "Which is why tonight's vote will tell us both what kind of club we really are."

I'm still pondering Bailey's fate when Tildie returns, her face lighting up when she sees me.

"Sarah's awake," she announces. "Doctor says she'll make a full recovery."

Relief washes through me. "Good. Porter must be over the moon."

"He is." She searches my face. "Everything okay here? You seem... different."

I lead her away from curious ears, back to our apartment. "Everything's handled."

She catches my meaning immediately, her body stilling. "Marco?"

"You don't need to worry about him anymore," I confirm, watching her reaction carefully.

She doesn't ask for details, just nods slowly, processing. "Did he suffer?"

The question surprises me. "Would you want him to?"

"I don't know," she admits. "Part of me would. After everything he put me through, everything he took from me..." She pauses, taking a shaky breath. "But I'm trying to be better than that. Better than him."

I cup her face, struck again by her strength. "You already are, darlin'. You always were."

"Thank you," she says softly, and I know she's not just thanking me for the compliment.

She's thanking me for ending the threat, for giving her freedom without making her witness the violence that secured it.

"What about Bailey?" she asks, changing subjects. "What's going to happen to her?"

"Church tonight will decide. Viper's staying for it—we're discussing a truce between the clubs."

Her eyebrows rise. "Seriously? After everything that's happened?"

" Because of everything that's happened," I correct her. "Striker wanted us at war. Best way to spite him is to do the opposite."

She processes this, then smiles. "Smart, and good for Kinsey."

"How is she doing?"

"Better now that Viper's here. They seem close."

"He calls her his daughter," I say, the bond between them still somewhat surprising to me. "Seems like he's filled the father role Striker never did."

Tildie nods thoughtfully. "Everyone deserves someone who chooses them, who puts their wellbeing first. Blood doesn't always give you that."

"No," I agree, pulling her into my arms. "Sometimes family is who you choose and build with, not who you're born to."

She melts against me, her warmth a reminder of everything I fought to protect.

"What now?" she asks, voice muffled against my chest. "What happens next for us?"

"Whatever we want," I tell her, the future suddenly stretching wide open before us. "We rebuild the club. Get the bar running properly. Make a life together."

She pulls back to look at me. "Just like that? Normal life after everything?"

"As normal as it gets for an MC President and his ol' lady." I brush a strand of hair from her face. "But yeah, darlin'. Just like that."

"I'd like that," she says softly. "A future with you."

As I hold her, I think about justice—about Marco tumbling down those stairs, about Striker dying at his daughter's hand.

Even about Bailey waiting for the club's judgment, and Viper extending an olive branch where once there was only hatred.

The wheel turns. Old enemies die, new alliances form. The club adapts and survives.

And through it all, this woman in my arms has become my constant, my life, hell—even my future.

"Me too," I murmur into her hair. "More than anything."