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CHAPTER TWELVE

Doran

The skull charms are smaller than I expected—delicate even, carved from what looks like genuine bone.

I turn them over in my fingers as Mikhail drives, each rotation revealing new details.

Tiny roses etched into the eye sockets.

Numbers scratched into the base: 24.

"Old school Culebra death markers," Mikhail says, glancing at them. "Haven't seen these in years. Bembe's really embracing tradition."

"Twenty-four hours." I pocket the skulls, their weight insignificant compared to what they represent. "He gave us twenty-four hours before he starts hunting her family."

"Want me to turn around? We could still catch up to her?—"

"No." The word comes out sharper than intended. "She wants space. She'll get it. Take me to the clubhouse."

Mikhail raises an eyebrow but changes lanes, heading toward the Raiders’ territory. "You sure that's wise? Showing up there after what just happened?"

"Runes needs to know his family was threatened. We handle this together or not at all."

The drive takes fifteen minutes that feel like hours.

I check my phone obsessively—no texts from Revna, just updates from the security team confirming she and Dalla made it back safely to their apartment.

The mall security footage has already been handled, witnesses encouraged to forget what they saw.

Money solves most problems, but not the one eating at me now.

She looked at me with such betrayal. Like I was everything she feared I'd become.

Maybe I am.

The familiar streets of Jacksonville blur past, each turn taking me further from her and closer to what needs to be done.

I think about our first night together, how she'd trusted me enough to come to my penthouse, to let me see her without walls.

Now those walls are back up, reinforced with disappointment and fear.

My phone buzzes.

A message from my father:

Heard about the mall. Resources are available.

I don't respond.

The last thing I need is my father's version of help—usually involving excessive violence and no witnesses.

This requires finesse, something the older generation of Bratva never quite mastered.

The Raiders' clubhouse appears through the windshield, bikes lined up outside like chrome soldiers.

More than usual—word travels fast in the MC world.

They know something's happened.

We arrive at the gate and are immediately allowed through, everyone knowing exactly who we are at this point.

The building itself looks innocuous enough, just another commercial property in an area full of them.

But I know what happens behind those walls, the decisions made, the blood spilled.

The moment I exit the car, I smell it.

Baking.

Obscene amounts of it, sugar and vanilla, and desperation mixing in the air.

Revna mentioned her mother stress-bakes.

The sweetness makes my stomach turn, knowing it represents Fern's fear for her daughters.

Inside, conversations die mid-sentence.

Leather-clad bikers track my movement, hands drifting toward weapons.

I'm the enemy today, the Russian/Irish man who brought danger to their doorstep.

Only Runes' protection keeps them from acting on their instincts.

I recognize some faces—Fenrir, who's never bothered to hide his distrust.

Bodul, whose brother was killed in a deal gone wrong years ago.

They blame my world for their losses, and they're not entirely wrong.

"Office," Fenrir grunts from his position by the bar.

The VP's never liked me, likes me even less now. "He's waiting."

I follow him down the familiar hallway, past photos of fallen members, past the room where they hold church.

The walls are covered in MC history—patches, photos from runs, newspaper clippings of arrests that went nowhere.

This is their sanctuary, and I'm an invader.

The door to Runes' office is already open, cigar smoke drifting out like fog.

Cuban, by the smell.

He always did have expensive tastes for a biker.

He's not alone.

His enforcer, Rati, leans against the wall, arms crossed.

The man's built like a mountain, silver streaking his beard, knuckles scarred from decades of violence.

Both men look ready for war.

"Sit," Runes commands, not looking up from the papers on his desk. "Tell me exactly what fuckin’ happened."

I remain standing. "Bembe Reyes cornered Revna and Dalla at the mall. Made specific threats about their routines, their vulnerabilities. Left these." I place the skull charms on his desk.

The small bones click against the wood, simple yet ominous.

Runes examines them, face darkening with each second.

His jaw tightens, the muscle jumping beneath his beard. "Specific threats?"

"He knows Dalla's class schedule. Your wife's shopping habits. When Elfe works alone." I meet his eyes. "He's been watching them. All of them. For weeks, probably."

Rati straightens, hand moving to the knife at his belt. "That Cuban fuck's been surveilling our women?"

"And he wanted us to know it. This wasn't subtle—he approached them in public, made sure they understood how vulnerable they are." I sink into the offered chair, suddenly exhausted. "This is my fault. Rescinding his wedding invitation?—"

"Was the right call," Runes interrupts. "My daughter was upset. You fixed it. Now we deal with the consequences."

The simple acceptance surprises me.

I expected rage, blame, maybe violence.

Not this pragmatic understanding.

But then, Runes has been leading the Raiders for over two decades.

He knows how the game is played.

"We have options," I start, but he holds up a hand.

"Before we discuss that, there's something you need to know." He lights a fresh cigar, taking his time.

The ritual of it—cutting, lighting, that first draw—gives him a moment to gather his thoughts. "We found Njal."

My spine stiffens. "Where?"

"Motel off I-95. Been there three days, according to the desk clerk. Paying cash, different name, but it's him." He blows smoke toward the ceiling. "He's not well, Doran. We think he's having an episode."

"Episode?"

"Bipolar disorder runs in his family. His brother Bjorn was diagnosed years ago after he nearly killed someone during a manic phase.

The signs were there with Njal—the mood swings, the way he'd go days without sleeping.

But he refused help." Runes' expression softens slightly.

"The boy's sick. Not evil, not plotting—sick. "

"He's been unstable for weeks. My men reported erratic behavior even before he left his cut."

"Because he's manic. Probably hasn't slept in days, hasn't taken meds if he even has them. His brain's misfiring, telling him he's the hero in some grand story." Runes leans forward. "I'm telling you this so you understand—the club will handle Njal. He's ours, even when he's broken."

Something hot flares in my chest. "If he comes after me?—"

"He won't get the chance." Rati's voice is flat, final. "We protect our own. Even from themselves. Even when they don't want protection."

"I'm not letting some lovesick ex take me out," I snap, pride overruling sense.

The idea of being killed by Revna's former lover, sick or not, is intolerable.

Runes actually chuckles, dark and humorless.

"Boy, you wouldn't see him coming. Manic episodes don't follow rules or logic.

He could decide you're a demon at 3 AM and show up with a blowtorch.

Could convince himself that killing you is the only way to save the world.

But that's not going to happen because we're bringing him in tonight. "

"When?"

"After we deal with your Cuban problem." He stubs out the cigar. "Which brings us back to options. You apologize publicly, showing weakness to every cartel and crew watching. We go to war, bodies pile up, innocents get caught in the crossfire. Or..."

"Or?"

Fenrir speaks for the first time. "Or we get creative. Use the resources we have."

I understand immediately what he's suggesting.

"You want to use Njal." The words taste bitter. "Point his mania at Bembe."

"The thought crossed my mind," Runes admits. "Lovesick ex-boyfriend goes after the man threatening his girl. Believable narrative. Gives Bembe his blood without us losing face. The media writes it off as a crime of passion."

"That's sick."

"That's survival." But he looks uncomfortable, shifting in his chair. "Though I don't like it either. Using a family member's illness... it goes against everything we stand for."

The moral weight of it settles over the room.

These men have done terrible things—I've seen the blood on their hands—but using a sick man's delusions crosses a line even for them.

A knock interrupts.

The door opens to reveal Ingrid, looking determined and exhausted.

Her red hair is pulled back severely, no makeup, clothes practical rather than stylish.

This isn't the put-together woman I usually see.

"I need to talk to you," she announces, pushing past Fenrir. "All of you."

Runes sighs. "Ingrid, this isn't the time?—"

"I know where Njal is. I know he's sick. And I know you're planning something." She crosses her arms, chin lifted in defiance. "I want in."

"This doesn't concern you," I say coldly.

Her laugh is sharp. "Doesn't concern me?

I spent months being someone's placeholder, listening to him call me by another woman's name.

I tried to help him, tried to get him to see a doctor.

He chose mania instead." Her voice cracks slightly.

"He's got weapons. Maybe explosives. He's been talking about the wedding, about saving Revna from you. "

"How do you know this?" Rati demands.

"Because he calls me when he's crashing. Three AM, sobbing about how he's going to save Revna. How he's going to prove his love. How you're the devil and he's the only one who can stop you." She looks directly at me. "He's dangerous, but he's also sick. There's a difference."

"What do you want?" Runes asks quietly.