Page 21 of Sexting the Bikers (Ruthless Riders #2)

KATYA

I fold my arms and lean against the edge of the table, surveying the room. The boys may not like that I slapped their president, but they’re listening now.

“So,” I say, letting my eyes move from Dog to Bishop to Reaper. “Tell me everything you know about Novikov. I need the full picture.”

Reaper folds his arms, face a granite mask, but he nods. Bishop perches on the edge of the table, fingers drumming in an endless rhythm. Dog leans against the wall, arms crossed, eyes flicking between us.

“He’s paranoid as hell,” Bishop starts, ticking off points like a ledger. “Moves his money through three different banks. Doesn’t trust even his own men—keeps a rotating security detail.”

Reaper adds, “He has ties to half the city council and a handful of dirty cops on the payroll. We did a run for him—guns, parts, some heavy shit. Paid in cash, but the second time, he stiffed us. Said it was a ‘test.’”

I catch the bitterness in Dog’s laugh. “Test my ass. He never intended to pay us. He just wanted to see how desperate we’d get.”

It’s a lot to absorb. I know how men like Novikov operate—they never bet on loyalty, only on leverage. My thoughts drift back to my own family, to the way I was traded like currency. I shove that down and focus on the facts.

“Okay,” I say. “How did you get tangled up with him in the first place?”

For a beat, nobody answers. Bishop glances at Reaper.

Reaper’s jaw clenches, but finally, he answers, his voice rough.

“We needed a big job. Something to put us on the map after last winter. The MC was hurting—money, territory, all of it. Novikov offered us a deal. We took it. We thought we could handle him. Thought we could walk away before things got messy.”

I meet his gaze, searching for a lie, but all I see is the kind of regret that can eat a man alive.

“And now?” I ask quietly.

Reaper’s eyes are flinty. “Now we finish what we started.”

“He’s dangerous, and he has contacts,” Bishop says. “Basically runs the town.”

“And yet,” I murmur, half to myself, “he still needed me to pull off this wedding spectacle.”

“He needed your family to believe in the alliance,” Bishop says. “Needed your name to tie it all together.”

I swallow. “And now I’ve blown that to hell.”

“No,” Reaper says. “You did something better.” I raise an eyebrow. “You gave us a crack in his armor.”

I don’t say anything, but my pulse thuds louder in my ears. He’s right.

Novikov’s empire is a fortress—but no fortress is invincible when the people inside it start asking questions. And after last night, there’ll be plenty.

I think about Alexy, about my uncles and aunts. What excuse did Alexy give for losing me? Or did all of them know? All except for me, of course.

I bite the inside of my cheek, eyes fixed on the scuffed floorboard under Reaper’s boots. The room is quiet now, tension stretching between us like a trip wire waiting to snap. My family .

Even thinking the word feels foreign.

Because what the hell is family supposed to mean anymore?

Once, it meant Friday night dinners and my uncle lighting a cigarette by the balcony while my aunt scolded him. It meant Alexy giving me piggyback rides and swearing he’d protect me no matter what. It meant loyalty…or I thought it did.

Now, family means dodging bullets from people who swore they’d die for me.

The old habit is to lie, to dodge, to keep secrets so nobody can use them against me. I swallow. My throat feels tight, memories pressing hard at the back of my mind.

Bishop leans forward, elbows on his knees, ice-blue eyes boring into mine. “You said the wedding was a setup. That it was about power, not love. But what does Novikov really want from your side family, Katya? Is it just the name, or is there something else?”

I look away, fingers curling tight around the edge of the table, fighting the urge to close myself off again. Out the window, the sun’s climbing higher, painting the world gold—like maybe this morning could be different if I just let myself trust someone. It’s a dangerous thought.

Dog shifts on the couch, his tone gentler than I expect. “You’re asking us to go to war for you. That’s not a small thing. Trust goes both ways, princess. If we want to help each other, we need to know everything.”

I hesitate, fighting the old habit of silence. Back home, I learned early—every secret you share is a weapon someone else can use against you. But I’m not back home anymore. I have nowhere left to run.

“My family used to run half of Saint Petersburg,” I say finally, voice low.

“My father was a legend. After he was killed, the only thing we had left was our reputation—and me. Novikov wanted legitimacy. A real Riazanova bride to put his empire on the map, to shut up his enemies. If he had me, he’d have every old-school contact in Russia and the States eating out of his hand. ”

“And do you think Alexy is leading the charge now?”

I shake my head. “I’m not sure. My uncle…he raised me after my parents were killed. Bratva violence, but not against our own. At least, that’s what I was told.” I glance at Bishop. “He’s smart. Calculated. Ruthless when he needs to be. But I never thought he’d…” I trail off.

“Offer you up to Novikov as a sacrificial lamb?” Reaper asks.

“Can we talk about anything else please?” I say. “I told you everything about my family, but they can wait, Novikov won’t.”

I study their faces—Reaper, Dog, Bishop—all bristling with experience and pride, but I know the truth. For all their street knowledge, they don’t really know the man who nearly owned me.

“What else do you know about Novikov?” I ask, arms folded. I want to hear them admit it out loud.

Dog nods. “He likes power plays. Always has muscle close by, but doesn’t get his own hands dirty unless he has to.”

Bishop chimes in, voice clipped, “Old-school Bratva. Cold. Never lets anyone get leverage on him. If he wants something done, it gets done.”

I can’t help the faint, bitter smile that slips out. “So…you know nothing.”

Bishop leans back in his chair, one eyebrow raised, his voice slow and needling. “Ah, and you know your fiancé so well, princess? How many hours have you actually spent in his company?”

I roll my eyes, exasperated but not about to let him see me sweat. “Enough,” I say. “But I didn’t need hours in his lap to figure him out.”

He looks skeptical, but I go on. “When I walked into that house, I surveyed the whole place. You see wallpaper, I see a mapped security system. I counted the cameras. I memorized the way the staff moved, when the guards rotated. I figured out the house’s weaknesses before I even got locked in that room. ”

They go quiet. Reaper’s lips twitch, almost approving, but he says nothing. Dog’s watching me, curiosity flickering across his face. I let the silence speak for me for a moment before I finish, “How do you think I got out the other night? Luck?”

None of them answer. For the first time since I walked into this room, I feel all their eyes on me—not as a pawn, or a liability, but as someone they might actually need.

I yank a notepad from the edge of the table and find a pencil, not waiting for permission.

With brisk, sure strokes, I start to sketch a rough map of Novikov’s estate—big ugly house front and center, side driveway snaking in, outbuildings for cars and staff, trees that block all view from the road.

My memory is good. Years of survival do that.

“Guards at all four corners,” I say, tapping out dots as I speak.

“They rotate every two hours. Overlapping patrols along the north and east walls. At least, that’s the part I could see from my window.

I’m sure they follow the same pattern on the other side because I didn’t encounter anyone when I came down. ”

I flip to a new page and draw a heavy box in the middle of the main floor.

“The library,” I say, circling it twice.

“That’s where Novikov keeps his cash. That’s why he was so nervous when you guys came in unannounced—he thought you’d sniff it out.

” I glance at Reaper, remembering the way Novikov barely looked at me, all his attention locked on the three bikers.

“He was practically sweating when you walked in the first time.”

Bishop’s gaze flickers up to mine thoughtfully. “That makes sense. He was jumpier than usual.”

“He’s got a safe in there—big, reinforced, anchored deep into the wall.”

“You guessed all of that just by one look?” Dog asks incredulously.

I shrug. “It’s a safe bet. But it doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is how we’re going to get to it.”

“And how exactly?” Reaper says. “Like you said yourself, going in guns blazing is going to get us killed.”

“We’re going to figure that out,” I say.

“But what are we going to do about the safe?” Bishop asks. “No point going in if we can’t put a dent on that.”

“You’ll have to blow it open,” I say calmly.

They look at me in awe. “No way.”

“Way,” I say.

Reaper’s eyes narrow at me, skeptical, wary. “Blow it? With what exactly?”

I smirk, tilting my chin toward his ink-covered forearms, the dark military tattoos visible beneath his sleeves. “You know,” I say evenly. “I’ve seen those marks, soldier. Explosives, breaching—this isn’t your first rodeo. You know exactly what’s needed.”

Reaper holds my stare, his expression tightening, sizing me up again—this time as an equal. His jaw flexes slightly, then relaxes. “All right,” he says finally. “If we’re going through with this insanity.”

“Actually,” Dog says, “I don’t think it’s insane at all. She’s right about one thing. This is the best way to get back at Novikov and dent his ego, maybe even his reputation.”

“We don’t have enough manpower to completely subdue him,” Bishop says, dragging his finger along the edge of the map I just sketched, tapping at the corners. “But this might be something.”

I stay quiet, letting them work it out. For once, they’re listening.