Page 4 of Veiled Amor

Until now.

Refusing to be a pawn any longer.

“Screw that,” she declared aloud. “I’m my own woman with my own choices. And I choose my life, my way.”

Unknown to what that life was yet.

She drove.

And she laughed while the distance between her old life grew bigger.

It wouldn’t be long before her father realized she wasn’t in the house.

Oh, boy. He’d be fit enough to piss fury.

She’d seen his temper taken out on others and had no desire to face it head-on.

Hoping to be far enough away he couldn’t ever find her.

Lucia was free.

And once a caged bird was free, there was no putting it back.

She’d rather be dead.

Yeah, she was dramatic.

She’d earned it.

She was fucking free at last.

Switching on the radio, she sang along loudly, and went into the unknown.

Happily.

TWO

“Sandwiches for the insomniac.” - Giancarlo Mercado

It was known by many that one-percenter bikers lived an enriched life.

They wanted for nothing because there were no laws to stop them from getting anything desired.

Only, there was one thing unavailable to him for days now.

Capone wasn’t getting much sleep, at all.

He was ready to sell his immortal soul to The Holy Mother Magdalene to get some shut-eye. Existing on power naps that made Capone feel like sluggish shit. The Butcher wanted to give him sleeping pills, fuck that. His Abuela relied on that shit until the day she died, and Capone didn’t want to be doped up to catch some decent sleep.

Having faced a greasy gut feeling all week, he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. It made the Sergeant at Arms officer restless until he paced.

Things were good at the MC lately. Nothing much was happening—bad news-wise, so he didn’t know why his instincts were telling him to get on his bike and ride.

The sandwich shop he was investing in was coming together. They had the interior ripped out, a new chrome counter fitted, and an open kitchen so customers could watch their food being made.The staff were ready for opening any day now.

He liked sandwiches and money. It seemed like a good investment and not something that would need his attention very often. The last thing Capone needed was to strap on an apron and slop lettuce to the public, but he sure as hell would profit from that lettuce slopping.

Rubbing the center of his chest where his family ink sat deep in his skin, he rolled up to his knees on the cemented garage floor, tossing aside the wrench. He reached for another tool and distracted his dread-filled gut with hard labor. And used the remote to turn up the music to deafening levels.