He wasn’t joking.
Neither was Rocco.
He wasn’t playing a role.
Rocco Spinelli Junior was a man of power.
A criminal.
A mobster.
And if I know anything about the mob, it’s the truth my mother engrained into my brain—everyone associated with it becomes the victim.
I’m no victim.
“Johnny, can you give me a minute alone with my brother, please?” I ask, keeping my gaze firmly set on my brother’s face.
“I’ll be outside, boss,” Johnny tells my brother, before stepping out of my office. I walk around the desk and lean against it, crossing my arms against my chest as I stare at him trying to decide how to approach him.
“I’m not in the mood for your bullshit, Gina.”
“My bullshit? That’s rich, because the way I see it your bullshit has landed in my fucking lap. I’m a stockbroker, Rocco, I don’t need a bodyguard. You decided to live dangerously and now I have to walk around with a fucking guard? How is that fair to me?”
“Johnny stays with you until further notice,” he says, ignoring everything I said. “It’s not up for debate, Gina, and I will not sit here and waste my time explaining shit you already know.”
He’s about to walk past me when he pauses and reaches for the phone vibrating in his pocket.
“Spinelli,” he answers.
Rolling my eyes, I turn my attention to the door that opens and watch as two men storm into my office behind Johnny.
“Are you sure? Are there any survivors?”
I divert my eyes back to my brother and my mouth drops open.
When did we become the people who didn’t ask if anyone was hurt and automatically assumed they were dead?
He ends the call and shoves his phone back into his pocket before pointing a finger at Johnny.
“You stick to her like glue,” he demands, starting for the door with the two strangers dressed in black flocking to his sides. Rocco doesn’t say another word as he leaves my office, closing the door behind him.
“What the hell just happened?” I ask, turning my attention back to my new shadow and watch as he makes himself comfortable on the small sofa in my office. Flipping through the latest issues of Forbes magazine he finally lifts his eyes and with no remorse he answers my question.
“War.”
stryker
Long after the mission failed and my brothers died I sat and pondered how things might have played out if the outcome were different. Who would I save first? How would I choose one man, one life, one family over the other?
I got my answer today.
You don’t choose.
You give whatever you can and move on to the next one that needs you. You keep doing that until rescue comes and the lives you claimed to keep in this world are as safe as they’re going to be. Luckily help came quick in the form of Deuce and Cobra. They helped me free Linc, but we were all too afraid to move him, fearing we’d fuck something up and he’d wind up paralyzed. It was bad enough his legs were broken so bad they were crooked.
The paramedics came, and I jumped into the back of the ambulance with Linc, leaving Pipe in the capable hands of Cobra and Deuce. As the ambulance took off, I stared out the back windows and took in the destruction. After my episode I had been so wrapped up in the people surrounding me I hadn’t given much thought to the rest of our people, and it began to sink in that Oksana was probably not the only casualty.
It wasn’t until we arrived at the hospital and they wheeled Linc into emergency surgery to reconstruct his spine that I learned the status of the rest of my club. Jack had partial hearing loss, and they weren’t sure if it would be permanent or not. His wife—shit, they weren’t even married. Reina had gone into premature labor and they were trying to stop it. Blackie walked away nearly unscathed aside from some broken ribs and a bunch of cuts. Same for his girl. Poor Wolf had a heart attack trying to save the table we congregate around. That table is as precious to the club as the patch on our backs.
Two prospects died; one in the explosion and the other was shot outside the gates of the compound. Our clubhouse was gone, Pipe’s wife was gone, and our leader was disabled by the blast. Whoever was responsible for this had thoroughly planned their attack, cutting us off at the knees.
Staring around the emergency room, I spot Adrianna wearing a sling and guilt fills me, knowing I’m responsible for her broken wrist. I move toward her, working out what I’m going to say to her, how I’m going to explain I’m as fucked in the head as the day is long, when I feel a hand touch my shoulder.
Quickly, I spin around and out of pure reflex I push away the hand before I can see who it belongs to.
“Sir, we need to bring you into triage…” Her words fade as the blonde Gina was with the other night stares back at me in shock.
“I know you,” I reply, narrowing my eyes. “You’re the blonde from the other night.”
“My name is Celeste. I’m a nurse here and Gina’s my cousin,” she clarifies. Composing herself, she shoves her tablet under her arm and nudges me toward the examining room. I follow her gaze to the room behind me and then cross my arms as I stand in place.
“I’m fine,” I tell her.
“You were in an explosion,” she argues.
“Thanks for the concern but it ain’t my first taste of terror, sweetheart,” I assure her as my gaze travels to the automatic doors behind her. Cobra steps inside the emergency room, his clothes stained with blood and he’s holding onto a pair of red shoes.
Celeste gasps behind me as she locks eyes with Cobra, but neither of us have a chance to say anything to him because the doors open again and Pipe walks in alongside the men wheeling a stretcher that carries a black body bag.
The paramedics pause, turning their attention to Pipe, whose eyes are glued to the bag.
“Sir, you can’t come with us.”
“The fuck I can’t,” Pipe growls, lifting his bloodshot eyes to the man denying him any more time with the woman he loves.
“We’re sorry for your loss, sir, but you’re not allowed in the morgue,” the officer, escorting the paramedics and the body, informs him.
“Pipe, you have to let her go, man,” Deuce says, laying a hand on his shoulder.
The emergency room seems to become eerily quiet as we all watch Pipe struggle. His grip loosens on the rail of the stretcher and he reluctantly takes a step backward. Quickly he changes his mind and makes a move to reach for the stretcher again, but the paramedics are faster, leaving him alone with his broken heart and shattered soul. He walks over to Cobra and takes the shoes from him, staring at them in his hands before he cradles them like one might hold an infant in their arms and walks out of the hospital.
In the aftermath of war the truth becomes clear—the Brooklyn chapter is done.
This is the fall of the Satan’s Knights.
-Fourteen-
Gina
It was all over the news.
The Satan’s Knights MC was attacked. A man strapped with explosives killed the men at the gates and disrupted the wedding of the president of the club, but before anyone could ask questions, the detonator on the bomb went off, blowing the building to pieces and fatally injuring innocent people.
If this was the eighties, the media would’ve been paid a pretty penny to keep their mouths shut. The cops would’ve received a fat check too. At least that’s how it worked for Uncle Vic and wannabes like my dad. They didn’t need detectives sniffing around their business. They didn’t want the limelight. They were their own judge and jury and when they were wrongfully played, their enemies were brought to justice at their own hand.
A hand.
A gun.
A shovel.
Whatever.
Times have changed. We live in an ugly world, a world plagued by terror and when a bomb goes off, the city instantly goes on high alert. The mayor holds a press conference, briefing the citizens assuring them everyone is safe and
then proceeds to tell us to go about our day like we normally would.
Sure, I’ll go about my day like nothing happened.
Like I haven’t called Stryker six times and every time the call fails.
Like my cousin didn’t call me in hysterics because her ER is full of people who were supposed to be celebrating a wedding.
Like I’m not staring outside my window at the black car parked in front of my house, wondering if my new bodyguard was appointed to me because my brother may have had a hand in this nightmare.
Staring at the muted television and the devastation that rocked the clubhouse, I climb back into bed. The same footage is replayed over and over, the bodies being carried out of the compound, the flames and the rescue workers pulling the survivors from the rubble. I’m just about to turn the television off when someone pounds on my door.
I slip out of bed, figuring it’s my brother or my new shadow. I throw my robe on and start for the door. Flicking the lights on, I pull it open and a gasp escapes me when my eyes meet Stryker’s. He’s covered head to toe in soot. His clothes are filthy and stained with dried blood which I’m not sure is his or not.
“You know what happens when you walk away from a bomb?” he asks with a strained voice.
I shake my head because words fail me when he takes two steps closer and reaches out to touch my cheek.
“You search for a sign you’re alive,” he says simply, bringing his other hand to my cheek and cups my face. Blowing out a breath, he leans his forehead against mine and his eyes search mine.
“Found my sign, pretty girl,” he whispers as I wrap my arms around him and squeeze him tight.
I’m not sure how long we stay wrapped up in one another’s embrace and it doesn’t matter either. I’m searching for signs of life just as much as he is without realizing how badly I needed to see him, touch him and just have him in front of me. It’s that unexplainable connection between us that both confuses me and comforts me all the same. A connection you never knew you craved, one you’re desperate for since you’ve had a taste, a connection that leaves you stripped and vulnerable.
He pulls back slowly and I instinctively reach for his hands, pulling him into my apartment. There are so many things I want to say, questions I want to ask but I can’t find my voice.
“Did I wake you?”
I shake my head.
“I was up,” I say, cocking my head to the side. “Tell me what I can do to help.”
“You already helped me more than anyone ever has,” he replies, lifting one of my hands to his lips.
“I didn’t do anything but open the door,” I whisper.
“You gave me your eyes,” he replies. “Since I walked away from that fucking disaster…those eyes are all I’ve wanted to see.”
“I want to do more than give you my eyes, Stryker. I want to give you peace,” I tell him, pulling back my hand from his to lift it to his cheek. “I’m just not sure how to do that but I want to try.”
He closes his eyes at my touch and reaches for me, pulling me against him. The black soot covering his clothing bleeds onto mine as our bodies become flush with one another and it’s the first thing he notices when he pulls back.
“I’m a mess.”
“Then let’s start by cleaning you up,” I say. He looks at me for a moment but doesn’t protest, allowing me to drag him into the bathroom. I grab some towels from the linen closet and place them on the counter before turning to the shower and adjusting the temperature of the water.
Stryker takes a seat on the covered toilet bowl and begins to untie the laces on his Timberland boots before kicking them off and gently setting them off to the side. He groans as he reaches behind him to pull the hem of his shirt off his head. Taking his hand, I raise them over his head before carefully inching the shirt over it.
Dropping one hand to his side, he winces as he reaches out for the robe belted at my waist and gives it a tug. We let our eyes speak the words that won’t leave our mouths as we continue to undress until every stitch of clothing is pooled at our feet and we’re left staring into one another’s eyes, into each other’s soul.
He walks backward into the shower, taking me with him, but drops my hands once we’re both in the stall and lets the water stream over him. I watch in amazement as the blood and soot mixes with the water, the evidence of the torturous day disappears from his body and swirls down the drain.
“Five facts,” I say, finally finding my voice as he swipes a hand over his face and fixes his gaze onto me.
“I was worried about you. I don’t know what that means. Maybe simply it means that I’m human or maybe that you’re more than just a stranger in a bar who kicked my ass in a game of pool. You and I were meant to meet that night, and we were meant to be more than one night if for no other reason than for me to learn how fragile life is. I’m glad you’re okay, Stryker. And I’m really glad you came here. I’m glad you came to me.”
I close my mouth, sucking in my lower lip between my teeth as he digests the facts I laid out. He’s got this way about him, this way of stripping me of the armor I’ve built around me. It’s all in the way he looks at me that leaves me a vulnerable girl, staring at a man, asking him silently to take a chance on her. It won’t be easy for him, his armor is thicker than mine, for he isn’t simply a man but a broken man who every day struggles to live.
Only he’s not living.
And somehow, someway, he’s made me want to be the woman who makes him live again.
Stepping out from under the showerhead, he closes the distance between us and threads his scraped fingers through my hair, angling my head back so I’m looking up at him.
“I don’t know what to say,” he admits honestly. “I’m not good with words.”
“You don’t have to say anything…they are just my facts. You can give me yours when you find them.”
“I don’t have five,” he pauses, bending his head to touch my lips with his gently, fleetingly. “I’ve got only one,” he whispers, placing another kiss against my lips. This time his mouth lingers and I reach on tip toe hoping for more but he pulls back and diverts his eyes from my lips to my eyes.
“I sat in that hospital for twelve hours waiting for Linc to make it out of surgery and all I could think about was how much I wanted to hear your voice, see your face…just you, pretty girl. I just wanted you. Don’t know what it means either other than I’m a godawful man because being here with you is so fucking selfish.”
Dragging his fingers out of my hair, he shakes his head.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, taking a step back. “Just remember I’m sorry.”
Silently, he grabs the bath wash from the shower caddy and squirts some into the palm of his hand before passing it to me. I’m about to lather myself up when I feel his hands on me. He soaps up my arms, traveling to my shoulders before sliding over my breasts, down to my navel before he spins me around and washes my back.
It’s not sexual.
Every stroke of his hand he reassures himself he is alive.
It’s an act of comfort.
At least that’s how I perceive it.
Since I find comfort in the fact that it’s me reminding him he survived.
stryker
I let her take me to bed.
And when she asked me to spend the night and not sneak out before the sun came up—well, I didn’t argue. Probably because I didn’t have any fight left inside of me. Giving into my needs and hers, I crawled into her bed, dragged her naked body against mine and wrapped my arms tightly around her.
It was a bad move, and I knew I was risking her well-being. I was on the heels of another traumatic experience and still reliving the ones I experienced overseas. My PTSD was as deadly and unpredictable as any explosive destroying anything and everything around, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave.
I reasoned with myself, promising once she was asleep I’d move into the chair or I’d crash on the couch in the living room. As exhausted a
s I was, both physically and mentally, I couldn’t be sure I wouldn’t have another episode, and if I did I needed to be far away from Gina. The living room was a much safer bet.
But she had a different plan.
I was learning once Gina started talking it was damn near impossible to shut her up.
“Did you know the man?”
“Not personally,” I murmur against her shoulder.
“The news declared it a gang war and not terrorism.”
My lips pause on her shoulder and I snarl at both the word gang and the word terrorism. The club isn’t a fucking street gang and the idea of it being associated with the speculation of terrorism turns my stomach.
“My father was a drug dealer,” she blurts. “I don’t know what you would call him, if he was in a gang or not. I’ve always labeled him one of the bad guys even though my mother swore he had a good heart. But I know enough to know there is a thin line between good and bad and that when one makes a move on another there are consequences. After my dad was deported he tried making moves in Italy like he had been making over here and his consequences turned deadly.”
I kiss her shoulder again, trying to decide how to respond.
“I’m sorry, pretty girl,” I say softly.
“No need for apologies. You didn’t kill him, and truthfully neither did the men who shot him. He killed himself when he overstepped his bounds. I guess the reason I’m telling you is that I have an idea what happens now. I just hope you stay safe.”
I smile against her skin.
“Aww, pretty girl, are you growing attached to me?”
“Maybe.”
“Fact,” I laugh and for the first time I don’t feel guilty for showing a sign of life. “Don’t worry about me, I’ve got more lives than a fucking cat,” I tell her, squeezing her in my arms.
The Nomad Series-Collectors Edition Page 12
