Cruz : A Dark MC Romance (A Dark and Dirty Sinners’ MC Book 5)

by Serena Akeroyd

  Sin had contacted Declan O'Donnelly after the explosion to tell them we’d be late for the run—we were even later than we’d guesstimated—but my Enforcer had never told me what the mobster had to say about the all-out attack.

  Of course, I'd been with Pop in the hospital, so even if Sin had told me, I probably wouldn’t have heard.

  Brain whirring with possibilities, I made it onto the side road that would lead to the clubhouse and Rachel's compound.

  It was sheer good fortune that I saw the truck at all, but when the driver saw me, he gunned the engine, accelerating at a breakneck speed down the narrow lane.

  My instinct was to tail him, to chase after his ass, because his presence and his reaction tripped all my triggers, but the thought that he might have attacked Rachel had me driving like a lunatic to her place. I didn't even take the guy’s plates, which pissed me off because I wasn’t usually that much of an idiot, but equally, panic over Rachel's safety took priority.

  When I made it to her property, however, there were no cars there. Only the truck I knew Giulia was using, and which Rachel wouldn't be seen dead in.

  My tires skidded as I hauled ass off the back of my bike, and went running up the veranda steps toward the front door.

  Someone yanked it open though, and I was relieved to find that it was Giulia, who, like a bandaged and deranged Polly Pocket, was glowering at me.

  "Where's the fire?"

  I grimaced. "Really?"

  She shrugged then bit back a pained sigh as her injury reminded her that shrugging wasn’t wise at the moment. "Felt appropriate. What's going on?" she grumbled, her voice raspy with discomfort.

  "Has a truck been to the house?"

  She scowled, shaking her head as she murmured, "No, we’ve had no deliveries."

  "Shit!" I didn't wait for her to reply, just ran back to the borrowed bike, then headed to the clubhouse.

  I didn't bother trying to find the vehicle because it could have hit the Interstate by now, and, if need be, when Lodestar was awake, she might be able to get a picture of the plates from any of the still-functioning security cameras—at least I hoped that was possible. Instead, I went to the gates that had just been installed as the last ones had been destroyed in the blast, my intent to head for the construction site, only, when I made it there, I saw it.

  A package.

  Fuck, had the Italians thought they could leave another bomb? Finish us off?

  Fuckers.

  But as fear hit me, the realization that the package was far too small to contain any kind of explosive sank in. I knew there were all kinds of tech on the market, stuff that was revolutionary, but this was paper-thin.

  As I stared at the package, I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to figure out what the best thing to do was.

  Was it likely that we'd be hit again when the evidence of the devastation of the previous attack was clear from the roadside? What else was there to destroy outside of a bunch of hired construction equipment?

  We knew Pop’s bike had been rigged, and that was how the bomb had infiltrated our compound, but this was a different MO.

  And that truck, the way they'd been driving, spoke of panic.

  They didn't want to be caught in the act.

  Maybe I was a dumb fuck, or maybe I was just desperate for answers that nobody could give me yet, but I left my bike, headed over to the package, and crouched down in front of it.

  I'd never handled explosives, but I knew they had to have a scent. Cruz would recognize them—should I call him in?

  Or would that be bringing him into the line of fire?

  If I opened the package, I was the only one who would be hurt. The brothers who were working on the clubhouse were too far away to be injured in a blast from a bomb this size.

  I wanted no more collateral damage.

  I needed answers.

  So I reached for it.

  Sucking in a breath that I held for far too long, I ripped open the package with a penknife Pop had given me a long time ago, and as I held the reassuring weight in my grip, I hoped this wasn't going to be the last breath I took.

  The relief was sweet when I registered the scent of paper. Old paper. It was like when you walked into a used bookstore. There was that musty smell as each tome collected a million scents from the previous owners’ homes.

  Frowning, I twisted so that I was leaning against the bars of the gates, then settled my ass onto the gravel.

  As I pulled out the sheets of paper, I flipped through them, trying to piece together what it was I was actually seeing.

  The documents were sheathed in a brown card folder stamped with the shield of the NYPD 42nd precinct. But it wasn't somebody's record, it looked like a case file—from the beginning of an investigation to the guilty conviction the investigating officers had successfully won.

  "Jason Banks," I read, repeating the name under my breath, trying to think how I knew it and where I might know it from.

  But as I dug through my memory, the only thing that registered was Mom’s maiden name before she’d married.

  That had been Banks.

  The thought was enough to trigger a wave of memories, only Banks wasn’t exactly a rare name.

  God, it had to be over two, maybe even three, decades since I'd heard it, though, and the age of the file was clue enough.

  Banks had been in jail for a very long time, but why would somebody send this to the clubhouse?

  There was no name on the package, so I had no idea who it was addressed to, but as I started reading about the case the 42nd precinct had built against Banks, I saw my mother's name and it confirmed what I’d already suspected.

  Jason Banks was my uncle.

  Christ, how had I forgotten that?

  Scowling as I read, confused as to why this was important enough to deliver to the MC, it was only as I plowed through the different pieces of evidence the police had used against Banks that I registered the truth.

  When he was supposed to be killing a drug dealer, it was on my birth date. There were pictures of Jason with us in the hospital. I even remembered when Mom had showed them to me. It was the only time she ever mentioned his name.

  Racking my brain, I tried to process everything that I was reading, tried to remember everything she'd said, but there were few stories about the man himself, only the one about how miserable labor had been for her, miserable enough that they'd only had one kid. If I remembered rightly, she'd bled out, had almost died, and the birth had taken over thirty-six hours. Dad had been on a run, so Jason had been the guy who'd taken her to the hospital, and had stayed with her until Dad got back. Even then, he hadn't left.

  He'd been with us the entire time.

  I could remember exactly what Mom had called him—her rock.

  So, while he’d been at the hospital with her, he was supposed to have headed out to murder someone, a crime with so much evidence against him, the jury had only deliberated their verdict for a half-hour…

  Impossible.

  A stitch-up.

  "What the fuck am I reading?" I asked myself, rubbing my forehead where a headache was brewing.

  And why was I reading it now? What did this have to do with anything?

  Sure, it was unfair, and I was pissed off for my uncle’s sake, especially as I hadn't had a chance to know him because of this fucked-up case, but why now? Why had this been dropped off at my door now?

  And how the fuck had the cops managed to bang this on Jason when he had to have an alibi?

  Understanding how shellshocked victims felt for the first time in my life, I reached for my phone, only as I stared down at the screen, I wasn't sure who to call.

  Somebody had wanted to bring this to my attention, but why?

  On the ride home, I'd been thinking about calling Declan O'Donnelly, and even though it was early days, I knew that if he had anybody in the 42nd precinct, maybe I would get some answers to questions this file brought to life.

  But before I could hit di
al, I got to my feet in a cloud of dust from the gravel beneath me, shoved the papers back into the file, and climbed onto my bike.

  Riding back to Rachel's place, it was only then, once the gates were closed behind me, that I knew I could make the call. I wouldn't have put it past the Feds to have planted bugs during their investigation, so this call couldn’t take place on clubhouse land. When Lodestar and Maverick were back on their feet, I'd have them scan the entire goddamn grounds, but until then, it was best to avoid MC territory.

  Goddamn pigs.

  Heading to the veranda, I sat down on one of the sofas I'd been sleeping on since Rachel had brought me here, then, and only then, did I pick up my phone again after I'd spread out the sheets of paper on the glass coffee table in front of me.

  "Rex?" the Irish mobster asked when he answered the call.

  "Hey Declan, I know you usually deal with Sin, but I needed to get in touch."

  "Was there a problem with the run?" he asked warily.

  "No, nothing like that. Ten of my men have just set off. They should be heading into one of your warehouses soon if traffic isn’t shit."

  "Traffic is always shit," Declan joked, but I recognized something in his tone that hadn't been there the last time I'd spoken to him.

  That had been back in the early days, after Mary Catherine, a nice girl who was a daughter of a Five Point lieutenant, had been branded by Digger, one of my men. Though that was a while back, voices didn't change that much.

  He sounded, ridiculous though it might seem, gruffer. Angry. Pissed at the world.

  I got it.

  If anyone did, it was me.

  "Sin told you about the blast, didn't he?"

  Declan grunted. "Yeah, he did. Disgraceful."

  "Understatement."

  "Agreed.”

  “Thanks for giving us time to get ourselves together.”

  “No worries. You can’t get blood out of a stone.”

  “Still, it’s appreciated. We owe you.”

  He clicked his tongue. “How's your father doing? Sin mentioned that he was badly injured."

  "We're hoping he'll pull through. He's a strong bastard, but that isn't why I'm calling you.

  "Well, maybe it is. The situation with our mutual friends... Any chatter on the streets if it was them behind the blast?"

  "Why aren’t you asking your own people?"

  "Because they’re injured."

  "Jesus." He heaved a sigh. "Lodestar as well?"

  My brows rose at that. "You know of her?"

  “We’ve known of her for a while. She's been of interest to the family, pretty much like yourself. Mutual friends."

  "I know how that works," I grunted. "I heard about Benito. Glad the fucker’s croaked."

  "All over the news, couldn't have missed it."

  "Definitely sends a message. Any idea what he was killed over?”

  "I'm going to assume this is a secure line."

  "It's as secure as this shit gets."

  "Good. They went after my son."

  My eyes bugged out at that. "You have a son?"

  "You really don't keep tabs on us, do you?" Declan groused. "Why is that?"

  "Because you’re friends, tied to us through blood. Your father is insane, everybody knows he's loyal to those who’re loyal to him. We’re loyal, we roll no other way, so I have no need to monitor people who are friends. Not with as many enemies as we have."

  "Good to know."

  "I guess it is. But if I find out that you’re keeping tabs on us, I wouldn’t appreciate the lack of trust, understand?"

  "As far as I'm aware, the only point of contact the Five Points has with you is me. And while I was injured, Brennan. There’s been no need to monitor you. The Rabid Wolves are another matter entirely. I don’t trust those fuckers."

  I grunted. “Me either.” I still had no idea why, of all the MCs north of the border, they’d picked those cunts to work with.

  Still, that was their business, and I had bigger fish to fry. "Why were the Italians after your son?"

  "We only found out recently, but he witnessed a murder."

  As a stack of dominoes started to cascade into a free fall in my mind, I rumbled, "When?"

  Declan released a breath. "When he was in West Orange and his mother was working on a piece of art for Donovan Lancaster."

  Rage filled me, until I felt like my blood vessels were hyper-pressurized with it. If this was what a heart attack felt like— "And you didn't think to tell us?" I ground out. “Didn’t think to ask who the victim might have been?”

  "It's not as easy as that. The Italians started a fucking gunfight in the middle of the Coney Island boardwalk. They pinned my kid and woman in place, had a man on the inside working for them...” A snarl escaped him, and suddenly, the change in him made sense. His fury vibrated down the line. “In the aftermath, as I'm sure you can imagine, it's been crazy and you fuckers were the last thing on my mind."

  Because I understood, my temper died down some as I asked, "Were you ever going to tell me?"

  "Of course. I want answers. But my priorities weren't a cold case. I had active issues to be dealing with, and you said it yourself, my father is insane. He didn't appreciate his grandson and new daughter-in-law being targeted by our enemies."

  Because I heard the truth in his words, that was the only thing that calmed me down. But my hand still tightened about my cell phone to the point of pain, to the point where I felt as if the screen would crack under the force of my grip.

  "It's not like the Italians to target kids," I pointed out, knowing I sounded shaken, and not because I was distressed, but because I was seething.

  "The murder Seamus witnessed, Fieri was directly involved in it."

  He might as well have shoved me to the ground, then grabbed a Mac truck and rolled over my head—that was how I felt. Like everything inside my skull had turned into soup.

  "Who was it? Do you know?" I rasped.

  “It was a woman, but Seamus doesn’t know who. I know West Orange isn’t the kind of place where murder happens every day.”

  Fieri had killed my mother.

  And a kid had witnessed it.

  I knew Declan was waiting on answers, but I didn’t have any to give him right now. My brain was a blur, rapidly firing but somehow, not on what mattered most, and I grated out, "Have you heard of Jason Banks?"

  His surprise was clear. "No. At least, I don't think I have. I can look into the name though..."

  Who would blame him for being shocked? My uncle wasn’t exactly on-topic. ”If you don't mind?"

  "Sure."

  "Along the way, have you run into an FBI agent called Caroline Dunbar?"

  A sharp intake of breath was his initial response. "What makes you ask about her?"

  "I've been trying to get in touch with her."

  "Why?"

  I heard the wariness in his voice, but shoved it aside. We rarely admitted to trying to get into contact with the Feds, but this was different.

  "One of my men is her son. She planted him here with us years ago, but when he became a Prospect, he told us the truth from the beginning."

  "So he was playing both sides?"

  "He plays her. He can be trusted. He’s one of my best men—the stuff he does for us would get him locked up. I'm not worried about him."

  "To be honest, this explains a lot. We were keeping an eye on her, and a biker visited her."

  "That was probably him."

  "I’ve sent you a photo."

  Grunting, I looked at my messages, saw my man riding down a residential street, and confirmed, "Yeah, that’s Cruz."

  "Jesus, it would have been helpful if you’d informed us you had an in with the Feds."

  Despite myself, I snorted because everyone knew the Feds were in the Westies’ pocket. "Like you tell us about your ins? Yeah, I'm sure. We’re friends, Declan, family, even, but let's not be ridiculous now." He wasn’t to know that Caroline Dunbar wasn’t exactly an ‘in,’ wa
s he? She was more of a fucking albatross around our neck…

  My retort had him hissing under his breath. "Why do you want to talk to her?"

  "That day, when Cruz went to visit her, she asked about a murder that took place in West Orange."

  "Christ. That fits. Look, Dunbar is in the hospital right now. We only just let her go."

  My brows rose. "She's alive though?"

  "She might wish she wasn't, but yeah, she's breathing, but a lot bruised."

  "Torture?"

  "You bet your ass," he said, his tone oozing satisfaction that I could empathize with. "She's the reason the Italians knew about my kid. They targeted him because of her."

  It fit. All of this fucking fit. Not only had Fieri tried to have the kid killed to cover up his involvement in my ma’s death, he’d fucked with my father’s hog and sent him into the compound like a Trojan fucking horse.

  Even though my blood sang with the confirmation, I whistled under my breath. "She's lucky to be alive."

  "You're telling me. It wasn't easy," he admitted carefully. "But for the greater good, she'll make it worth our while along the way."

  "How?"

  "Do you know who the woman is? The murder victim?"

  Because I knew this conversation required some give and take, I told him, "I do." I cleared my throat, trying to reduce some of the rasp. "It’s my mother."

  "Shit."

  "That about sums it up."

  A heavy sigh sounded down the line. “I’m sorry, Rex.”

  “Yeah, me fucking too. But at least I have some answers now. That’s something.”

  He grunted. "Look, what I'm about to tell you might sound insane, but Dunbar confirmed it.

  "We don't know how big, but there’s a number of law enforcement officers who are dirty."

  "No shit, Sherlock."

  Declan snorted. "Yeah, the average dirty pig is nothing in comparison to this. These are a unit. They're all over the US, but they work together, have the same end goals in mind. What those goals are, we don't know yet, and maybe we never will. What we do know is how they operate."

  I thought about what Dad had told me, my uncle’s file, thought about how someone had delivered it to me, then chased off like a bat out of hell, and pieced shit together fast.