Ride To Vengeance (A Rough Riders MC Novel #3): A Rough Riders MC Novel #3 (The Rough Riders MC Series)

by Selene Chardou

  “Okay,” she replied and smiled before the doctor turned away.

  Ronan helped her get dressed as soon as Dr. Rivers left the room. “What’s going on with you? Babe, we’re Catholic. Even . . . if there was a slim chance the kids are his, I wouldn’t love them any less. They would still be our children because you and me raised them together. Paternity doesn’t decide parentage—you know that.”

  She looked away before her amber eyes met his again. “God, I wish I could pop a Xanax in situations like this. Hell, I’d settle for a damn Valium.”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “I can’t go through a pregnancy knowing I’m the expectant mother of that monster’s kids, Ronan.” She stifled a sob. “I remember watching The Fly with Geena Davis and Jeff Goldblum. I was at a friend’s house and I couldn’t have been older than fifteen. It was right before my mom died and I thought I was so big and bad for watching a Rated R film. When she wanted to have an abortion because she wasn’t sure whether the child would be . . . human or not . . . I hated her. I judged her because it was just an innocent baby—”

  “Honey, what does all of this have to do with our situation?” he wondered as he lifted her chin up with his right forefinger until their eyes met each other’s.

  Naomi began to cry, tears pouring down her cheeks as she tried to speak through her choked sobs. “I don’t want his little monsters growing inside of me, baby. What he did to me . . . I would rather kill them than bring them into this world. What if . . . what if nature is greater than nurture and they’re sociopaths like him?”

  Ronan allowed her to collapse against his chest and did his breathing exercises.

  He knew what it was like to grow up with someone suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder—hell Cillian was a first-class scenario of the disease. However, when that someone suffering happened to be your fiancée and the woman you intended to marry, theory and reality were worlds apart.

  Ronan had taken her to every specialist from Los Angeles to Las Vegas to finally Palo Alto where Stanford Medical Center was located. He’d paid to have every doctor examine her through this pregnancy just so she wouldn’t have an abortion.

  Hell, he wasn’t a hard-core Catholic—he’d murdered people for God’s sake—but he was determined for her to have these children. They were twins and all the doctors confirmed she was somewhere between fourteen and fifteen weeks. It was the fourteenth week she was abducted by Fernando and held by that monster for almost seven days.

  He’d raped, beaten, traumatized and sliced her up. Her back was a smorgasbord of scars made with the talented hand using a scalpel. None were deep enough to cause keloid scars but they were crisscrossed against her back like she’d been beaten with a bamboo stick.

  Loire had begun a tattoo—a Phoenix rising from the ashes—to signify the strength she’d shown by going through her ordeal. It was slow going but almost done and it covered up her scars beautifully. Not that he had any problem living with what Fernando had subjected her to but she didn’t want any physical evidence of his abuse.

  Over and over again, it was her worries and insecurities that came through like a beacon and although he had the patience of Job, he worried about her. In fact, he’d lost weight, quit drinking or doing drugs because he was worried about Naomi and how she was handling her recovery. He couldn’t be wasted or drunk just in case she needed him.

  If what she’d been through was awful, he was at least grateful all of Hardy’s scars from the shooting he’d endured, which had led to the successful rescue of Naomi—were all superficial. The president of the Vegas chapter was back on his feet, running the club like nothing happened. Meanwhile he also had a pregnant fiancée to contend with too though Talia was the complete opposite of Naomi and refused to slow down. She had a hectic schedule as a rock star and continued it, growing baby bump and all.

  Unfortunately, Naomi and Talia had done nothing but butt heads since she returned. Ronan had no choice but to purchase a beautiful, four thousand square foot home for the two of them. Located in one of the exclusive, gated Aliante neighborhoods in North Las Vegas not too far from their clubhouse, it boasted five bedrooms, four and a half baths, and a backyard big enough for a custom-made barbeque and a pool/Jacuzzi combination.

  Ronan preferred them having their own place and living just down the street from the clubhouse. It was a great setup and his only worry continued to be his fiancée, and whether she would ever snap out of it and realize he wanted these children. He also wanted her to desperately want them too.

  After his father had told him the story of what had gone down with his mother, he couldn’t imagine Naomi having an abortion. If they turned out to be his children, she would hate herself even more but if they were Fernando’s, it would only continue to remind her what she’d run away from and how far she still had to go to make a full recovery.

  “Fine . . . I’ll wait until we can do an Amniocentesis.” She grabbed his hand as they walked toward their truck. “It’s a couple weeks away. They can determine whether the babies I’m carrying are yours or Fernando’s.” She turned toward him again. “I know you’re just going to talk me out of it regardless who they belong to but I need this for my own peace of mind.”

  Ronan disengaged the security and unlocked the doors to the silver Ford Explorer he’d recently purchased and sighed out loud. “Fine. I’ll go through this whole charade with you but I’m not promising anything—regardless whose kids they turn out to be.”

  Naomi smiled brightly. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “Everything.”

  He smirked in return. “You’re welcome.”

  God, how could he stay mad at this woman? What should have caused a fissure in their relationship had actually brought them closer together. He was more in love with her now than ever. He was also more dangerous too because anyone who threatened her life would certainly receive a bullet to the head before he would ever willingly let her go into harm’s way again.

  After he dropped of Naomi at home, he switched vehicles and used his Harley CVO Street Glide to drive to the compound. There was a big time meeting at the chapel taking place and all the members were due to be there.

  Cricket had successfully made his switch from Birch Tree to Vegas. Burns had replaced him up north and now the Saints bought their meth from the White Knights again while the Kitaev Bratva provided shipments of heroin. They weren’t selling coke at the moment—at least not large quantities. Eventually, they would have a stable connection through a large faction of rebels Erik Kitaev worked with personally in Colombia but until then, they were out of the cocaine business indefinitely.

  There were bigger fish to fry and a deal on the table that would no doubt cause strife and anger but one that need to be addressed desperately.

  Human Trafficking.

  It was the next big thing and according to the Feds, an area they definitely wanted the Saints to have a piece of the action. They were slowly building a RICO case against Dimitri Koslakov and several other Mafias, including one gang of Chinese Triads and another organized gang of Albanians—Aztecas Infierno were old news and they needed something else to keep their supervisors interested and the money flowing.

  Ronan was against it. He knew he would be fighting a losing battle since Cricket, Hardy, Chemist and damn near every member of the Vegas charter were for it. There was minimal upkeep except for the one whorehouse where the girls were kept. In that case, the charter had bought a large ranch from Raymond Jackson where he used to keep his legitimate ladies of the night. They were all clean and ready to be put to use.

  Layla was tired of being the manager of Saints and Slappers; Chantal had actually taken over when she wasn’t studying at UNLV for her degree in Criminal Justice.

  She was ready to run the test trial case. The first shipment of women they would receive—all of them from Eastern Europe—were already on a cargo ship coming from Rotterdam, the Netherlands directly to Long Beach, Cal
ifornia. From there, the women would be transferred to a transport truck that was owned by Angelo Abandonato.

  Erik had been vague but most would be Russian, Belarusian and Ukrainian. Layla’s mother had been of Belarusian origin and thus she spoke not only Belarusian but Russian too.

  It was the perfect set up but since when did anything go as planned in their line of work?

  Ronan could come up with a million reasons why he was against the idea of selling women against their will but the two biggest issues always came back to the women he was closest to in his life.

  One man—an ex-lover—had only traumatized Naomi, and yet she was still a mess. After three months of therapy, she was far from okay and it would take years for her to heal. Her ordeal had lasted less than a week.

  How would it be for one of these women they brought from a foreign country to undergo the kind of treatment Naomi had experienced for a minimum of a year with countless men they knew?

  Ronan also had a mother and a sister. How could he justify any woman being treated like shit knowing the very same situation could have been visited upon them had they grown up under different circumstances in a poverty-stricken country?

  He didn’t consider himself a saint and God knows he’d done his share of shit in the past. He’d used women, kicked them out, made them suck him off and tossed them to the side like garbage. However after what Naomi had been through, his whole perspective changed.

  He didn’t judge his brothers for the way they treated women but that didn’t stop him from turning over a new leaf and being a better human being.

  Besides, there were countless ways to make money and to sell another human being seemed to be one of the lowest of the low—whether or not the Feds had to make a fucking RICO case against a bunch of criminals or not.

  Ronan was surprised he wasn’t late for the meeting but he made it just in time. It surprised him that besides the usual members, Max, Mags, Angelo and Raymond were also in attendance along with Erik Kitaev.

  Hardy indicated for him to sit down. His arm was in a sling to ensure his injured shoulder healed correctly. The bullet he’d taken to the lung had affected him less than his shoulder due to the best medical care. His lung capacity was almost close to normal since the incident had forced him to quit smoking. That, along with physical therapy, had him at the prime shape of his life.

  Ronan sat down and immediately shook out a cigarette from his pack of Camels before he lit it.

  “How’s Nomes?” Hardy wondered, opening the meeting with an unusual question.

  “Layla’s with her. She’s . . . well, she’s suffering from PTSD and still fucked up by what Fernando did to her.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I just don’t understand why they can’t get anything to stick against this motherfucker. I mean, he’s still chillin’ in Ensenada and Naomi is always in complete and utter freak out mode. What the fuck? If he could do what he wanted and get away with it then what’s not to detour him from doin’ it again but with some chick no one gives a fuck about?”

  Angelo chuckled. “We work with the government, son. You can look at it one of two ways: you got your woman back and she was able to retire from the DEA. You’re engaged to be married and God blessed you with two healthy children she’s pregnant with now.”

  “Or?” Ronan questioned coldly.

  “You can let that shit eat at you. The world we live in isn’t fair to anyone. You think those poor bitches on that fucking cargo ship comin’ over here are gettin’ a fair shake? Nando’s an agent and he’s got a handler who believes he’s still a great asset. He may be a sick fuck but most of us in the underworld aren’t the most well-adjusted people,” Raymond explained in a calm voice.

  “Are either one of you agents?” Cricket questioned out loud.

  Raymond and Angelo looked at each other before they turned toward Max and Mags who laughed out loud.

  “No,” Raymond replied. “We got the same handlers as you. Nando’s handler is just in charge of the Aztecas Infierno members. It’s the reason why Carlito hasn’t been captured. He’s making a deal right now. Emilio refuses so you could probably exact some kind of revenge against the old man but Fernando will always remain untouchable. It’s just the way they work. A RICO case trumps everything—even the victims who are severely affected.”

  Ronan dragged on his cigarette. “Who is Fernando’s handler ’cause God knows I would like to strangle the son of a bitch!”

  Hardy flexed his jaw hard before he banged the gavel down harder than necessary. “This meeting isn’t about what’s going on with the case against Aztecas Infierno. It’s about our venture into a new business: prostitution. The first shipment of women we will be arriving here in Vegas soon and this is something we have to discuss to make sure everyone wants to be actively involved, yeah? The place of business has already been established. It’s an old-style Ranch house near the edge of Las Vegas proper in the Northwest.”

  “There are ten women who are coming here to Vegas,” Erik began in a deep, commanding voice with a slight East coast accent. “Altogether, around forty women are on the shipment. It’s hard because you have to understand we don’t want any accidents to happen. I could bring more but Kitaev is a trusted name in Eastern Europe.”

  Ronan snickered. “So, are we changin’ the meanin’ of trafficking? Are these women bein’ brought over here against their will? Yes. Or. No? I assure you it’s not a trick question.”

  Erik glanced at him with steel-gray eyes. “They sign contracts. They get a small deposit up front so they can leave their families with money. They have to pay back a debt and they know what is expected of them once they arrive here. There will be no runaway attempts. These are decent women—all between the age of eighteen and twenty-five. They come from impoverished backgrounds and have children, parents and grandparents to take care of back home. It is a choice between this or a shitty factory job and they choose option A instead.

  “They work here for three years. All of them will be rotated every year. Raymond is taking twenty of them to northern Nevada and ten of them are staying in Santa Monica where I have a place of business. Every year, the Vegas women will be transferred to northern Nevada along with the girls in Santa Monica. Ten of the northern Nevadan girls will be transferred to Malibu and ten to Vegas. The third year, the girls who have been to both northern Nevada and Malibu will go to Vegas, those who have worked Vegas and Malibu will go to northern Nevada. A sound plan—don’t you think?”

  “What about friendships that are bound to form? Or women who men will pay double to keep around?” Cricket questioned out loud.

  Erik swigged from a bottle of water. “Those will be case-by-case scenarios the three of us—Hardy, Raymond and I—will discuss when the time comes. What’s important is that we keep the women clean. No drugs—alcohol is fine though—and the women must submit to weekly examinations.

  “They are not allowed more than ten clients per day. They will work five days a week with two days off. They will also be on birth control to prevent them from having periods at all. They will be granted one week of vacation time per year but they will stay on the premises or be escorted into town by local muscle. And at the end of three years, they are let go and given the amount of fifty thousand dollars.”

  “So, in other words, these women aren’t truly being trafficked if we’re paying them and they know what they are expected to do.”

  “Cricket, they’re coming over as illegal immigrants. Their compensation is fifty thousand dollars for three years—”

  “Bro, they come from countries where some factory workers make two hundred bucks a month or somethin’. If I had a choice between whoring my ass out or working my fingers to the bone, I know what I’d do.”

  “You’re not having an attack . . . of conscience, are you?” Mags wondered out loud, her pale green eyes expressionless. “We’re not exactly running legitimate businesses, Ronan. If the Vice Presidential seat is too much for you then perhaps Hardy should think abou
t seeking a replacement?”

  His violet-blue eyes glared at the bitch with daggers. He’d never liked her—too hard for a woman like she always had something to prove—and right now, he couldn’t stand the sight of her. Was she questioning his authority and making everyone else question his abilities too?

  “No offense—you being Max’s old lady and all—but don’t ever question my authority when it comes to the club,” Ronan began, his tone icy and cold as an Eskimo’s dick. “This is our business and I’m just making sure that everything is gonna be copacetic. We’ve already had issues trusting the wrong people. Between Aztecas Infierno and Koslakov, we damn near lost all control of our whole way of life thanks to the Feds. I just wanna know that isn’t gonna happen again.

  “If I’m asking too many questions, it’s because I know what can happen when shit goes pear-shaped. My old lady was damn near killed by a maniac son of a bitch who is still walkin’ free and we almost lost our president for the Vegas charter. So excuse-fuckin’-me if I’m a bit skittish about walkin’ into yet another situation that could turn into a shit storm.”

  Hardy nodded. “The VP’s concerns are duly noted. However, this operation is bigger than just the Saints. If we were the only ones involved, your words would carry a lot more weight but due to us bringin’ in outside muscle—the Kitaev Bratva not to mention Angelo Abandonato, Raymond Jackson and their two top associates, Maksymilian Gillespie and Magnolia Abandonato-Gillespie—this is no longer a club decision alone.”

  He paused and cleared his throat before he continued, “The brothers do have a say in the vote but so do our partners. If—by chance—our partners agree and enough brothers don’t then the deal will still go through. I’m not sayin’ you have to like what’s gonna happen but you will go along with it or you’ll find another chapter to transfer to . . . and if you decide to do that, a brother from that chapter has to agree to transfer here.”