I quickly turned to see Ryan’s uncle holding up my father’s Colt .45. “Hello, Grace, it’s time to finish what I started.”
I saw the gun cock and the pressure move to his trigger finger. This was it. After twenty-three years, it was all about to end. I closed my eyes, knowing that I would not be able to outrun the bullet.
The gun fired. My eyes shot open. I was still alive. But…
“Pops!” Ryan called. Ryan’s father had tackled his uncle just as he shot off the gun. He had saved my life, taking a bullet for me. His shooter had already disappeared, leaving his brother to die.
Ryan raced past me, picking his dad off the ground.
“Pops. Pops. Look at me, goddamnit.”
I felt a brush on my arm, and my father weakly handed me a piece of paper, gesturing toward Jimmy’s failing body. I took the parchment from his hand, and held on, not willing to let him go. “You’re so beautiful, Gracie: just like your mother.” He smiled at me and closed his eyes.
“Dad? Dad?” I shook him. I just kept shaking him. Those couldn’t have been the last words I would ever say to my father.
I took a deep breath, cautiously unfolding the crumpled piece of loose-leaf he had handed me. It was a letter.
My forever J,
I skipped to the bottom.
Today, tomorrow, and past the light,
E
Of course: it was a letter from my mother, Emily Brennan, to her lover, Jimmy Cassidy. My father was asking me to know the truth. He was offering for everyone to know the truth. Following his final request, I left my father’s body and crawled to Ryan’s side. Through my tears, I began reading to his fading father.
April 16th, 1995
My forever J,
I cried as I read your letter over and over again. You have planted a seed for a perfect life, and somehow I was lucky enough to be your other half.
I am so sorry that you had to go through a time of torture, I never wanted that for you, but I swear it’s all over now. I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you. Yes. Yes, yes, yes, I will run away with you, and I will never look back. Grace and Ryan and you and me: we will be a family. I can’t believe it has taken me this long to say it, to finally have the power to stand up for a life I want, a partner I want.
We will be happy, but most of all, we will finally know only love. Ryan and Grace will know the love they deserve.
We’ll be there, you know where: Monday at 8:00 p.m. At 8:01, our life together will finally begin.
I love you.
Today, tomorrow, and past the light,
E
Through tear-soaked eyes, I lowered the paper. Ryan’s father was smiling. “Thank you, Grace.” He whispered.
He was so happy. And it was his happiness that took him away.
“Pops.” Ryan shook him. “No. No, Pops stay with me.”
We heard the ambulances in the distance. I placed my hand on Ryan’s, but a force picked me up from behind. We all knew the drill. We needed to clear out of there before the authorities arrived. My family dragged me in one direction, as Ryan’s dragged him the other. We called for each other, but neither of us had the strength to fight the families to which we belonged. This was to be it between us; our love had seen its last day. We held on as long as we could, not breaking eye contact until the night’s darkness took over our sight. Then it was over.
The sounds of the engines filled the sky, and everyone was gone. All that were left were the bodies of Patrick Brennan and Jimmy Cassidy: lifelong enemies.
But friends in death.
Ryan- Two Weeks Later
“Don’t be late.”
I dismissed Church, offering my final words of the day to the group. We’d all be spending the next hour cleaning ourselves up for Pop’s funeral.
I unlocked the door to his house, my house, and pushed inside. How could I live here without him? I removed my colors and threw them onto the couch. I decided not to bury him with his cut; being that I now knew it was a life he never wanted. Still, to honor his memory, I wore his President patch.
With my Pops gone and Sean somewhere in hiding, I was the new President of The Blood of Cupids MC. To think, only two weeks earlier I was planning on running away to California with Grace.
I hadn’t seen her, hadn’t heard from her since the night of the war between our families. As her family dragged her away from me, I accepted I would never see her again. It was that acceptance that forced me to move on with my life, dedicate myself to my club.
I tossed my clothes to the floor as I stepped into to the bathroom and then into the shower. I shaved off the two weeks of hair growth from my face and splashed cologne over my naked body.
I put on a suit.
I walked to the cemetery.
I watched as they put my Pops into the ground.
I sat in the metal chair, feeling utterly alone. A figure sat down next to me. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see she was small, with short blonde hair. She was wearing a giant black hat that was offering unwanted shade from the warming sun.
I would’ve said something to her, but today it didn’t matter. I didn’t care about her. I didn’t care about anyone.
I bowed my head, wishing to hide from the world. The woman next to me shifted, and then placed her small hand in mine, wrapping her fingers around my knuckles.
I knew that hand. I knew that skin. I knew that warmth. She pulled her hand away, leaving behind a small piece of paper. The words could have stopped my heart.
Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake
Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take…
“Grace?”
“Shhh.”
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If you enjoyed Sophia Kenzie’s Blood of Cupids (The Blood of Cupids MC)
Then you'll also enjoy reading Impossibly (A Dante’s Nine MC Novel) by Colleen Masters.
Read below for an excerpt!!
Prologue
My surroundings come into focus at last. I realize that I am floating—but not through space. Warm water, scented with lavender and sage, suspends my naked body, comforting me. It laps against my skin, caressing every curve and limb of me. At first, I think I must be treading water in some hot spring, or sunbaked ocean—the body of water is that vast. But as the rest of the scene comes into focus, I find that I’m not in a sea at all. I’m in a marble and golden bathtub, sunken into the floor of some elegant, unknown room. I gaze up and see that the ceiling is made of curved glass, and the moon shines down from above. The moon, and some other very vibrant lights...perhaps of the neon variety?
“What are you doing all the way over there?” asks a rich, rasping voice.
I look around sharply, sending little splashes of water everywhere as I try to cover my naked breasts. Warm, amused laughter rings out from the far side of the enormous tub. I peer through the steamy air and see that I’m not alone in this place. There, across the way, glow two piercing blue eyes. Heart battering against my ribs, I inch closer. Up out of the mist rises a broad, cut torso, covered in inky lines. Two thick, muscled arms drape over the edge of the tub. A face unlike any other, itself like something carved out of marble, watches me approach. And a full, irresistible smile bursts open there as I approach.
“There’s my girl,” Declan Tiberi growls, holding out his strong hand to me.
I place my hand in his, marveling at the sudden spread of heat that rushes through me at his slightest touch. Declan pulls me toward him, guiding me through the steamy water. His brown curls are wet, slicked back from his gorgeous face. Slowly, tentatively, I come to standing before him, letting my eyes trail all along every defined muscle of his chest, his web of intricate tattoos. I spot a scar or two on his chest, ri
sing up from the bulky, firm panes of his pecs.
“Won’t you come closer?” he breathes, running his hands down my bare arms. A cascade of goose bumps stand up wherever his fingertips trail.
I sink down into the water, hiding my naked body from view. I’m suddenly bashful, feeling young and inexperienced. My long blonde hair twists and waves in the water, fanning out all around me. My cheeks are burning with excitement and self-consciousness.
“I’m a little nervous,” I admit to him, averting my eyes.
“It’s just me,” he says softly, “You know me, Kassie.”
My familiar name rolling off his tongue sends a shiver of joy down my spine. I dare to meet his gaze, feeling like I could get lost in those sapphire eyes.
“I’ve never...been with a man before,” I tell him honestly, “Not really. I’ve messed around and all, but never...you know.”
“Is that so?” he asks, unwaveringly, “Well...do you want to know what it’s like? To be with a man—to be with me?”
“More than anything,” I breathe, inching closer.
“I want to show you, Kassie,” he says, coming toward me in the water. “I want to show you what it’s like. How good it can be.”
His torso rises up out of the pool, his perfect rack of abs glistening and slick. He towers over me, even as I stand, letting my breasts meet the warm air. He groans as he takes me in, his eyes drinking in my every inch, my every curve.
This is it, I think to myself as he closes the space between us. Declan cups my chin in his strong hand, titling my face up toward his. He looks sure and serious, but elated. Happy. And all at once, I realize that I’m not afraid anymore. I want this. I want him.
“Just let me show you,” he says, his voice rasping lustily, “Let me make you feel amazing, Kassenia. I’ll show you...”
He lowers his full, firm lips to mine. I close my eyes open myself to him, full of trust and longing. His tongue glides deliciously against mine. He pulls me against him, and I feel the rock hard length of him pressing against my belly. Just feeling him there, knowing that he’s hard for me, is almost more than I can handle. I throw my arms around his broad shoulders, desperate to feel him inside of me, where I’ve never felt any man before. I want him to be the first one to know me that way. He’s the first man I’ve ever met who’s man enough to handle me. Take me. Show me what this is all about.
Declan catches me up in his arms, spinning me around in the warm, steamy air. He sets me down on the edge of the tub, my legs snaked around his tapered waist. I lay back against the cool tile as his fingers trail over my collarbone, ribs, thighs. His thumbs brush over the pink peaks of my nipples, sending shockwaves of pleasure dancing along my nerves. He cups my sex in a sure hand, running his fingers all along my slick slit. He pulls his hands away and a new, unnamable, amazing pressure makes itself known against that throbbing place between my legs. A low, aching need goes off like a bomb in my belly as I suck in a huge breath, waiting to be filled up by this incredible man.
“Declan,” I moan, bucking my hips toward him, “I need you...”
Chapter One
Somewhere beneath Las Vegas, Nevada, present day...
A thousand rabid boxing fans leap to their feet as the fighter squares off against his challenger. The two fearsome, ruthless men have been at it for nearly a dozen rounds, flying at each other with nothing short of deadly force. Each man has been bruised and beaten, taken and given staggering blows—but only one can walk out of this ring with his life, it's the only way this fight ends.
The very canvas beneath the fighter’s feet begins to tremble as the crowd stomps and jostles, craning their necks for a glance of him. He knows that he’s something to behold. At six and a half feet tall, 200 pounds and change, he’s a man to be reckoned with. His balanced, cut form ripples with muscle, but not the curated, manicured muscle you find on urban gym rats and vain, desperate men. No—the fighter’s bulk has been earned. Built up on the battlefield, in the ring, fighting hand-to-hand, tooth and nail. Just as he does now.
He wipes the blood and sweat off his brow, a wild grin spreading across his full lips. His opponent has put up quite a fight, but he’s fading fast. The challenger’s knees wobble, his chest heaves, he may just collapse of his own accord. But the fighter can’t take any chances. The stakes are too high to leave anything up to fate. He has to finish this man, for good.
“Dante’s Son. Dante’s Son. Dante's Son.” the crowd chants feverishly, crying out the fighter’s ring-christened name.
They can smell blood in the air, and they’re lusting for more. This is what they came for, after all. If they’d just wanted to see a good fight, anywhere in Vegas would have done. But here underground, far from the reach of the law or God, this is where real fighting lives. This is where men fight to the death, while millions of dollars trade hands at the end of every night. You can feel the tension, the excitement, the primal drive of money, power, and the finality of death electrifying the air. The fighter breathes it in, all of it, as he prepares to strike one last time.
“Finish him!” screams a young man’s voice from beside the ring, “Kill him now!”
“Eyes on the prize,” another voice joins in, “Focus now, brother.”
“He’s weak in the knees,” howls an older, gruffer man, “Go for it, son!”
For a moment, the fighter lets his eyes flick toward the rollicking voices. His pounding heart swells in his chest as he sees his brothers lined up along the ring. They cling onto the ropes, their faces flushed with pride and vigor. No, they’re not the fighter’s flesh and blood, but they’re the only family he’s ever known.
Faces old and young, tanned and pale, brutish and bright—he knows them all. And at the very end of the line sits a handsome, silver-haired man. He doesn't cheer as he watches on, only looks calm, composed. The deep lines in his face are unmoved by chants or jeers. He simply meets the fighter’s eye and nods, once. It’s as much encouragement as the fighter needs.
They each wear their black leather cuts, patched and faded but symbols of power all the same. Across the back of each man, the words “Dante’s Nine” and "Las Vegas, NV" are emblazoned. It’s their family title, their club’s identity. One of the most feared and respected MC names in the United States. And they’re here on the fighter’s side.
Emboldened by his brothers’ ferocious loyalty, the fighter sails across the ring, fist cocked back. Time slows to a crawl as he watches his opponent’s eyes. The defeated fighter watches the other man approach, he simply stands there accepting his fate, knowing that he’s about to die. It’s a phenomenon Dante’s Son has witnessed many times before. This year alone, two other boxers have given up their lives to him. This man will be the third. After he falls, one more fight stands between the fighter and his freedom. But he can’t think of that now.
His balled fist cracks against the challenger’s temple; he quickly grabs the dazed man's head between his own powerful hands, and with a skillful twist a sickening crack rings out in the turbulent air. The fighter raises his inked arms as his opponent's lifeless husk crumples onto the canvas, his soul has fled. The eight other men of Dante’s Nine vault into the ring, hoisting their victorious brother onto their broad shoulders. “Dante’s Son” is his ring name, and the crowd shouts it now. He drinks in their clamoring, cacophonous praise. He fights for his brothers, his club. And for them, he hasn't won yet again.
Back in the locker room, alone at last, the fighter shucks off his gear. He lifts the heavy golden belt off his tapered waist, setting it reverently down beside his street clothes. It’s a symbol of victory, but he knows he still has business to finish. He can’t stop thinking about the contract he signed just last year, locking him into four death matches; tonight’s was number three of four. He’s managed to come out on top of these first three, but who’s to say what the fourth will hold?
The fighter looks down at his inked, weary body. The thick panes of his chest rise and fall with each labored breath. E
ach of his abdominal muscles stands out in sharp relief as he winces with the aching pains shooting through him. How is he going to make it through another fight like this one alive? He shakes out his mane of dark curls, stepping into the hot spray of the shower. Warm water runs in rivulets over his broad shoulders, his biceps and sculpted thighs. He’s built his body into a fighting machine, but how much longer will it run?
He scrubs himself clean, watching the blood and sweat swirl away down the drain. By now, he’s used to being a killer. All his years in the military taught him how to tamp down his human guilt and disgust at taking another life. But all that repressed shame and sadness hasn’t evaporated; his humanity hasn't completely been killed. With each of these fights to the death, it comes just a bit closer to the surface.
Clean of body, if not of soul, the fighter wrenches the water off and grabs a towel. He wraps it around the muscular v of his waist, shoving a hand through his wet curls. He should be pleased with himself for coming out on top yet again, but the usual sense of achievement is nowhere to be found in him. The only reason he signed that contract was to funnel some extra cash to his club. If he had his druthers, he’d stick to regulation boxing. Civilized sports. But a deal is a deal, and he has one more match to go. If he's honest with himself, deep down, maybe this is the way he wants it to be—maybe he doesn't want to win that last fight.
Footsteps echo off the tile of the locker room, catching the fighter’s ear. His training sends him straight into action at the sound of an intruder. He reaches beneath his street clothes and snatches up his handgun. As he levels it at his unexpected company, a light laugh rings out from the shadows.
“No need for that, boy,” says a smooth voice, “I’m just here to talk.”
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