"What will you do to him?"
"Whatever it takes," Cruel says simply. "But that's not something you need to worry about."
I want to ask more questions, but something in Cruel's demeanor tells me the conversation is over. We spend the next hour talking about lighter things—his recommendation for the best pizza place that delivers to Santiago's building, stories about funny things that have happened at the clubhouse.
"I should head out," Cruel finally says, checking his phone. "Meeting starts in an hour. You need anything before I go?"
"Just... take care of Santiago. I know he can take care of himself, but..."
"But you care about him." Cruel's smile is surprisingly gentle. "Don't worry, Vi. Whip's one of the smartest guys I know. He's not gonna do anything stupid."
After Cruel leaves, the apartment feels even more quiet. I try to distract myself by ordering food, watching Netflix, evenattempting to read one of Santiago's law books. Nothing holds my attention for long.
As the afternoon wears on, my anxiety grows. What's happening at the club meeting? Are they making plans to confront Derek? Is Santiago safe?
I'm pacing by the windows when my phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.
I know where you are, Vi. Fancy building. Nice view. Too bad you can't hide forever.
My blood turns to ice. I immediately call Santiago, but it goes straight to voicemail. I try Cruel with the same result.
Another text comes in:
Saw your boyfriend and his biker friends leave. How long before they get back? Long enough for me to pay you a visit?
Panic claws at my throat. How did Derek get this number? How does he know where I am?
I'm trying to decide whether to call the police when I hear the elevator ding in the hallway. My entire body goes rigid as footsteps approach Santiago's door.
The footsteps stop right outside.
A soft knock echoes through the apartment.
"Delivery for Santiago Mendes," a voice calls.
I didn't order anything. And I know Santiago isn't expecting any deliveries.
My hands shake as I grab Santiago's baseball bat from beside his front door—why does he have a baseball bat by the door?—and approach the peephole.
A delivery man in a uniform cap stands in the hallway, holding a large bouquet of flowers. But something about his posture seems wrong. Too tense. Too watchful.
I back away from the door silently, hardly daring to breathe.
The knock comes again, more insistent this time. "Ms. Martinez? I have a delivery for you."
He knows my name. This isn't a delivery man.
I grab my phone and dial 911, but before I can hit send, the knocking stops. I creep back to the peephole and see the hallway is empty.
Relief floods through me until I hear a different sound—the faint scraping of metal against metal. Someone is trying to pick the lock.
Terror overwhelms me as I realize Derek found me. He's here. He's trying to get in.
And Santiago and the others are at the club, with no idea what's happening.
I'm completely alone.
Chapter Twelve
