“Come in.”
My anxiety shoots through the roof, but I try to shove it back down from wherever that asshole came from, sturdy my shoulders and open the door, walking through. Maria’s office is all business, files stacked neatly on her desk, case boards covering one wall with photographs, and red string connecting dots only she can see. Cold coffee sits in a mug that says‘World’sOkayest Boss,’and she’s hunched over paperwork, her reading glasses perched on her nose.
She looks up when I enter, and something in her expression shifts, it sharpens. “Delaney.” She removes her glasses, setting them aside. “What is it?Pleasetell me you have something useful.”
I close the door behind me, my heart hammering so hard I’m sure she can hear it. “I need you to look at this.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. I pull out my cell, thumb hovering over the screen before I open the picture on my phone. “I need you to look at this and tell me if you recognize this man.”
Moretti reaches for it, her expression casual at first—just another piece of evidence from an undercover op. But then she looks at the screen, and everything changes. All the color drains from her face in an instant. Her hand freezes, the phone trembling in her grip. She stares at the image like it’s a ghost made flesh, her breath catching audibly in the quiet office.
“Where…” Her voice barely registers above a whisper. She swallows, then tries again, “Where did you get this?”
“Las Vegas Defiance MC,” I say quietly. I watch every flicker of her face, every muscle twitch. “He’s the president. His name is Diesel Moretti…” I pause, then add deliberately, “He goes by Sin.”
Moretti sinks into her chair like her legs have given out. Tears well, threatening to fall. “It can’t be,” she whispers, broken and disbelieving. “He… he was just a boy when I…”
“When you what?” I ask gently, even though I already know the answer.
Her mask cracks, years of discipline falling away in seconds. “When I left.” Her voice breaks clean in half. “When I… disappeared.”
I take a breath, then tell her everything Sin told me. “He remembered a poker chip you gave him when he was eight. Saidyou came home one night with caramel candies and told him he was worth more than money.” I watch her reaction, the way her shoulders curl inward as if she’s being stabbed in the heart with my every word. “By thirteen, you were gone. He thought the Alliance dumped your body in the desert. He survived on the streets. Learned to disappear.”
Her lips tremble. Tears spill over, and she doesn’t bother wiping them away.
I scroll, swipe, and show her another photograph. This one is zoomed in on the poker chip sitting on the nightstand.
Maria’s breath shudders. Her hand covers her mouth. “God, I can’t believe he still has it,” she whispers. With shaking hands, she yanks open a desk drawer. Pens, paperclips, scraps of detective life clatter aside until she pulls out another chip. She places it on the desk between us, her hand lingering on it like it might vanish. “I kept its match,” she says thickly. “To remind myselfwhyI survived.”
The two chips, decades of distance erased in plastic and memory.
“I clearly didn’t die in the desert,” she says, her story coming out jagged, shards pulled from an old wound. “The Alliance took me. That part was true. But I escaped… with help. A man from a rival gang, someone who pitied me. I don’t know why he did, but he saved me.”
Her voice steadies as she continues, “I cleaned up. Got sober. Reinvented myself completely. Joined the police academy so no woman would suffer what I had. Worked my way up. Beat cop, detective, Chief Detective.” Her chin lifts, a fragment of pride slicing through the grief. “I never quit. I never backed down.”
Her gaze drops again, shame flooding her expression. “I looked for Diesel. For years. Every back alley, every lead. But he was gone. The streets swallowed him.” She swallows hard, her voice lowering. “Eventually, I told myself maybe it was better ifhe believed I was dead. Better than him knowing I’d abandoned him.”
The weight of her words hangs heavy between us.
Finally, she looks at me, eyes burning with guilt and something fierce underneath. “Is he in trouble, Victoria?” Her voice steadies, that detective armor sliding back into place. “What have you found?”
I take a deep breath and decide…Whose side am I really on?
“What’s your view on Captain Rourke?”
Her reaction is immediate—her face twists like she’s tasted something foul. “It’s hard to tolerate that asshole at the best of times.” Her jaw tightens. “Why?”
“Because he killed Marcus.”
The color drains from her face.“What?”
I press forward, my words sharp and deliberate. “He pulled Marcus over. Shot him. Planted drugs and made it look like a DUI. Pulled out a tire iron and wrecked his bike for good measure.”
Moretti’s hand flies to her chest, but it doesn’t stop the tremor in her voice. “No… no, that’s not possible. That’s—”
“There’s proof,” I cut in. “A voice recording Ghost pulled from Marcus’ phone. It’s not admissible in court, but it’s real. Rourke’s voice is there. Clear as day.”
She grips the edge of her desk like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. “Dear God…” Her voice fractures. “He murdered a civilian… and then covered it up?”
I nod once, my throat tight. “Rourke’s not just dirty, Moretti. He’s the Alliance’s inside man. Their shield. Their protection. He makes sure their trafficking operation runs through the casinos unchecked. Gives them whatever leeway they need. A pass whenever they want it.”
