He swings his leg over his Harley, the bike rumbling beneath him like a restless beast. I climb on behind him, my arms encircling his waist, fingers digging into the worn leather of his cut. The moment we take off, the engine roars to life, a defiant scream that shatters the stillness of the quiet, affluent neighborhood, echoing off the pristine houses that loom like silent sentinels.
As we approach his parents’ house, the contrast hits me like a punch to the gut. Gone is the oppressive darkness of my father’s world; instead, the home radiates a warm, inviting glow, spilling light onto the manicured lawn. Before we even reach the porch, the front door swings open, revealing Carol. She stands there in a soft pastel robe, her hair tousled, eyes wide with concern rather than panic.
She doesn’t bombard me with questions or demands. Instead, her gaze sweeps over my disheveled appearance—torn jeans, wild eyes, and the way I cling to her son as if he’s my lifeline. Her expression shifts, softening into something maternal that tugs at my heart, making it ache with longing.
“Oh, you poor thing,” she murmurs, her voice soothing, a steady balm against the chaos of the night.
Before I can brace myself, she steps forward and envelops me in a hug, her warmth wrapping around me like a protective cocoon. It’s been so long since I’ve felt this kind of embrace that I freeze for an instant, then melt into her, surrendering to the comfort. A choked sob escapes my lips, the tension of the evening spilling out in a rush.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” she whispers, her hand gently rubbing my back in slow, calming circles. “You’re safe now. Let’s get you inside.”
She leads me into the house, where the rich scent of cinnamon and baked goods fills the air, instantly making me feel more at ease. She guides me to a plush couch, its fabric soft and inviting, then wraps a thick blanket around my shoulders, cocooning me in warmth. East and his father, Grant, linger in the doorway, their conversation a low, serious murmur, but Carol’s focus remains solely on me, her attention unwavering.
Moments later, she disappears into the kitchen and returns with a steaming mug cradled in her hands. “Chamomile tea,” she says, pressing it into my trembling fingers. “It helps.” The warmth radiates through the ceramic, contrasting with my chilled skin. I look up at her, my heart swelling with gratitude, overwhelmed by the simple, unconditional kindness in her eyes. A wave of emotion crashes over me, nearly stealing my breath. This is what care feels like—no judgment, no calculations, just warmth and safety.
I sink onto the couch and wrap both hands around the mug. Steam curls against my face. I take a careful sip, warmth spreading through the cold knot in my chest. Carol doesn’t hover; she just stays close until my breathing evens. Only then does East catch my eye. When I nod, he rises and offers his hand, leading me to a quiet guest room. He closes the door behind us, sealing off the outside world. The adrenaline that fueled my escape fades, and the emotional fallout hits me like a tidal wave. I tremble, a full-body shudder I can’t control. He doesn’t say a word; instead, he sits on the edge of the bed and pulls me into his arms, holding me tight as the aftershocks wrack my body. He’s a solid, steady wall, and I cling to him, burying my face in his chest, inhaling the comforting scent of leather and something distinctly him.
When the tremors finally subside, he gently pulls back, his hands scanning my body for injuries. His touch is impossibly tender as his fingers trace the scrape on my arm from our frantic escape. I’m still clutching the key, my knuckles white, my fist so tight it aches. He notices, and his brow furrows slightly as he takes my hand, his larger ones enveloping mine.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs softly, his voice low and reassuring. “Let it go.”
Slowly, deliberately, he uncurls my fingers one by one, revealing the small, cold, brass key resting in my palm. It symbolizes everything—the terror, the triumph, the night that changed everything. He looks from the key to my eyes, his own gaze turning grim, filled with a newfound, cold purpose.
“Okay.” He gives me a solemn vow that seals the promise of what comes next. “Now we go to the bank.”
Chapter 35
East
Thewarroomisquiet, but it’s the quiet of a coiled snake, not of peace. The sun is barely up, but the room already feels wired, running on stale coffee and the cold, metallic tang of an impending fight. The air is thick with it—tension, exhaustion, adrenaline—settling over us like a second skin. In the center of the long table, under the harsh glare of the single overhead bulb, sits a small, ornate brass key. It looks insignificant, but it’s the most dangerous weapon we have.
I sit at the table, my fingers tracing the rim of a cold coffee mug, watching my brothers. Malachi is at the head, his expression a mask of grim focus. Knox is staring at the blueprints of the Willowridge Bank and Trust, his mind already picking apart its digital defenses. Nash sits to my right, silent and steady, his gaze fixed on the key. Kyle stands near the door, his posture rigid, absorbing every word.
“The box is in her name,” Kyle says, asking the question we’ve all considered. “Why don’t we just have her walk in and get it?”
Knox looks up from his screen, a humorless smile on his face. “Because I already ran a check. The second she ran from that gala, Winston put a full digital lockdown on everything tied to her name. Bank accounts, credit cards, passport, and yes, the safe deposit box. One of his cronies is the manager of that branch. The moment she signs that access slip, an alert goes straight to Winston’s private server. His guys would be there in five minutes.”
A cold reality settles over the room. She can’t just walk in. She’d be walking into a trap.
“It’s not that simple anyway,” I say, pushing the key a few inches across the table. “Safety deposit boxes need two keys. Hers,” I tap the brass key, “and the bank’s. A guard key.”
“Which is kept where?” Malachi asks, his gaze fixed on Knox.
Knox types for a moment, his fingers flying across the keyboard. “In a secondary safe in the branch manager’s office. A guy named Arthur Peterson.” He pauses, and a slow, predatory grin spreads across his face. “And according to his digital footprint, Mr. Peterson has a very predictable routine and a wandering eye.”
Malachi’s own lips twitch. He looks at Nash. “Handle it. Get Ruby on the phone.”
Nash pulls out his phone and hits her number, putting it on speaker. A slow, almost imperceptible smirk touches his lips before her voice even comes through. He already knows this is going to be a performance.
She answers on the first ring, her voice a cheerful buzz. “Well, well, well. Sergeant-at-Arms. To what do I owe this very official phone call? Did you finally decide you need a lesson in how to have fun?”
A low chuckle rumbles from Nash’s chest, a rare and surprising sound. “We have a job for you,” he says, his voice adry counterpoint to her bubbly energy. “A bank manager. Arthur Peterson.”
“Oof, Artie,” she says, and I can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “Greasy. What about him?”
“We need the key to his office safe,” Knox cuts in, all business. “He keeps it on his main keyring. You think you can lift it off him without him noticing?”
There’s a beat of silence, then Ruby lets out a low, wicked laugh that crackles over the phone. “Boys, boys, boys. You want me to get a key from a married man who smells like desperation and bad decisions? Please. Give me a real challenge. Where is he?”
