I stand up slowly, looking down at him. “She was never yours to take. And she’s the one who brought you down. Every choice you made led you to this chair, Winston.” I pull my handgun from the back of my jeans. Theclickof the safety being disengaged is unnaturally loud in the vast, empty room. It echoes.
“This isn’t about politics,” I continue, my voice flat, devoid of heat. “This isn’t about the club.” I lean in closer, my face inches from his. “This is for Declan. And this is for Darla.”
His breath hitches, a pathetic, sobbing sound. “Please… she’s all I have left…”
“You had a son,” I say, my voice a stone wall. “And you murdered him trying to get to me.”
“It was your fault!” he screams, the last of his composure shattering. “If you had just stayed away from my family!”
It’s not torture or rage. It’s a debt being paid. A cold, decisive, final act of justice. I raise the gun, my hand steady, my gaze locked on his. The promise I made to a dying boy seven years ago is finally being kept.
The shot is a single, definitive full stop.
I turn and walk away from the man who broke my world, the heavy door groaning shut behind me, the job finally, irrevocably, done.
Chapter 42
Darla
Thedaysaftermyfather’s “disappearance” are strange. His world, the one that held me captive, has crumbled. News is a constant feeding frenzy of speculation and scandal. His empire is in ruins. But in the quiet aftermath, I’m not left with peace. I’m left with an unnerving, unfamiliar silence. A freedom so vast it’s disorienting, and my chest feels... hollow.
I’m at the clubhouse, my new, chaotic, beautiful home. I’m helping Maggie in the kitchen, the simple, mundane thwack-thwack-thwack of a knife on a cutting board a grounding rhythm. Laughter and the low thrum of rock music from the common room are a constant, reassuring presence. The airsmells like Maggie’s roasted chicken and stale beer, a scent I’m associating with safety.
“Darla?” Kyle’s voice is hesitant from the kitchen doorway. “There’s… someone here to see you.”
The easy atmosphere in the kitchen evaporates. The knife in my hand stills. I turn, and the look on his face—a mixture of confusion and protective suspicion—makes my stomach clench into a cold, hard knot. What now? East appears from the common room, his body moving with that fluid, predatory grace, his expression instantly hardening as he looks past Kyle to the front entrance.
“Who is it?” he asks in a low growl that vibrates through the room.
I follow his gaze, setting the knife down on the counter with a shaky breath. When I turn, my heart stops. Standing uncertainly in the clubhouse doorway, framed by the bright, harsh afternoon light, is my mother.
She looks… broken. Her perfectly coiffed hair is gone, replaced by a simple, severe ponytail. The designer suit is gone, replaced by plain slacks and a beige sweater. Her face is pale, stripped of its usual mask of makeup, and the dark circles under her eyes look like bruises. The polished, hollow doll I’ve known for a decade is gone. In her place is a woman who looks terrified, and for the first time in years, real. A strange, sharp ache lances through my chest. Pity. It feels foreign.
East moves immediately, placing himself between me and the door, a solid wall of leather and muscle. His presence is a sudden, comforting shield, and I’m hit with a jolt of heat as he stakes his claim. “You’re not welcome here,” he says with a flat and cold voice.
Ruby and Candace appear at his side as a silent, formidable wall of female fury. The message is clear. You don’t get to her.
My mother flinches, her hands twisting together so hard her knuckles are white. “Please,” she whispers, her voice a thin, reedy sound. Her eyes dart past East’s shoulder, finding mine. “I just… I need to talk to her. To Darla.”
My heart is a frantic, panicked bird in my chest.What does she want? Is this a trick? Is he with her?But looking at her, at the raw, genuine fear in her eyes, I know she’s alone. This isn’t a ploy. This is a surrender. I know I have to do this. This is my battle.
“It’s okay,” I say in a quiet but firm voice. I put my hand on East’s arm, the muscle rock-solid beneath my touch. He flinches, but I squeeze. “It’s okay. Let her in.”
East looks down at me, his jaw tight, a silent argument in his eyes. Are you sure? But he sees the resolve in mine. He gives a single, sharp nod and steps aside, but he doesn’t go far. The girls don’t either. They are a silent, watchful army at my back.
My mother steps inside, her eyes darting around the clubhouse—the worn leather, the smell of smoke, the raw wood—a place she’s only ever known as the den of the “filth” my father despised. I lead her to a small, secluded table in the corner, a pocket of quiet in the watchful room.
She doesn’t speak at first, just looks at her hands, which are trembling. When she finally looks up, her eyes are full of a shame so profound it’s a physical thing.
“I know… I know you hate me,” she begins, her voice a broken whisper. “And you have every right. I was a coward, Darla. A ghost in my life. He… Winston… he didn’t just control me. He hollowed me out and made me believe that his power was the only thing keeping us safe. I was so afraid of him, of losing everything, that I let him.”
The words spill out, not as an excuse, but as a raw, desperate confession. She apologizes for every missed birthday, every timeshe looked away, every silent act of complicity. For failing me, over and over again, as a mother.
I listen, a cold, heavy stone forming in my chest. My own hands are steady. My tears are all dried up for this woman. “You were going to let him sell me,” I say, the words flat, devoid of the accusation they deserve.
Her face crumples, a sob tearing from her throat. “I know. God, I know. And I will never forgive myself for that. I was so trapped, so scared… I didn’t know what else to do.” Her eyes, swimming with tears, find mine. “But I swear to you, Darla… I swear on my life… I didn’t know what he did to Declan.”
The name hangs in the air between us, a ghost she’s just summoned. My breath catches. Ice floods my veins. “What are you talking about?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
