I shifted away from him, forcing my voice to steady. “I appreciate your concern, Professor, but I don’t have a personal life that would interfere with my studies.” My mind raced with possible consequences—what exactly did he want from me, and what would happen if I refused to play along? A chill prickled across my skin as I wondered if I’d crossed some invisible line, uncertainty swirling in my chest like a gathering storm.
The air between us thickened with tension; unspoken words lingered just out of reach. I steadied myself, determined not to show any further signs of fear. The faint whir of the overhead lights seemed suddenly louder, filling the silence with a static charge. “If there’s something you’d like to discuss about my academics, I’m happy to listen.”
He sighed, lightly shaking his head. “You disappoint me, Ms. Scott. I was only offering my assistance. What a shame,” he murmured, straightening to his full height before leaning down, his breath brushing my ear. His voice dropped, laced with implication: “I thought you understood how things work around here—opportunities go to those who know how to cooperate.”
The silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears as I forced myself to swallow the unease. Questions tumbled through my mind—what if he really had the power to make things difficult for me? The urge to run was almost overwhelming, but I refused to let him see me rattled. I straightened my shoulders, the cool office air prickling against my skin, and kept my gaze locked on his. The door to his office suddenly seemed miles away, but I refused to let myself waver. “Thank you for your guidance, Professor,” I said quickly, gathering what courage I had left as I rose from my seat. The soft scrape of the chair’s legs was thunder in the hush, and I moved for the door, desperate to get the hell out of there before the walls closed in completely.
I woke up early the next day and quickly got dressed. Today was Saturday. No classes, no commitments, no studying. Onlyriding. Today was my day, to feel the freedom of the road, the wind in my hair and to forget that I was miles away from home. The crisp fall air filled my lungs as I swung my leg over my Harley-Davidson Nightster, a gift from my brother Jackson when I got accepted into Loyola University. The familiar rumble of the engine was a balm to my restless spirit. The leather of my jacket felt like a second skin, a comforting weight against the gnawing unease that had settled in my chest since arriving here. Jackson always said the open road was the best therapy, and for once, I understood exactly what he meant. The city, with its towering buildings and hidden dangers, felt a world away as I merged onto I-90, the asphalt stretching out before me like an invitation.
I rode for hours, the Chicago skyline shrinking in my mirrors until it was just a hazy silhouette against the horizon. The mountains of East Tennessee felt like a dream now, a life lived by another person. Yet, the strength I’d learned there, the resilience forged in the heart of the Golden Skulls’ clubhouse, was a constant, quiet presence within me. It was that strength that allowed me to face the whispers of doubt, the ache of homesickness, and the unnerving encounter with Professor Delgato.
I pushed the memory of his possessive gaze and insinuating words to the back of my mind, choosing instead to focus on the vibrant landscape unfolding before me, a stark contrast to the shadowed corners of my new reality.
I found myself on a quiet stretch of highway, the only sound the steady hum of my motorcycle, when I heard loud pipes roar up behind me. Turning, I saw a lone rider racing fast toward me. The sight of him startled me, yet the closer he got, a slow smile spread on my face. My heart hammered against my ribs, not from fear, but from a surge of exhilaration that blazed through me. That wasn’t just any bike; it was a chopper. Thefamiliar engine growled with a potent energy that resonated deep inside me. As it pulled alongside, I recognized the insignia on his leather cut: Golden Skulls MC. And the rider... a blur of leather and chrome, a silhouette that sent a jolt of recognition through me. Whiskey, his eyes bright with a familiar, fierce warmth, grinned as he pulled up beside me, revving his engine in a boisterous greeting. He wore his usual black cut, the Golden Skulls emblem a proud splash of gold against his dark leather. He gestured for me to follow, and without hesitation, I did, merging into the impromptu procession. The loneliness that had been a constant companion since arriving in Chicago receded, replaced by a burgeoning sense of belonging.
We rode for miles until, up ahead, he pulled into a dirt parking lot, and I followed, parking my bike. Taking my helmet off, I was up and off my bike, jumping into Whiskey’s arms as he twirled me around.
“Missed you, little sis.”
“I can’t believe you’re here!” I squealed as he held me tighter. “What are you doing here?”
“I just had to see how my little sister was doing,” Whiskey said, his grin never faltering. “Jackson sent me. Said he wanted eyes on you, so I volunteered.” He set me down, but his arm remained around my shoulders. “He’s worried about you, Mandy. And so am I. This city... it’s not the mountains.” His gaze swept over my sensible clothes, my understated motorcycle, a stark contrast to the wild freedom he embodied. He squeezed my shoulder. “The clubhouse isn’t the same without your laugh.”
He led me toward a small, weathered building just off the highway, a place I didn’t recognize. A few bikes were already parked outside, their gleaming, metallic frames a comforting sight. The scent of stale beer and wood-smoke hung in the air, a familiar, grounding aroma. As we pushed open the door, headsturned toward us before going back to whatever they were doing, and a wave of warmth washed over me.
This is what I knew.
What felt real to me.
“Come on,” Whiskey said, grabbing my hand. “Let’s go find a table in the back so we can talk.”
Whiskey led me to a booth in the back, the worn vinyl cool beneath my palms. He ordered us both beers, the condensation already beading on the glass as he set them down. The conversation flowed easily, a familiar rhythm of shared memories and inside jokes. I told him about my classes, the demanding professors, and the gnawing feeling of being an outsider in this concrete jungle. He listened intently, his eyes never leaving mine, offering quiet support that eased the ache in my chest. It was here, in this dim, smoky haven, surrounded by the ghosts of my past, that I finally felt a semblance of peace.
“Jackson’s really worried about you, Mandy. We all are,” Whiskey admitted, his tone shifting from lighthearted to serious. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “This city... it’s got a different darkness than the mountains. We don’t want you getting caught up in anything. We don’t want to lose you.” He paused, his gaze searching mine. His eyes flickered, a silent question hanging in the air. He didn’t need to say Oliver’s name; it was obvious he’d seen the paper and wanted to ask, but out of respect, he stayed silent.
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “I know, Whiskey. And I appreciate everyone’s concern. But Oliver... he’s just a friend. He needed a friendly face at the gallery opening and asked me to go. And this city... it’s just a place to study. I’m not forgetting where I came from, or who I am.” I met his gaze, trying to convey the sincerity of my words. “I won’t let myself get lost.”
The truth was, a part of me felt a strange pull toward the opulent life the city represented, a curiosity about a world so far removed from my own. But the thought of Jackson’s disappointment, of betraying the trust placed in me by my family, was a powerful deterrent. I was here to build a future, not to jeopardize the foundation so painstakingly laid for me.
Whiskey smiled. “That’s my girl.”
The conversation with Whiskey continued, his gruff affection a stark contrast to the calculated interactions I’d become accustomed to in Chicago. He spoke of home, of the open road, of the unchanging loyalty of the Skulls. His words were a balm to my soul, a reminder of the unwavering comforts of home. He mentioned Jackson’s concern—the worry that I was too far removed from our world, too exposed to the city’s undercurrents. I reassured him; my words felt both true and a little hollow.
As the afternoon waned, Whiskey and I parted ways with a promise to meet again soon. I rode back toward the city, the setting sun painting the sky in hues of orange and purple—a breathtaking spectacle I usually cherished. But tonight, the beauty felt tainted. The encounter with Professor Delgato, his veiled threats, and the gnawing unease that had followed me from the bar that I was being watched—it all coalesced into a heavy knot in my stomach. It was a feeling I couldn’t shake, a sense that I was walking a tightrope, and the ground below was far more treacherous than I wanted to admit.
Back in my apartment, the sterile efficiency felt suffocating. I looked at my textbooks; the pages filled with anatomical diagrams and complex theories. This was the future I was building—a future for myself and for my family. But tonight, surrounded by the quiet hum of this world, whispers of my old one felt louder than ever, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that my two worlds were about to collide.
Chapter Five
Massimo
I woke with a start, my hand instinctively reaching for my gun as I quickly sat up, pointing it at the darkness that surrounded me. The dark apartment was quiet, save for the rhythmic sounds of the city. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence. I’d been asleep—a dangerous luxury in my line of work—and the sudden awakening had jolted me back to the ever-present reality of threats lurking on the periphery. My gun felt heavy and familiar in my hand, its cold steel a comforting weight against the primal fear that had momentarily seized me. My eyes scanned my room, meticulously cataloging the shadows, searching for any anomaly, any sign of intrusion.
Nothing.
Just the oppressive stillness of a space I thought was secure.
A wave of self-recrimination washed over me. This was not the calculated vigilance I prided myself on. This was raw fear, a symptom of the growing unease that had festered since taking on this assignment. Savannah Scott. The name echoed in my mind, a persistent irritant that disrupted my carefully cultivated detachment. It was foolish to let her or the circumstances surrounding her infiltrate my guarded world.
