We sit.
Silence stretches. Luca seems content to wait, letting us make the first move. It's a power play—subtle, but effective. Most people rush to fill silence. Start talking too much, give away too much.
Saint doesn't rush.
"Thank you for meeting with us," he says finally. "We appreciate your time."
"I'm told there's a situation." The Marchetti steeples his fingers. "Something involving one of my... associates."
"Dominic Valente."
Something flickers across Luca's face. There and gone, too fast to read. "What about him?"
Saint lays it out. Clean, simple, no embellishment. A woman who was supposed to marry Dominic. What she overheard. Why she ran. The threats that followed—the messages, the deadline, the promise of violence if she wasn't returned.
"She's under our protection now," Saint finishes. "Which puts us in a difficult position. We don't want trouble with your organization. But we're not handing her over."
Luca is quiet for a long moment. His eyes move from Saint to me, studying, assessing. I keep my face blank. Let Saint do the talking.
"Dominic," Luca says finally, and there's something in his voice now—contempt, maybe, or disgust. "He likes to throw our name around. Acts like he's connected. Like he matters." A dismissive wave. "He's useful sometimes. Runs errands. Does small jobs that need doing. But connected?" A cold smile. "He's a wannabe who got too comfortable."
I feel something shift in my chest. Hope, maybe. Or the beginning of it.
"So if we were to handle the situation—" Saint begins.
"He's not under our protection." Luca cuts him off. "Never was. Whatever he tells people, whatever he implies about his connections—it's bullshit. He's a small man who wants to feel big." He leans back in his chair. "Honestly? You'd be doing us a favor. He's been getting sloppy lately. Drawing attention. Making noise. Men like that become liabilities."
He looks directly at me for the first time. Those cold eyes holding mine.
"Do what you like," he says. "We won't interfere."
Permission granted.
Outside, the sun is too bright. I stand by my bike, letting the tension drain out of my shoulders.
No war with the Marchettis. No heat on the club. Just a clean shot at ending this without bringing anything back on my brothers.
Saint stops me before I can swing a leg over. His hand on my arm.
"Be careful, brother." His voice is low. "Don't bring this back on the club. Leave no traces."
"I know."
"I mean it, Grim. Whatever you do, it stays buried. No one finds out. No one connects it to us."
"It won't."
He studies me for a moment. Whatever he sees must satisfy him, because he nods and lets go.
"I'll see you back at the clubhouse."
He gets on his bike and rides east, back toward home. Back toward the club.
I get on my bike and ride west.
I don't think about what I'm going to do.
I've done this before. More times than I want to count. The club calls me when they need something handled—something permanent, something that can't come back. I'm good at it. Efficient. Clean.
