“Good.” I climb into the ambulance, taking the seat next to Queenie’s stretcher. I reach out and take her hand, so small and fragile in mine. Her skin is cold, and her fingers don’t grip back.
But she is alive.
And I’m going to make sure she stays that way.
The doors close. The ambulance lurches forward, sirens wailing. Through the small window in the back, I watch Sunset Manor disappear into the distance, flames still reaching into the sky like grasping fingers.
People died tonight.
Good people who didn’t deserve to die.
Who were living out their golden years in peace until Derek decided they were acceptable collateral damage in his vendetta against me.
I look down at Queenie.
At the woman who raised me.
Who taught me about honor, integrity, and love.
The woman who sacrificed everything so I could have a better life.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “This is my fault. All of this is my fault.”
Her eyes flutter open, just for a second. And even through the oxygen mask, even through the pain and the smoke inhalation, she manages to squeeze my hand. Just once. Weak but deliberate.
Not your fault,the gesture says.
Fresh tears burn down my face. I press Queenie’s hand to my forehead and let myself break. Just for a moment. Just for the length of this ambulance ride.
Tomorrow, I’ll be strong.
Tomorrow, I’ll be the VP who helps his club hunt down the asshole who did this.
Tomorrow, I’ll be Nitro, fierce, unrelenting, and capable of terrible things when the people I love are threatened.
But tonight, I’m a grandson sitting beside his grandmother, praying to every god I don’t believe in that she’ll survive this.
And swearing that Derek will pay for every second of her suffering.
The ambulance races through the pre-dawn Vegas streets, sirens screaming.
While in the distance, Sunset Manor goes up in smoke.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
NITRO
The hospital smells like antiseptic and death.
I hate it with every fiber of my being.
But I can’t leave.
I won’t leave.
Not while Queenie lies in that bed, her tiny chest rising and falling with mechanical precision because she can’t breathe on her own. The ventilator hisses and clicks, counting out seconds that feel like an eternity. Each breath it forces into her lungs is a reminder of how close I came to losing her.
How close I still am.
