But showing up. Holding on. Refusing to let go even when everything is falling apart.
Marley’s head settles back on my shoulder, and I press another kiss to her hair. “Thank you,” I whisper. “For coming. For staying. For loving me despite the mess.”
“Always,” she murmurs back. “I’m not going anywhere, City Boy. You’re stuck with me.”
“Best thing I’ve ever been stuck with, Small Town.”
Outside this room, the media circus rages. Derek’s lies spread like poison. My reputation crumbles. The business I kept honoring my parents faces scrutiny.
But in this room, with Marley’s hand in mine and Queenie’s heart beating steadily on the monitor, I feel something I didn’t expect to feel again.
Hope.
Not because the situation isn’t dire—it is.
Not because the road ahead will be easy—it won’t be.
But because I’m not facing it alone.
I have Marley. I have my brothers. I have Maria Moretti investigating, using police resources.
And I have love.
Real, messy, complicated, beautiful love.
The kind worth fighting for.
The kind worth surviving for.
And fuck if I am not going to do everything I can to fight like hell for it.
Chapter Thirty-One
MARLEY
One Week Later
My mind wanders to Queenie, still recovering in the hospital. She’s developed a bad case of pneumonia as a side effect of the smoke inhalation, so the doctors are doing all they can for her.
Nitro is worried sick.
We all are.
But the world doesn’t stop turning, and the assholes don’t stop being cunts just because the people we love are fading before our very eyes.
Derek needs to pay, and after taking some time to come up with a plan at Queenie’s bedside, today we’re taking a stand.
The wire itches against my skin.
Not physically, the thin adhesive tape holding the tiny microphone between my breasts is barely noticeable, but mentally, it burns like a brand. Ghost spent twenty minutes making sure it was secure, his hands clinical and professional as he explained how the device works, how far the range extends, how Maria Moretti’s team will hear every word Derek says.
Every confession.
Every damning admission.
Every piece of evidence we need to put him away for what he did to Queenie, to those innocent people at Sunset Manor, to Nitro.
“You’re sure about this?” Ghost asked one final time before we left the clubhouse, his eyes searching mine with that quiet intensity he’s known for.
