Every brother straightens.
Every gaze sharpens.
This is what we came for.
The doors open, and Derek Fletcher stumbles out in handcuffs and an orange jumpsuit that makes him look exactly like the criminal he is. Gone is the expensive suit, the practiced confidence, the cruel superiority.
Now he looks small.
Pathetic.
His eyes scan the crowd of onlookers and reporters with cameras, then he sees us.
All of us.
A wall of bikers watching him with the cold, patient satisfaction of men who know justice is being served.
His face goes pale.
I feel Marley tense beside me, and I squeeze her hand, anchoring her. Reminding her she’s safe. That I’ve got her.
Derek’s eyes lock on Marley, and something flickers across his features—rage, shame, disbelief. He opens his mouth as if he wants to say something, but the corrections officers yank him forward, and whatever pathetic excuse or final manipulation he had planned dies on his tongue.
We watch in silence as they walk him toward the entrance. Every step he takes toward that building is a step toward paying for what he did. For the people who died at Sunset Manor. For Queenie. For trying to destroy me and frame me for his own sick need for control.
The steel doors close behind him with a finality that echoes across the parking lot.
Marley lets out a shaky breath, and I pull her into my chest, wrapping both arms around her. She’s trembling, but when I look down at her face, there are no tears.
Just relief.
Raw, bone-deep relief.
“It’s over,” she whispers against my cut.
“Not quite,” Sin says, his voice carrying that edge that means he’s got something planned. “Nitro, with me. We need to have a word with the warden.”
I glance at Marley, but Victoria is already there, taking my place at her side. “Go,” Victoria says. “We’ll be right here.”
Sin and I peel away from the group, walking with purpose toward the side entrance where Warden Mitchell stands, arms crossed, watching us approach with the wary assessment of a man who knows exactly who we are and what we’re capable of.
“Gentlemen,” he says, his tone neutral.
“Warden,” Sin replies, stopping just close enough to be respectful but not so close as to seem threatening. “Appreciate you taking the time.”
“I didn’t really have a choice, did I?” Mitchell’s lips quirk, almost amused.
Sin pulls an envelope from inside his cut, thick, sealed, unmarked. He hands it over without ceremony. “A donation,” he says smoothly. “For the prison reform initiative. Better facilities for guards. Safety equipment. That sort of thing.”
Mitchell takes the envelope, weighs it in his hand, and something passes between them. An understanding. A transaction completed in silence.
“Generous of you,” the warden says, tucking the envelope inside his jacket. “I’m sure it’ll go to good use.”
“I’m sure it will,” Sin agrees, his voice pleasant, his eyes anything but.
They nod at each other, then Sin and I turn and walk back toward the group. I feel Marley’s eyes on me the whole way, sharp and questioning.
The moment we reach the bikes, she’s right there. “What was that about?” she asks, searching my face.
