“I can’t do what I need to do and look after Danika,” Dante confessed, his frustration clear.
He wanted to go. There was no denying the pull he felt—it ran deep through his veins, a need that was almost instinctive. Just like Travis and Sypher, he was driven by loyalty to his club and the bonds he shared with his brothers. For men like them, the commitment to their other family—the club and its members—often outweighed the obligations to those who truly needed them at home. That unwavering sense of duty shaped every decision, even when the cost was personal.
“Then leave my daughter with me,” I said, my voice distant as my mind began to spin through the possibilities. In my heart, I understood the reality—if Dante walked out that door, there was a chance he wouldn’t return. My words, my pleas, none of it would matter. Those men were bound by something I would never fully comprehend, and frankly, I had no desire to. That world, the biker world, was filled with dangers I could not control, and with every connection to it, the risk of losing someone only grew. I had no intention of standing in their way or trying to change who they were. If they needed to leave, to fight their battles and play their games, I wouldn’t attempt to stop them. But there was one thing I would not accept: allowing that life to take another person from my daughter. I would not let Danika’s life be upended by choices that were not hers. “But before you go,” I continued, steadying my voice, “I want you to file her adoption paperwork here in New York City. I’m not willing to risk her being left alone in this world, parentless and unprotected.”
“Mellie, I’m not...”
Getting to my feet, I couldn’t contain the frustration that had been building inside me. “No, Dante! I’ve lost enough already,” I shouted, my voice trembling with emotion. Without hesitation, I scooped my daughter into my arms, holding her close as if my embrace could shield her from the pain of abandonment. “You want to go, then go. I won’t stop you. But someone has to think about Danika and her needs.” My words hung heavily in the air, echoing my fear of losing one more person I cared about.
Suddenly, Rowen stormed into the room, his expression angry. “What the hell is going on in here?” he barked, his glare fixed on Dante, waiting for an explanation.
Dante met his gaze, his voice steady but tense. “I was telling Mellie that Mercy called me. He wants me to locate Arizona Stone. She thinks I’m leaving her and Danika.”
Rowen stepped closer to me, his tone challenging but protective. “Well, are you?” he demanded, making it clear that his intentions needed to be known.
Dante quickly shook his head in response. “No,” he replied firmly. “I just need a few hours a day alone to do my search. I can do it at home, but not with Danika around. I was going to ask Mellie if she wouldn’t mind watching Danika for a few hours a day in the morning so I could run over to the clubhouse, do what I need to do and then around lunchtime, I can grab Dani; that way I don’t disrupt her schedule.” His words revealed the pressure he felt, trying to manage his responsibilities without abandoning his family.
Rowen’s tone softened as he turned to me. “Melissa?” he whispered gently. I nodded, unable to hide the tears streaming down my face. Understanding the situation, Rowen addressed Dante, “Danika’s routine does not get interrupted for any reason. Understood? And you better pray you find Arizona before Sinclair returns home because he will have you and his granddaughter back under this roof if you haven’t, and you knowit.” The compromise was clear—Dante could pursue what he needed, but Danika’s well-being would remain the top priority.
Dante’s shoulders relaxed, a measure of relief in his voice. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I’m sorry, Mellie. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
I reached up and brushed away the tears from my cheeks, doing my best to compose myself. My smile was faint and trembling, but I managed to meet Dante’s eyes. “It’s okay,” I said quietly, my voice still unsteady. “I misunderstood what was happening—I thought you were leaving for good. Is that all this is about?” The relief in my words was tentative, layered with lingering uncertainty, but I was trying to find reassurance in his explanation. Danika shifted in my arms, her small hand reaching up to touch my face, concern flickering in her bright eyes. That simple gesture reminded me why I had to hold strong—she was my anchor, the reason I couldn’t give in to fear or anger. Taking a shaky breath, I forced myself to focus on the present, on the family that remained in this room with me, fragile as it all felt.
“We’ll figure this out,” I whispered, more to myself than anyone else. Dante nodded, offering a tentative, hopeful smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Rowen lingered at my side, silent now, but his steady presence spoke louder than any reassurance he could offer.
For now, that was enough.
As the tension in the room gradually ebbed, I felt the tiniest spark of determination rekindle inside me. No matter what came next—no matter what dangers lurked in the world—I would protect my daughter. I would fight for our peace, for our future, and hope that maybe, just maybe, I could find a way to survive it all.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Rowen
Walking into Calloway’s Bar & Grill, I paused to take in the warm, old-fashioned charm of the Irish pub. Its well-worn woodwork and faded photographs on the walls gave the place a familiar, comforting feel. I found a booth tucked away near the back, far from the main bustle and hidden from any curious onlookers. It was the kind of spot where you could have a quiet conversation without being overheard.
Before I had time to settle in, Stacy Calloway herself approached, a welcoming smile on her face as she set a menu down in front of me. “Been a long time, Rowen,” she said, her tone friendly but direct. “What brings you here?”
“Meeting a friend for lunch.”
Stacy didn’t say anything more, simply nodding before she walked away to tend to other customers. Calloway’s Bar & Grill was more than just a local pub—it was a family-run institution that served as a gathering place for New York’s bravest. The Calloway Clan, as they were known, took pride in serving their community and had dedicated themselves to protecting those around them. Their commitment was forged through hardship, especially after losing nearly half their family on September 11th. That tragic day took the lives of two of Stacy’s brothers, several cousins, and her husband, who had worked as an investment broker on the 82ndfloor of Tower One. Despite the pain, Stacy pressed on, running the bar with the same resilience that defined her family. Her daughter, Robin Calloway, went on tobecome a New York City detective, while her son, Justin—known as Storm—was a member of the Soulless Sinners Motorcycle Club.
I picked up the menu, scanning the options and letting my thoughts drift for a moment when two people slid into the booth with me—one was a familiar face I had expected, but the other caught me off guard. Before I could greet them, Stacy came over, her presence commanding attention.
“Good evening, everyone. Don’t know what I did to deserve your company tonight, but as long as you stay civil, we won’t have a problem. Got me?” Stacy’s tone was firm but not unfriendly, setting clear expectations for the night.
“Yes, ma’am,” I responded quickly, wanting to reassure her.
Stacy’s demeanor softened as she turned to Maddie. “Maddie,” she said with a warm smile, “tell your momma the Fireman’s Ball is coming up, and I’m gonna need her help since Justin is still away.” Her words carried both the weight of responsibility and the warmth of community reliance.
“Can I help too?” Madigan Kelley asked eagerly. “And I know Freyja would love to help as well.”
Stacy nodded, her appreciation evident. “I’ll take all the help I can get, honey. Tell your momma to call me.” Then she glanced at me and the man sitting beside the beautiful Irish woman, her eyes narrowing playfully. “You two, behave. I mean it.”
With that, Stacy left us, hurrying away.
I narrowed my eyes at the large man across from me, unable to hide my irritation. “What are you doing here?” I grumbled, the question laced with suspicion.
Rurik Ryabkin grinned, settling comfortably into the booth, his arm draped casually behind Madigan. “Heard you were looking for me. Thought I’d tag along,” he replied, his accent hinting at his Russian roots. Like the men he worked with, Rurik was from Russia. Among the ranks of the New York Bratva,he was known asShestyorka—the errand boy—occupying the lowest position within the organization. Yet his loyalty to Maxim Fedorov, thePakhan, was unwavering. “So why am I here?” he asked, his tone both curious and challenging.
