“That you’ll come back. That you won’t make me regret letting you walk out that door. You won’t let this be the last time I see you.”
I tightened my grip on her hand. “I swear it.”
Her eyes held mine, fierce and unwavering. “Good, because I’m not going anywhere.”
I gave her a slow nod and stepped back, squaring my shoulders.
The night air hit like a slap, cold and sharp as I swung my leg over my bike. Engines rumbled beneath me deep, steady, like a heartbeat that couldn’t be stopped.
Brothers all around were revving, ready. Riot, Keno, and Link flanked me, faces set like stone. Every man in the club had a stake in the war.
I glanced back once, catching Lucy’s eyes through the window. The fire in her gaze burned hotter than any flame we’d fought.
The streets blurred under us, lights and shadows dancing. The weight of Caleb’s memory pressed heavy on my chest. It wasn’t only revenge—it was a reckoning.
The Fangs thought they could bury us, break us. They were about to find out how deep the scars ran and how far we’d ride to make them pay.
Every mile, every roar of the engine, I felt the club’s strength behind me. But all I could think of was Lucy waiting, watching, praying I’d come back to her.
I tightened my grip on the handlebars and made a silent promise.
We hit the warehouse like a storm. Bikes parked silently in the shadows, engines died, leaving only the hum of anticipation. I signalled, and the brothers fanned out, moving like predators.
The Fangs were ready... or thought they were. Link and Riot took the flanks, silent and lethal. I led the charge through the main entrance, gun drawn, eyes scanning for movement. The first wave of guards didn’t stand a chance. Quick, precise, each move rehearsed a thousand times. Bodies hit the concrete before the echo could even register. Sparks flew as a live wire slapped against a crate, the smell of ozone mixing with gunpowder. Shouts rang out as more realised what was happening.
Lucy’s intel had been perfect. I found the shipment stacked in the back, cash and weapons in crates. I motioned to the brothers—time was tight. Riot slammed a crate into a fleeing thug, sending him sprawling into a wall, groaning. Another one was disarmed by Link as a shelf collapsed nearby, the wood breaking apart.
Then I saw him, the Fang lieutenant responsible for shipping Caleb and Diesel’s misery into our lives. He froze when our eyes met, his confidence faltering.
“You took what was mine,” I shouted, boots crunching over broken glass as I closed the distance. “This is for her. For Caleb. For Diesel.”
He swung wild, desperation in every strike. I ducked, slammed a fist into his ribs, felt something crack. His scream was swallowed by the roar of chaos, crates toppling, sparks spitting from a blown fuse. Money spilled across the concrete like blood, useless and empty.
I grabbed his kutte, yanked him forward, and drove my forehead into his nose. Bone gave way with a sickening crunch. He staggered, coughing, crimson streaming down his face.
“Get up,” I snarled. “We’re not done.”
He did, barely, and I broke him down piece by piece. Every punch was Caleb’s ghost. Every kick was Lucy’s fear. Every chokehold was Diesel’s memory carved into my knuckles.
When he finally dropped, gasping on the floor, his face bloody and swollen. I crouched low, fisting his hair, forcing him to look at me.
“You tell your boys,” I hissed. “Tell every Fang still breathing, the Dead Knights don’t forgive. We don’t forget. If they come near her again, I won’t leave anyone alive to carry the message.”
I let him drop, coughing, blood pooling beneath him. His glare was weak, broken, but he was breathing and that was enough.
I turned back to the brothers. Riot and Link already had the other bastards on the ground, crates of cash and weapons secured.
We walked back to the bikes, engines hungry in the night. For the first time, the weight on my chest felt lighter.
Engines thundered to life, the night swallowing our retreat. Sparks spat from a busted streetlight as we tore past, casting shadows across graffiti-filled walls. Behind us lay blood, broken bones, and a lieutenant left barely breathing only so he could crawl back with our warning.
My hands throbbed against the grips, skin split, knuckles raw. Every twist of the throttle sent pain lancing up my arms, but I welcomed it. The ache was proof, of Caleb, of Diesel, of Boxer, of Lucy. Proof I’d done what had to be done.
Every mile pounded like a war drum in my chest, the promise I’d made Lucy burning hotter than the exhaust in the air: I’d come back to her. After that night, the Fangs would never forget the Dead Knights or what happens when you lay hands on what’s mine.
Chapter 52
Lucy
