Then I hear it. The kitchen door creaks open behind us.
Fuck. No.
My gun snaps back up instinctively as dread claws up my chest. From where I stand, I can’t see the entire room, but I know the moment Charlotte steps out.
I feel it.
Fuck, go back inside.
Too late. The man notices immediately. His eyes slide past us, locking onto the movement near the kitchen door. “You must be Charlotte Hayes,” he drawls, that smug smile never leaving his face.
If I have to turn my back on the enemy just to make sure she’s safe, so be it.
I pivot.
Charlotte stands near the kitchen doorway, completely still. Fear has locked her whole body in place. Her shoulders are stiff. Her eyes dart wildly across the room, but her head barely moves.
Fucking fuck.
Ryder is closer to her, so I glance sharply at him, silently urging him to see what I’m seeing.
Wolf steps forward before anything else can happen. “You talk to me,” he says coldly. “Who the hell are you?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I signal Joe behind the bar to check the perimeter outside. I move—slowly, deliberately—until I’m standing beside Wolf. Directly between Charlotte and the stranger.
The man lifts both hands casually, pure arrogance dripping from the gesture. “I did come to talk to you, Wolf,” he says lightly. “Charlotte is merely… a bonus.”
He grins at her and takes a casual step toward her. There’s still a good ten feet between them, but every instinct in my body screams danger.
Another step.
Ryder reacts instantly. His gun comes up as he grabs Bel by the arm, yanking her behind him.
Spike moves just as fast, pulling Charlotte back and shielding her with his body.
I release a quiet breath, but the relief never comes. Because the bastard doesn’t even look threatened.
“I’m going to have to ask you to stop right there,” Wolf grits out.
The man finally pauses. Slowly. He tilts his head, studying all of us like we’re mildly interesting. And smiles wider. “Mihai,” he says, rolling his neck slowly, one hand pressing against the back of it. The movement is casual. Lazy. But there’s something deeply unsettling about it. “Mihai Rosca,” he continues smoothly. “I believe you know my sister… Ioana?”
The name lands heavy in the middle of the clubhouse. For a split second, the entire room holds its breath.
I flick a glance at Wolf. He doesn’t even move. His eyes stay locked on Mihai like he’s staring down a loaded bomb.
Christ. The head of the Rosca family is standing in our clubhouse. Not some runner. Not a messenger. The boss.
This makes absolutely no sense. Men like Mihai Rosca don’t stroll into biker compounds alone. They send soldiers. Lawyers. Killers. But not themselves—surely?
My grip tightens around the gun. The longer I look at him, the more wrong this situation feels.
He’s too calm, which means one thing.
He’s got insurance.
My eyes flick toward the door, the windows, the darkened lot outside. How many men can we not see?
We’re armed, sure. But if this turns into a shootout with the Romanian mafia, the Wardens of Sin will be wiped off the map before sunrise.
