36. Atlas
36
ATLAS
I keep my bike tight to Quinn’s right side as she leads us through the streets of Detroit, her teal hair whipping behind her beneath her helmet. Every muscle in my body is coiled tight, scanning the shadows between buildings, watching every alley and rooftop we pass. The bullet wound in my back throbs with each breath, but I ignore it. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let pain distract me from keeping her safe.
Nico has our six, and Killian flanks Quinn’s left side, his gun tucked into the waistband of his pants where he can grab it quickly if he needs to. After losing every place that felt like home along with most of our allies, none of us are taking chances. Not anymore.
The city feels different now—hostile in a way it never did before. Every shadow could hide one of Ambrose’s mercenaries. Every parked car could fucking explode, killing us before we even realize what’s happening. My jaw clenches as I remember the sight of Blood and Ink going up in flames. Ever since the moment Quinn tried to frantically run inside the burning building, my protective instincts have been in overdrive.
I watch her like a hawk, looking for any sign that the weight of everything is becoming too much.
But she looks steady and strong as hell when she rides, and she’s leading us through the maze of streets like she was born to do it. As I maneuver my bike alongside hers, I can’t help but think about how fucking far we’ve all come. About the things we’ve done and the blood we’ve spilled. Some might call us monsters for it, but it’s more complicated than that.
There’s nothing complicated about what I feel for her though. Or for my brothers. And there’s sure as hell nothing complicated about what I’ll do to anyone who tries to hurt them.
We pull up outside the warehouse several minutes later, and I’m doing my usual scan of the perimeter before the engine even dies. I know the Voronin brothers keep this place locked down tight, but old habits die hard, and I’m not taking anything for granted these days.
Willow meets us at the door, and something in my chest eases at the genuine concern in her eyes when she sees Quinn. These two have gotten closer since we started working together, and I’m glad for it. Quinn needs someone like Willow—someone who understands what it means to walk the line between strength and survival in our world.
They hug, and I catch Malice’s nod of acknowledgment from where he’s positioned inside the entryway, watching them just like I am. He gets it. We’re all hyper-aware these days, all looking out for our own. The Voronin brothers might be our allies now, but none of us got where we are by dropping our guards completely.
“We made sure we weren’t followed,” Quinn says as they break apart.
Willow nods, her expression serious. “I know. I trust you.”
She gestures for us to come inside, and I share a look with my brothers as we follow Quinn into the foyer. Maybe a few weeks ago, I would’ve bristled at how easily Quinn relaxes here. I might’ve seen it as a weakness, this trust she’s building with people outside of our tight circle. But I’ve watched her carry too much weight on her shoulders and seen her try to be everything to everyone until there’s nothing left for herself.
So yeah, maybe we’re all learning to let our walls down inch by slow, steady inch. That doesn’t mean I won’t put a bullet in anyone who gives me half a reason to regret lowering those walls.
I notice Killian’s hand is hovering near his weapon too. It’s good to know I’m not the only one who can’t fully shake the instinct to protect what’s ours, even among friends.
“Glad you could join us this time,” Willow tells me as she closes the door behind us. “It’s good to see you in one piece.”
Before I can answer, Quinn cuts in. “ Mostly one piece. He keeps popping his fucking stitches.” She shoots me a look. “He’s never gonna fully heal if he doesn’t stop acting like he’s invincible.”
I raise a brow, because she knows exactly how I popped some of those stitches. And she was a willing participant, as I recall. Not that I’d say any of that out loud in front of our hosts, of course.
“Worth it,” I mutter instead, and Nico snorts behind me.
He knows how it is. He would’ve done the same damn thing in my place.
Willow darts a confused look between us for a moment, then flushes slightly as understanding dawns in her eyes. She clears her throat and takes Dayana from Malice, and the little girl immediately grabs a fistful of her hair.
“Just a heads up,” she says as she leads us toward the living room, “we have other visitors too. But you’re safe talking in front of them. I’d trust them with my life.”
Quinn takes that in stride, but my body goes on high alert all over again. When we reach the living room, I quickly scan the space, taking in the familiar forms of Victor and Ransom at a glance before shifting my focus to the newcomers—a tall, lithe woman with silver hair, and four men with almost as many tattoos and scars between them as my brothers and I have. She has a baby strapped to her chest, probably not much older than Willow’s kid, and there’s a little boy who looks to be maybe five or six years old standing by her side.
“River,” Willow says, gesturing to the silver-haired woman as she makes the introductions, “meet Quinn and her men. This is Atlas, Nico, and Killian. Guys, this is River and the Kings of Chaos. Priest, Knox, Gage, and Ash.”
The kid peers around River’s leg, studying us with serious eyes.
“Cody,” River tells him, ruffling his blond hair, “say hello.”
“Are you bad guys?” the boy asks, and fuck if that doesn’t hit different.
Killian makes a sound that might be a laugh. “Depends who you ask, kid.”
“They’re friends,” River tells him, but her eyes are sharp when they meet mine. Measuring. “Like Mama’s friends.”
That seems to satisfy the kid. He goes back to a spot where it looks like he’s been playing with several toys, but even as he sits down and picks up a small truck, I notice he keeps glancing our way. Smart. They’ve obviously taught him young not to trust too easy.
Willow takes a seat on one of the couches between Malice, Vic, and Ransom, who takes Dayana and keeps her entertained by waggling his pierced eyebrow as the rest of us settle in as well.
Quinn glances warily at River, and Willow must notice the look, because she says, “I haven’t told her anything yet. It’s up to you how much you want to share, but when I said I trust these people with my life, I meant it. So whatever you do say won’t leave this room. I promise.”
Knox, the biggest of River’s crew, leans against the wall, his thick arms crossed over his chest. “Yeah. We heard you’ve run into some problems, but that’s about all we know.”
Quinn snorts, scrubbing a hand over her face. “‘Problems’ is putting it mildly.”
I can still see the pain and stress etched into her features, but she seems more at ease than she did before, which I like. It hits me in a rush that maybe Willow really does get Quinn on a level I never quite appreciated until now. I don’t know much about this River woman or the Kings of Chaos, except by reputation and a few rumors I’ve picked up on the street—but it’s clear that Quinn feels comfortable around them. Maybe because, just like Willow and her men, they seem like they’ve been through some shit and come out the other side.
So I’m not completely surprised when Quinn takes Willow up on her offer to speak freely. Although she keeps some details close to the chest, she fills Willow and the others in on what happened last night, and the basics of what led up to it.
“One of my people sold me out,” she says, and although her tone is even, I can hear the rage simmering beneath it. “Emmett, the man who used to be my second. He told Ambrose about a marker I inherited from my father—a tattoo that guaranteed membership in the Dark Lotus Syndicate.”
Ash lets out a low whistle, adjusting his glasses with deft fingers. “Fuck. I’ve only ever heard rumors of them. Honestly, I was half convinced that it was just a myth or an urban legend.”
Quinn frowns. “Yeah, they operate from the shadows. When Vic helped us look into them, he could barely find anything.”
Victor nods, his cool gaze flicking toward her. “She’s right. It took some serious digging just to get a name. Malcolm Mercer.”
“Anyway, Ambrose wanted that membership,” Quinn continues. “He wanted it badly enough to capture Atlas and torture him just to make sure I’d give it up willingly. He knew he could use Atlas as leverage against me.”
My jaw clenches at the memory. The torture. The rage. I wish I could’ve killed that fucker back then, before Quinn was forced into accepting membership in this fucked up organization just so that she could use them as backup to free me from Ambrose’s clutches.
“There’s a special place in hell for people who use your loved ones as leverage,” River spits out, her angular features hardening as she rests a protective hand against the baby bundled against her chest. It’s clear that Quinn touched a nerve with that part of her story.
“You obviously got Atlas back.” Willow shoots me a sympathetic look. “But what happened with Ambrose?”
Quinn chuckles, a vicious edge to the sound. “I took the membership for myself instead of giving it to that fucker. I almost got him killed that night too. He didn’t appreciate either of those things very much.”
Respect dawns in River’s eyes, and Gage gives a satisfied nod, as if he would’ve done the exact same thing in Quinn’s shoes. Ransom runs a tongue between his teeth, revealing a flash of metal as the ball of a piercing catches the light.
“Hence the fires,” he says, grimacing.
Quinn’s jaw tightens, her hands curling into fists. “Yeah, hence the fires. He burned everything to the fucking ground. Not just my home, but Blood and Ink too.” She drags in a breath, her voice rough. “I had to disband Enigma to keep my people safe.”
The room goes quiet for a moment as the weight of her loss settles in, and a tight feeling grips my chest. Goddammit, I fucking hate this. It’s crazy that she can even talk about it in such a matter-of-fact way after all the shit she’s been through in the past twenty-four hours. Most people would have already broken down.
But Quinn isn’t like most people. She’s not like anyone else I’ve ever met. She’s fucking vicious and strong as hell. This isn’t going to break her.
“Wait.” River shifts forward, her silver hair sliding over her shoulder. “You said the Syndicate just let you join? Just like that?”
“No. Nothing is ‘just like that’ with them.” Quinn shakes her head stiffly. “I had the marker, so I was guaranteed a spot, but I still had to prove myself. And even now that I’m in the organization, I have to keep proving myself. They’re… not what I expected.”
I scowl as I remember the ceremony and how they branded her skin, burning away her father’s mark. She didn’t make a damn sound, even though I could see the pain flash through her eyes.
“How do you mean?” Willow asks, her brows furrowing.
Quinn chews on her lip, her gaze losing focus as she considers her answer for a moment. “They’re powerful and connected, and I knew that much going into the situation. But it’s more than that. They operate by their own rules. Everyone gets three favors—they call them votums. When someone calls one in, we all have to help. No questions asked.”
Gage’s piercing green eyes narrow. “What kind of favors are we talking about?”
“The kind that make you question your own humanity,” Quinn answers shortly. She doesn’t elaborate, but I don’t think she needs to. The people in this room have seen enough shit to have pretty fucking vivid imaginations. “Anyway, I’ve already used two of my votums. I used one to get Atlas back, then another to secure us someplace safe to stay after the fires.”
“And now they’re watching you,” Malice says. It’s not a question.
“Like hawks.” Quinn grimaces. “As if they’re just waiting for me to slip up.”
“Jesus.” Knox makes a face. “All these fucking secret societies and their goddamn intrigue and infighting. Those fuckers sound worse than that Ambrose asshole.”
Quinn lets out a humorless laugh. “In a way, yeah. But they’re a different kind of terrible. Ambrose is like a rabid dog. He’ll hunt me down until he gets his chance to take me out. But the Syndicate? They’re like a nest of scorpions. I never wanted to join their organization, but he forced my hand, and now I’m trapped in it. There won’t be any way out, except…”
She trails off, letting the last word go unspoken. But I hear it in my mind just as clearly as if she’d said it out loud.
Death .
The only way she’ll ever be free of the chains that bind her to the other Dark Lotus Syndicate members is if she’s dead.
My fingers itch with the urge to reach for my gun, or to ball into fists and beat my way through every single member of the Syndicate. She joined their ranks because of me, to save my life, and I’ll never be able to repay her for it—but I’ll goddamn well spend the rest of my life trying. I’d lay down my own life for hers in a heartbeat if it would protect her from the threats that seem to be closing in on all sides.
“First things first,” Willow says quietly, breaking the silence that’s fallen over the room. “The Syndicate sounds like it will be a problem, but the more immediate threat is Ambrose. So deal with him first. Then you can figure out what to do from there.”
There’s wisdom in her words, a kind of cool practicality that serves people well when they’re forced into dangerous situations. I can see how, despite her softer and more gentle outward appearance, she fits in well with the Voronin brothers.
“Agreed,” Nico growls. “We need to take Ambrose out before he attacks again. But the fucker has gone underground, and we don’t know how to make him show himself.”
Priest, the quietest of River’s men, leans forward suddenly, his light blue eyes flashing. “If you want to flush him out, then you should pull at the one thread that you know has been connected to him in the past. The rat. The one who sold you out. Emmett.”