Chapter 4
The Sons of Liberty compound looked like a fortress designed by men who'd watched too many war movies and decided more was always the answer.
Colleen climbed off the back of Anchor's bike—she'd refused to leave her own car behind, but he'd given her a look that said argue with me and see what happens, and somehow she'd ended up with her arms wrapped around his waist for the twenty-minute ride to South Philly.
Not the worst decision she'd ever made.
"This is your clubhouse?" She stared up at the converted brewery, three stories of industrial brick with security cameras on every corner. "Looks like you're expecting a siege."
"Always expecting something." Anchor's hand found the small of her back, guiding her toward the entrance. Casual. Possessive. Like he'd been touching her for years instead of hours. "Philly teaches you that."
The main doors opened onto controlled chaos—a bar running the length of one wall, pool tables in the back, men in leather cuts watching her with eyes that assessed and dismissed in the same heartbeat.
Revolutionary War reproductions hung between beer signs and club memorabilia.
The whole place smelled like motor oil, whiskey, and testosterone.
She'd been in FOBs that felt less dangerous.
"Anchor." A massive man at the bar nodded—six-three, face like carved granite, knuckles that looked like they'd been flattened against a hundred jaws. "She the tattoo artist?"
"She's with me, Gallows."
Something passed between them. Understanding, maybe. Or warning.
Gallows's gaze swept over her, lingered on the ink covering her arms, and then he gave a single nod that felt like approval.
"Chapel's ready. Patriot's waiting."
Anchor's hand pressed firmer against her spine. "Let's go."
The chapel was smaller than she'd expected—heavy oak table, chairs around it, a gavel at the head and club insignia carved into the wall. Men filled every seat, and they all turned when she walked in.
Colleen had faced down insurgents, held dying soldiers, told generals where they could shove their bureaucratic bullshit.
This was different.
These men didn't operate by rules she understood. They made their own.
"Miss Brannigan." The man at the head of the table rose. Patriot—she'd heard the name, knew he ran the Sons with the kind of iron control that came from years of violence. Crooked nose, cold blue eyes, scar through his eyebrow. The whole package screamed do not fuck with me.
"Just Colleen."
His mouth twitched. "Colleen, then. Anchor says you've got a problem."
"I've got a loan shark who thinks fear is a business model." She didn't sit—hadn't been invited to, and she wasn't about to show weakness by asking. "Warren Driscoll's been squeezing Fishtown businesses for protection money. I told him no. He disagreed with a brick through my window."
"And your fist through his collector's face," another man added. Lean, alert eyes, road rash scars up one arm. "Word travels fast."
"I don't like being pushed."
"Neither do we." Patriot leaned back, studying her. "Driscoll's been operating in our territory for months. We knew about it—small-time stuff, or so we thought. But he's gotten bold."
"Bold enough to think he owns blocks we bled for," said a third man—big, aggressive energy, shrapnel scars on his neck and jaw. He practically vibrated with the desire to hit something. "I say we put him down tonight."
"Gunner." Patriot's voice carried warning. "We do this right."
"Right means slow. Slow means more windows get broken. More shop owners pay—"
"Slow means we don't start a war we haven't scouted." Patriot's eyes moved to Anchor, who'd positioned himself at Colleen's shoulder like a bodyguard. "What do we know?"
"Driscoll runs sixteen collectors out of Kensington," Anchor said.
"Main enforcer is Neil Garrett—he's the one who painted her window and came back this morning for round two.
There's an operations manager named Dominic Talley who handles the books.
And Driscoll's got a nephew, Craig, who's been pushing for harsher measures. "
Colleen blinked. He'd learned all of that since yesterday?
"Driscoll himself stays clean," Anchor continued. "Lets his people do the dirty work while he collects payments and pretends he's a legitimate businessman."
"So we take out the people," Gunner said. "Cut off his arms, see how well he squeezes then."
"That's one option." Patriot's gaze returned to Colleen. "You've been in his crosshairs for two weeks. What can you tell us?"
She straightened. This was her moment—prove she wasn't just some damsel who needed rescuing, or confirm their worst assumptions about civilians.
"Driscoll's patient," she said. "First visit was polite. Reasonable, even. Men in decent suits explaining that Fishtown businesses contribute to neighborhood security. When I laughed at them, the price doubled. When I still refused, they sent Garrett with a brick and a message."
"Consistent pressure," Anchor murmured. "Breaks people faster than sudden violence."
"That's his play. He's been doing this for fifteen years, block by block. The neighborhood's terrified of him—my neighbor, Mrs. Kowalski, pays every month just to avoid trouble. So does the coffee shop owner. The dry cleaner. Everyone pays."
"Except you," Patriot said.
"Except me."
Silence fell. Heavy. Assessing.
Then Patriot smiled—not warm, exactly, but something approaching respect.
"You told a loan shark to fuck himself and punched his enforcer in the face," he said. "Either you're brave or you're stupid."
"Little of both." Colleen shrugged. "But I spent four years stitching soldiers together in field hospitals while mortars fell. Some asshole with a protection racket isn't going to make me flinch."
A rumble of approval moved through the room. Gunner grinned like she'd just become his favorite person.
"I like her," he said.
"You like anyone who throws punches," Gallows replied.
"Exactly."
Patriot raised a hand, and the room went silent.
"Warren Driscoll has been operating in Sons territory without permission, tribute, or respect," he said formally. "He's threatened businesses we protect, broken property we've claimed, and now he's targeting a woman who had the spine to tell him no."
His gaze swept the table.
"Vote," he said. "Do we handle this?"
"Aye." Gallows, stone-faced.
"Aye." Gunner, eager.
"Aye." The lean one with the road rash scars. Turnpike, she thought his name was.
Around the table, one by one. Every man. Every voice.
Aye.
Patriot nodded once, final. The gavel came down.
"Warren Driscoll's operation ends. We start gathering intel, mapping his people, finding weaknesses." He looked at Anchor. "She stays under protection until this is finished. Your assignment—you don't leave her side."
Colleen opened her mouth to protest.
"Not negotiable," Anchor said quietly, close enough that she felt his breath on her ear. "You're under Sons protection now. That means me."
"I didn't ask for a babysitter."
"Good. Because I'm not offering one." His hand found her hip, fingers pressing through the fabric of her jeans. Possessive. Claiming. Mine. "I'm offering a partner. Someone who watches your back while you watch mine."
"And if I say no?"
His mouth curved. "You won't."
Arrogant bastard.
He was right, and they both knew it.
"Fine," she bit out. "But I'm not closing my shop. I don't care what threats Driscoll makes—Independence Ink stays open."
Patriot's eyebrows rose. "You want to keep working while a loan shark's gunning for you?"
"I want him to know I'm not afraid." She met his gaze without flinching. "Every day I open that door is a message. He can break my windows, send his collectors, burn the whole building down—I'll set up a tent in the ashes and keep inking. Warren Driscoll doesn't get to take what I built."
Another rumble through the room. This time it sounded like respect.
"Anchor," Patriot said. "Your woman's got fire."
Your woman.
The words landed like a brand, hot and permanent. Colleen should have corrected him—she wasn't anyone's anything, hadn't been for years, didn't plan to start now.
But Anchor's fingers tightened on her hip, and when she looked up at him, the hunger in his eyes stole the argument right out of her mouth.
"Yeah," he said softly. "She does."
Church ended with handshakes and promises—brothers welcoming her under the club's protection, offering resources and backup and the particular kind of violence that came with men who solved problems permanently.
Colleen walked out of the chapel with Anchor's hand still on her hip and the weight of everything she'd just agreed to pressing down on her shoulders.
She was under Sons protection now.
And Anchor was her shadow.
God help them both.