Chapter 18
Wendy had never been inside the chapel before.
The reinforced door, the heavy wood table, the patches and photos on the walls—it all felt sacred in a way that had nothing to do with religion.
This was where the Wolves made decisions.
Where they planned wars and declared peace and decided who lived and died.
She wasn't supposed to be here.
But when Blizzard had asked if she had anything to contribute, she'd said yes. And Alpha had nodded once, which apparently meant the rules didn't apply.
"Arthur Dante operates out of a warehouse in Gage Park." Blizzard stood at the head of the table, pointing to a map Scout had pinned to the wall. "He stores stolen merchandise there and meets with his network contacts every Friday night. Tomorrow."
"Security?" Razor asked.
"Down to six men, maybe less. He's been bleeding personnel since we started hitting his operation.
" Blizzard's voice was flat, businesslike.
"The warehouse has two main entrances—loading dock on the east side, office access on the west. No external cameras, but he's probably got interior surveillance. "
"Probably?" Alpha raised an eyebrow.
"Scout couldn't get close enough to confirm without tipping our hand. But Dante's paranoid. He'll have eyes inside."
The brothers around the table exchanged glances. Fang cracked his knuckles. Stockyard checked his phone. Lakeshore stared at the map with the focused intensity of a man calculating distances and angles.
"We need to know his Friday schedule," Razor said. "When he arrives, when he leaves, how long he's vulnerable."
"I can help with that."
Every head in the room turned toward Wendy.
She stepped forward, ignoring the weight of their attention.
"There's a dry cleaner next to my store—Mrs. Kowalski.
She's been there for thirty years. Knows everyone, sees everything.
" Wendy pulled out her phone, scrolling to a text message.
"I called her yesterday. Asked if she'd noticed any patterns at the businesses Arthur uses as fronts. "
"And?" Alpha's voice was neutral, but his eyes had sharpened.
"The warehouse in Gage Park. Every Friday night, a van arrives at 8 p.m. Arthur shows up thirty minutes later in a silver sedan. He stays until midnight, sometimes later." She looked up from her phone. "Mrs. Kowalski's sister lives on that block. She watches them unload through her kitchen window."
Silence fell over the chapel.
Then Razor laughed—short, surprised, genuine.
"Your bookstore owner just delivered better intel than our prospects." He shook his head at Blizzard. "Where'd you find this one?"
"She found me." Blizzard's expression didn't change, but something warm flickered in his eyes when he looked at her. "She's pack."
"Damn right she is." Alpha stood, planting his hands on the table. "Friday night. 8 p.m. arrival, Arthur shows at 8:30. That gives us our window."
The planning shifted into high gear.
Razor took over, mapping entry points and exit routes. Scout would cover the loading dock. Alpha and Fang would take the office entrance. Blizzard and Stockyard would sweep the interior once the perimeter was secure.
Wendy listened without speaking, watching the men she'd come to think of as family prepare for violence. It should have scared her. A month ago, it would have.
Now it just felt necessary.
"What about me?" she asked when the tactical discussion wound down.
"You stay here." Blizzard's voice left no room for argument. "Lakeshore's on compound security. You don't leave his sight until I get back."
"I wasn't planning to charge in with a baseball bat."
"Good. Because that's not happening." He crossed to where she stood, stopping close enough that she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes. "This ends tomorrow. Arthur Dante dies, and then we're done. But I need to know you're safe while I do it."
"I know."
"I'm serious, Wendy."
"So am I." She put her hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady beneath her palm. "Go finish this. I'll be here when you get back."
Something shifted in his expression—that thawing she'd learned to recognize, the ice cracking to reveal warmth underneath.
"You better be," he said quietly.
Friday came faster than Wendy expected.
The compound hummed with energy all day—brothers checking weapons, testing bikes, moving through the space with the coiled tension of men preparing for a fight. The old ladies were quieter than usual, their conversations muted, their eyes tracking their men whenever they passed.
Wendy understood now. The waiting. The fear that lived beneath the surface, carefully controlled but never quite gone. This was the price of loving a Wolf—the knowledge that every time they rode out, they might not come back.
She found Claire in the kitchen around five, both of them pretending to eat sandwiches neither of them wanted.
"First big one?" Claire asked.
"First one where he's going after the man who started it all."
"They're always harder. The end of something." Claire set down her sandwich. "But they come back. They always come back."
"How do you stand it? The waiting?"
Claire was quiet for a moment. Then: "You find something to fill the time. Something that matters. And you trust that the man you love knows what he's doing."
It wasn't much comfort. But it was honest, and Wendy appreciated that.
At 7:30, the brothers gathered in the garage.
Wendy stood in the doorway, watching them gear up. Leather cuts. Weapons checked and holstered. The particular ritual of men preparing for violence, familiar to them in ways she was still learning to understand.
Blizzard found her as the others mounted their bikes.
"We'll be back before midnight," he said. "Stay inside. Stay with Lakeshore. Don't do anything stupid."
"Define stupid."
"Anything that isn't sitting in the common room reading a book."
She smiled despite the fear coiling in her stomach. "I can manage that."
"Good." He kissed her—brief, fierce, full of promise. "I love you. I'll see you soon."
"I love you too." She grabbed the front of his cut before he could pull away. "Victor. Come back to me."
"Always."
Then he was gone, swinging onto his bike, falling into formation with his brothers. The engines roared to life one by one, filling the garage with thunder.
Alpha raised his hand. The gates opened.
And the Wolves rode out to war.
The compound felt empty without them.
Lakeshore stayed close—not hovering, but present. Always in the same room, always within reach. The old ladies gathered in the common room, filling the space with quiet conversation and forced normalcy.
Wendy sat in the reading corner she'd built, Hemingway heavy and warm on her lap, a paperback open on the arm of her chair. She'd been staring at the same page for twenty minutes.
"He'll be fine."
She looked up to find Andrea settling into the chair across from her.
"They're always fine," Andrea continued. "These men—they're harder to kill than they have any right to be. Fang's come back from things that should have put him in the ground three times over."
"That's not as comforting as you think it is."
"I know." Andrea's smile was small, knowing. "But it's true. And sometimes true is all we've got."
Wendy turned back to her book. The words still wouldn't focus.
8:00 came and went. Then 8:30. Then 9:00.
The compound breathed around her, full of women waiting, full of silence that felt heavier than sound.
Hemingway purred against her chest, oblivious to the tension. She scratched behind his ears and tried to find comfort in the simple rhythm of it.
He'll come back. He always comes back.
She didn't know if that was true. Didn't know if anything was true, right now, with the man she loved riding toward violence while she sat safe and useless in a reading corner full of rescued books.
But she'd made him a promise.
She'd be here when he got back.
So she turned the page she hadn't read, pulled Hemingway closer, and waited.
The compound emptied of bikes and brotherhood. The old ladies murmured in corners. The clock on the wall ticked toward midnight.
And Wendy sat in the common room with a cat on her lap and a book in her hand, waiting for the sound of engines that would tell her it was finally over.