Chapter 20
TWENTY
Ruin
“Who is this… Ioana?” Dad asks sharply. “I’m guessing she’s some kind of intermediary for the Ro?ca family?”
I’ve never seen him this heated. Not even two years ago, when everything went down with Charlotte. He’s pacing the entire length of Wolf’s office, boots thudding against the floor, hands clenched at his sides like he’s barely holding himself back.
Ryder answers before anyone else can. “She’s the sister of their Na?u,” he says evenly. “Or whatever the Romanians call their mafia head.”
Dad stops pacing long enough to glare at him. “You’re telling me the sister of a Romanian mob boss is sniffing around my Charlotte?”
The warmth from his words lasts less than a second before Ryder’s jaw tightens.
His voice stays controlled. “There isn’t much on the Ro?ca family,” he continues.
“They’re ghosts online. But I did confirm Sandra Wentley was in contact with Ioana years ago.
She was negotiating the sale of a thirteen-year-old Charlotte. ”
The words land like a punch.
“All communication went through a burner email account until… Savage intervened,” Ryder adds quietly.
Dad drags a hand down his face. “Christ,” he mutters. “That woman didn’t have a single decent bone in her body. Thank fuck she’s dead.”
No one argues with that.
Wolf leans forward against his desk, forearms braced as he studies the phone lying between us. “We’re trying to figure out why Hellfire would reach out to Ioana now,” he says slowly. “Especially while attacking our clubs.”
“If Hell’s Army wanted Charlotte,” Ryder adds, his tone uncertain, “they could’ve grabbed her back in Craven Ridge.”
A thought hits.
“But they didn’t want to,” I cut in.
Three heads turn toward me.
“They waited,” I say, the realization turning my stomach. “They waited until she was here. Until we were stretched thin and leaning on our alliances with the Nomads and the Reapers. They’re planning something bigger.”
The room goes quiet. Silently absorbing the little detail.
Ryder exhales heavily. “Any word from Rebel?” He looks to Wolf when he asks it. Our Prez’s eyes gleam with calculation.
“No,” Wolf says. “But he told Blaze he’d join the call.”
Dad snorts under his breath.
We wait, and the minutes stretch. Wolf’s phone sits on the desk between us like a ticking bomb.
Finally, it buzzes. Wolf grabs it instantly and hits speaker. “Blaze.”
“Here,” Blaze answers, voice rough but steady. “Hold up. I’m pulling Rebel in.”
There’s a brief crackle on the line.
Then another voice joins—calm. Cold.
“Rebel.”
Wolf straightens slightly.
Six men. Three clubs. One mess.
“Blaze. Rebel,” he begins. “I’ve got my VP, SAA, and former VP here. You see the message I sent about Ioana Rosca?”
Blaze grunts in confirmation. Rebel hums thoughtfully.
“So you’re caught up,” Ryder says.
“Yeah,” Blaze replies grimly. “And I gotta say, Wolf… the second you dropped that name, things started smelling a whole lot worse. Rosca family is notorious for not getting involved with the clubs. I’m not sure why Hell’s Army would have anything to do with them.”
Rebel’s voice follows, quiet and cutting. “The Ro?ca family doesn’t move unless money—or leverage—is involved,” he says calmly through the speaker. “I’m guessing that leverage is currently sleeping in your clubhouse, Wolf?”
A growl tears out of my throat before I can stop it. Someone huffs on the other end of the line—Blaze, maybe Rebel. Hard to tell.
Dad jumps in next, his voice tight with fury.
“I don’t know shit about these Romanian fuckers,” he snaps, “but Hellfire can find leverage in a goddamn desert if he looks hard enough. What I want to know is why he’s got his sights on Charlotte.
And whether we need to start preparing for an all-out war. ”
Blaze exhales sharply through the line. “Torch, I respect you, brother,” he says, voice rough. “But I just buried my VP. Shotgun’s dead. And it’s your club princess who dragged us into this shit.”
The room goes still.
Wolf’s chair scrapes loudly as he pushes himself up. “How exactly is that her fault?” he bites out. “By existing?”
Blaze doesn’t answer immediately, so Wolf keeps going, his temper finally slipping. “She didn’t grow up in the club,” he says harshly. “Our mother—fucking Sandy—raised her somewhere else. I didn’t even know my mother was alive. She fucking walked out on the Wardens when I was three.”
Rebel hums quietly. “Doesn’t matter,” he says after a moment. “She’s still a club princess.”
The way he says it makes my skin crawl.
“And from what I know,” Rebel continues smoothly, “princesses from fallen MCs fetch around ten mil a cunt in the right markets.”
Motherfucking Christ.
“Give or take.”
The office explodes with tension. Every man in the room goes rigid. We already knew this, but to hear it in such crass terms makes my blood boil.
My hands curl into fists so tight my knuckles crack. For a split second, I seriously consider smashing the phone to shut him the fuck up.
“Watch your fucking mouth,” I growl.
Rebel doesn’t even sound bothered. “I’m just stating facts.”
Dad’s voice cuts through the room, flat and colorless. “Sandy didn’t leave.”
Wolf’s head snaps toward him.
“She didn’t walk out on you,” Dad shrugs, his tone darkening. “Savage kicked that bitch out.”
A heavy pause settles over the line.
“What?” I finally ask. Wolf is staring at my father, stunned—speechless.
Dad lets out a humorless chuckle. “Because she was fucking prospects behind his back. He didn’t want anyone to know because… well, how good is a Prez who is cuckolded by his Ol’ Lady?”
Silence follows. Even Rebel doesn’t have a quick comeback for that one.
Wolf exhales slowly, dragging a hand over his face. “Doesn’t change the problem in front of us,” he mutters.
Ryder finally speaks again, voice steady but tight. “If Hellfire’s meeting Ioana Ro?ca,” he says, “then maybe Charlotte’s sale from years ago might not have been closed properly.”
I frown. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” Ryder says quietly, “someone might still think they own the rights to her.”
My stomach twists violently. If that’s true, then this isn’t just about leverage. It’s about someone coming back to collect what they believe they already paid for. That the swap was not enough.
But why now? After seven fucking years, why is the buyer interested again?
An hour later, I’m sitting at the small bar inside the clubhouse. It’s nothing like Sinful Chugs—half the size, half the noise—but it does have the whiskey I’ve been craving ever since Rebel opened his mouth earlier.
‘Ten mil a cunt…’
That was right before the bastard officially rescinded his alliance. Said he wouldn’t throw his men into a losing war.
Guns? Sure. Men? Not a chance.
The Nomads are a different story. Blaze and his whole club are baying for blood after Shotgun’s murder. Hell’s Army made his Ol’ Lady a widow and left their six-year-old kid without a father.
Even with the Nomads backing us, we still don’t have the numbers. Not against a club ten times our size.
My vision blurs slightly as I stare into my glass, the amber liquid shifting in and out of focus.
Charlotte is in the kitchen with Bel and Misty. Every now and then her laughter drifts through the swinging door. But it’s wrong. Forced. Strained.
I recall what Ryder had warned me about after our conversation ended.
She’s not handling the stress well.
She’s jittery. Not eating.
You need to be careful with her, brother.
I hated that he noticed those things too.
But over the past week, I’ve gained some perspective about this situation. It’s hard to get it when you’re nothing more than a shadow, watching a woman’s life from a distance you can’t cross without bulldozing straight through her.
‘They created the space for my peace. Not their penance.’
The moment Charlotte said those words to me, everything clicked.
I had been approaching this from guilt. From some twisted idea I could make things right by winning her over. By defending her harder. As if that would fix what I did. As if she wanted that.
All while forgetting one simple truth. I’m her fucking trauma.
She wasn’t looking for some stolen romance. Not with me. Not with anyone. She was looking for peace. The peace she built in Craven Ridge. The sanctuary she was forced to abandon for her own safety.
And the Wardens? This place is nothing but a reminder of why she had to fight so hard to find that peace in the first place.
Hell, I’m a reminder.
I swallow another mouthful of whiskey, letting the burn settle in my chest.
So that’s what I’ve been focusing on instead. Trying to figure out how to give her peace here.
A week later, I still have no fucking clue how. Not in a clubhouse where all her nightmares were born.
“You look deep in thought.”
I glance sideways at Scar as he drops onto the stool beside me. He signals a prospect for a drink.
I sigh, dragging a hand over my jaw. “Just waiting for the damn shoe to drop.”
Scar nods slowly, accepting his glass when the prospect sets it down. He takes a heavy swallow before speaking again. “Ruin, I don’t know what’s going on lately. But Hound and Healer are starting to ask questions.”
My brows knit together. “About?”
He scoffs lightly. “About being officers and still being kept out of the real conversations.”
That has my attention.
“They see it, you know,” he continues. “You slipping into Wolf’s office. Your quiet talks with Ryder. They know something’s up.” He takes another sip, eyeing me carefully. “They think the three of you are hiding something.”
I glance at him fully now. We really have made this messy. Our loyalties have split straight down the middle—Charlotte on one side, the club on the other.
“And you?” I ask quietly. “What’s the Road Captain thinking?”
Scar’s brows lift slightly. “I think,” he says slowly, “you’re giving Charlotte a hell of a lot more attention than the club right now.”
I open my mouth to tell him Charlotte is club.
He raises both hands before I can snap. “Hey—don’t get me wrong. I get it. I’ve watched Wolf drowning in guilt for two years. Now she’s back… I can see why he’s struggling.”
His words settle heavy between us. I nod once.
“We’ll hold church tomorrow,” I say finally. “Things are still shifting. No point dragging everyone into half-answers.”
Scar studies me for a second before asking, “Any chance of getting the Reapers back?”
A dark chuckle slips out of me. “Not a fucking chance.” I shake my head, staring down at my glass. “Rebel’s made up his mind. He thinks this is our war.”
“Even though his compound got hit last week?” Scar mutters.
“Even then.”
Scar groans, rubbing the back of his neck. “They’ve never had to deal with Hell’s Army before. And the one time we actually need them beside us…” He shakes his head with a bitter sneer. “Fucking cowards.”
I shrug. There’s nothing we can do about it. Rebel even gave up his cut of the weapons shipment as compensation for walking away.
Money instead of men, which tells me everything I need to know. When the Hell’s Army is at our doorstep, we’ll be standing alone. The little peace I might be able to create for Charlotte, could vanish in a blink of an eye.
The thought sits heavy in my chest as I push my empty glass away. I’m about to get up, maybe head to the kitchen, to see her for a second and make sure she’s okay. Unless she’s in front of me, the gnawing fear inside my ribs doesn’t settle. Not even the sound of her voice does it anymore.
My hand is braced on the bar when—
Bang.
The clubhouse door slams open so hard it smashes against the wall. Every brother in the room goes rigid. Chairs scrape. Hands reach for weapons. The air shifts instantly, from tired tension to something sharp and deadly.
I’m off the stool before I even realize it. Gun in hand. Safety off. My finger rests outside the trigger guard as I take a step forward.
The entire room falls silent and the sharp clacking of shoes follows.
A man emerges from the dark shadows outside, in a perfectly tailored black trench coat—jacket stretched across broad shoulders. Black slacks. A gold chain glints lazily against the dark turtleneck wrapped around his throat.
He takes a slow drag from the cigarette between his fingers. Smoke curls through the air as he exhales, completely unbothered by the dozen guns now aimed at his chest.
The bastard doesn’t even pause. He strolls into the clubhouse like it’s his own little playground. Boots quiet against the floor. Another drag. Another cloud of smoke.
His gaze drifts around the room, lazy and assessing, like he’s inspecting property he already bought.
My pulse starts pounding. I know that kind of confidence. The kind only men with entire armies behind them carry.
He finally stops a few feet inside the room. His dark eyes land on me, then my patch.
A slow smile spreads across his face before scanning the room again. “Well,” he says smoothly. “Which one of you is Wolf?”
I swallow hard, his accent thick and unmistakably Eastern European.
The room goes deathly still and something cold settles deep in my gut.
The man flicks his cigarette onto our clubhouse floor and crushes it beneath his polished shoe. His smile doesn’t falter as he tilts his head slightly. Hands sliding uncaringly into his pant pockets. “I believe you have something that belongs to my sister.”