Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
Ruin
My knuckles blanch around the grip of my SIG. The trigger sits a breath away from my finger. But the cold smirk on the bastard’s face gives me pause. Something about him screams calculated.
My gut tells me he didn’t walk in here alone, even if he’s letting us believe we hold the advantage. That we’re in control.
Two sets of boots scrape the floor behind me. I don’t need to look to know who it is—their gait unmistakable. Wolf and Ryder.
Still, I glance back quickly, and both are armed. Ryder’s gun is up like mine, but Wolf’s rests low at his side, not aimed.
“Me,” Wolf says calmly. “I’m Wolf.” He motions for everyone to lower their weapons.
Some brothers comply immediately. Ryder and I don’t. We hold our aim for several more seconds, my muscles twitching with the urge to put a bullet through the bastard’s skull.
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.
Mihai seems to sense the shift in the room. He chuckles softly. “Ah,” he murmurs. “So you have heard of us.”
“We have,” Wolf says coolly. “Still doesn’t explain why you’re here. Frankly, we expected your sister.” His voice is steady. Controlled. Extremely unlike the circumstances.
Mihai shrugs like the whole thing bores him.
He starts pacing slowly across the hall, polished shoes whispering over the floor as he whips out another cigarette, lighting it.
He pulls an agonizingly slow drag from it, taking his sweet time.
“I just find…” He snaps his ring-studded fingers, eyes closing briefly as if searching for the right word. “Ah. What is that word… ciudat…”
His eyes open again, bright with amusement. “Ah! Peculiar.” Smoke curls from his lips as he exhales. “I find it peculiar that my sister is suddenly interested in a twenty-something club princess of a tiny motorcycle gang. She does not deal with anyone over seventeen.”
He grins again. “Strange, no?” His gaze drifts back to Wolf. “Don’t you think that’s… peculiar?”
The room tilts on its axis. Because he’s right, it is peculiar.
Mihai’s smile never wavers as he slowly surveys the room. His eyes pass over every brother, measuring the tension coiled in the air.
He lifts a hand and casually gestures toward the front windows. “Relax,” he says almost kindly, a faux warmth in his tone. “If I wanted your clubhouse burned to the ground, it would already be happening. I’m just here to talk.”
A slow, cold dread creeps up my spine. The bastard isn’t bluffing. Men like Mihai Rosca don’t bluff.
His gaze drifts past us again, straight to Charlotte. Something in my chest goes ice-cold. The look in his eyes isn’t simple curiosity.
Ownership? No. Something else. Something I can’t read and that scares me more.
“What’s so special about you, Charlotte?” Mihai murmurs softly, almost to himself.
She stiffens behind Spike. My body moves before my brain catches up.
One step forward.
My gun comes up again and Mihai’s head snaps toward me. Instead of reacting, he studies me with mild interest. Like I’m an errant yet entertaining animal.
He exhales slowly through his nose. “You really should lower that weapon, Ruin,” he says conversationally, almost placating. “You’re making my men… trigger happy.”
The room freezes. So do I.
Wolf exhales heavily beside me, his patience clearly wearing thin. “We still don’t know why you’re here, Mr. Rosca,” he says firmly. “And you’re running out of time to make your point.”
“Oh, I have time,” Mihai chirps lightly. He snatches a half-filled bottle of whiskey from one of the nearby tables and turns it slowly in his hand, studying the label with casual interest.
As he strolls toward the bar, he keeps talking. “You, on the other hand, do not.” His gaze flicks up to Wolf, amused. “Reapers left you, yes?”
The question hangs in the air like a blade. He reaches the counter and slides the bottle across toward our prospect. “Pour me a glass, would you, prietene?” he says pleasantly, not even bothering to look at him.
Every muscle in my body screams to move. To grab him. To slam his face into the counter until that smug smile disappears. But I stay where I am.
Crack!
The sound explodes through the room. Glass shatters across the counter. Everyone’s head snaps to the bar counter.
Chase—the prospect—stares down at the mess with wide eyes. What used to be a bottle of whiskey is now nothing but glittering shards and amber liquid spreading across the wood. His hand still hovers above the counter like he was about to pour Mihai a drink.
“Bag pula,” Mihai hisses under his breath, no flinch in sight. He shakes his hand slightly, flicking droplets of whiskey off his fingers.
Then he lifts his head and raises his voice toward the window like he’s scolding a misbehaving dog. “Why would you do that, Tudor?” he calls out irritably. “It is unlikely they would poison me with their own stock.”
My stomach drops. He was talking to someone else, someone we still can’t see.
Mihai sighs dramatically and looks back at us, shaking his head. “Snipers,” he says with an apologetic shrug. “Very dedicated. Very… dramatic.” He gestures lazily toward the ruined bottle. “See? Now no one gets a drink.”
Fuck. We’re not just dealing with one Romanian mafia boss standing in our clubhouse.
We’re surrounded.