Chapter Thirty-Two
NITRO
One week after Derek’s arrest, the morning sun cuts through Vegas like a blade, harsh and unforgiving.
Perfect weather for justice.
I adjust my cut, the leather warm against my shoulders, and glance at the line of brothers flanking me.
Sin stands to my right, his eyes fixed on the county jail entrance with predatory focus.
Koa is on my left, arms crossed over his massive chest, every inch the intimidating sergeant-at-arms. Behind us, the rest of Las Vegas Defiance, Ghost, Bear, Deek, Mace, Warden, Hash, Axel, Flint, Will, and Liam form an impressive wall of leather and chrome.
And Marley?
She is pressed against my side, her small hand gripping mine so tight I can feel her pulse racing through her palm. She insisted on being here. Insisted on watching Derek get precisely what he deserves.
“You good, Small Town?” I murmur, leaning down so only she can hear me over the rumble of idling bikes.
She nods, but her jaw is clenched, her knuckles white. “I need to see it,” she says, her voice steady despite the tension radiating through her body. “I need to see Derek go in.”
Victoria moves to stand beside her, the First Lady of our club offering silent support.
They’ve become close these past weeks, two women who’ve faced down their demons and come out stronger for it.
Victoria slips her arm around Marley’s shoulders, and I watch some of the rigidity ease from Marley’s spine.
“He can’t hurt you anymore,” Victoria says quietly. “None of us will let him.”
The transport van pulls up, and the air shifts.
Every brother straightens.
Every gaze sharpens.
This is what we came for.
The doors open, and Derek Fletcher stumbles out in handcuffs and an orange jumpsuit that makes him look exactly like the criminal he is. Gone is the expensive suit, the practiced confidence, the cruel superiority.
Now he looks small.
Pathetic.
His eyes scan the crowd of onlookers and reporters with cameras, then he sees us.
All of us.
A wall of bikers watching him with the cold, patient satisfaction of men who know justice is being served.
His face goes pale.
I feel Marley tense beside me, and I squeeze her hand, anchoring her. Reminding her she’s safe. That I’ve got her.
Derek’s eyes lock on Marley, and something flickers across his features—rage, shame, disbelief. He opens his mouth as if he wants to say something, but the corrections officers yank him forward, and whatever pathetic excuse or final manipulation he had planned dies on his tongue.
We watch in silence as they walk him toward the entrance. Every step he takes toward that building is a step toward paying for what he did. For the people who died at Sunset Manor. For Queenie. For trying to destroy me and frame me for his own sick need for control.
The steel doors close behind him with a finality that echoes across the parking lot.
Marley lets out a shaky breath, and I pull her into my chest, wrapping both arms around her. She’s trembling, but when I look down at her face, there are no tears.
Just relief.
Raw, bone-deep relief.
“It’s over,” she whispers against my cut.
“Not quite,” Sin says, his voice carrying that edge that means he’s got something planned. “Nitro, with me. We need to have a word with the warden.”
I glance at Marley, but Victoria is already there, taking my place at her side. “Go,” Victoria says. “We’ll be right here.”
Sin and I peel away from the group, walking with purpose toward the side entrance where Warden Mitchell stands, arms crossed, watching us approach with the wary assessment of a man who knows exactly who we are and what we’re capable of.
“Gentlemen,” he says, his tone neutral.
“Warden,” Sin replies, stopping just close enough to be respectful but not so close as to seem threatening. “Appreciate you taking the time.”
“I didn’t really have a choice, did I?” Mitchell’s lips quirk, almost amused.
Sin pulls an envelope from inside his cut, thick, sealed, unmarked. He hands it over without ceremony. “A donation,” he says smoothly. “For the prison reform initiative. Better facilities for guards. Safety equipment. That sort of thing.”
Mitchell takes the envelope, weighs it in his hand, and something passes between them. An understanding. A transaction completed in silence.
“Generous of you,” the warden says, tucking the envelope inside his jacket. “I’m sure it’ll go to good use.”
“I’m sure it will,” Sin agrees, his voice pleasant, his eyes anything but.
They nod at each other, then Sin and I turn and walk back toward the group. I feel Marley’s eyes on me the whole way, sharp and questioning.
The moment we reach the bikes, she’s right there. “What was that about?” she asks, searching my face.
Sin answers before I can, his tone easy, casual. “For the prison reform initiative. We always contribute, especially seeing as our former president is still inside. We like to ensure he is taken care of.”
It’s plausible. Reasonable. The kind of thing concerned brothers might do.
Marley’s eyes narrow slightly, but she doesn’t push. She’s smart enough to know when not to ask questions. Smart enough to understand that some things are better left unsaid.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say, swinging my leg over my Harley. “We’ve got celebrating to do.”
Marley climbs on behind me, her arms wrapping around my waist, her body molding to mine like she was made to fit there.
The ride back to the clubhouse is loud and fearless, a pack of motorcycles cutting through traffic with the confidence of men who just watched justice served.
***
By the time night falls, the clubhouse is alive with music, laughter, and the kind of reckless joy that comes from surviving something that should have broken you.
Beer flows. Ro is blasting classic rock from the speakers.
Millie has set up an entire buffet of food she spent the afternoon preparing, ribs, mac and cheese, and cornbread that melts in your mouth.
Bear is telling some story that has Koa doubled over laughing, and Ghost is showing Will something on his laptop, probably hacking tips the kid absolutely should not be learning, but will anyway.
Marley is tucked against my side on one of the sofas, her head resting on my shoulder, her hand playing with the ends of my hair. She’s relaxed in a way I haven’t seen her in weeks, as if she can finally breathe.
Victoria and Sin are at the bar, his arm around her waist, her fingers tracing patterns on his cut. They’re talking quietly, smiling, and I catch Victoria’s eyes on us, on Marley and me, and she winks.
“You wanna go visit Queenie in the hospital a little later?” I whisper against her ear.
She grins up at me. “Absolutely—”
“Hey, turn that up,” Ro suddenly shouts, pointing at the television mounted above the bar.
Ghost grabs the remote and cranks the volume. The chatter dies down as everyone turns to look at the screen.
A news reporter stands outside the county jail, her expression grave, professional.
“Breaking news tonight,” she says, her voice cutting through the clubhouse.
“Derek Fletcher, the man arrested last week for arson, murder, and the framing of billionaire mogul, Damon Blackwell, was found dead in his cell this afternoon. Authorities are ruling it a suicide.”
The room goes still.
Completely, utterly still.
I feel Marley’s entire body go rigid against mine. Her head snaps up, her eyes wide, searching my face. Then she looks at Sin, who’s staring at the television with the blank expression of a man who’s very, very good at not showing his hand.
The reporter continues, “Fletcher was discovered by guards during a routine check. He had reportedly been despondent since his arrest, and preliminary findings suggest he took his own life. An investigation is ongoing.”
Marley turns back to me, and I see it in her eyes, the understanding—the realization of what that envelope meant.
What Sin and I arranged.
She doesn’t ask.
She doesn’t accuse.
Instead, she leans into me, pressing her face against my chest, and whispers, “Good riddance.”
Those two words carry everything. Relief, vindication, and the cold satisfaction of knowing Derek Fletcher will never hurt anyone ever again.
I wrap my arms around her, holding her close, and press a kiss to the top of her head. “Yeah, Small Town,” I murmur against her hair. “Good riddance.”
Across the room, Sin catches my eye. His expression hasn’t changed, but there’s something in the way he looks at Marley that shows approval, respect, and that speaks volumes. He raises his beer in a silent toast, and I nod back.
Marley shifts in my arms, tilting her head up to look at me. Her eyes are dry, clear, and there’s a strength in them that makes my chest ache with pride. “I love you,” she says, the words simple, honest, and so fucking perfect I can barely breathe.
“I love you too,” I reply, cupping her face in my hands. “You’re going to make one hell of an Old Lady, you know that?”
Her lips curve into a smile, small at first, then growing until it’s bright, beautiful, and everything I need to see. “I’m counting on it, City Boy.”
Behind us, the club erupts into laughter and music again, the news already forgotten as they return to celebrating. But I keep my eyes on Marley, on the woman who faced down her abuser, who stood beside me through literal fire, accusations, and nearly losing everything.
The woman who chose me.
Who chose this life.
Who chose us.
Sin appears beside us, Victoria at his side, and he claps a hand on my shoulder. “Your girl’s got steel in her spine,” he says, his voice low enough that only the four of us can hear. “She’s going to fit in just fine.”
Marley looks up at him, and something passes between them—mutual respect, understanding, acceptance. “Thank you,” she says simply.
Sin nods, then raises his voice to address the room. “Brothers! Sisters! Tonight, we celebrate justice. We celebrate family. And we celebrate the fact that Derek Fletcher is exactly where he belongs… rotting in hell.”
The clubhouse roars in approval, drinks are raised, and the party kicks back into full gear.
I pull Marley onto my lap, holding her close, and let myself feel it, the relief, the victory, the overwhelming gratitude that she’s here, that she’s mine, that we made it through.
“What are you thinking?” she asks, her fingers tracing the lines of my jaw.
“That I’m the luckiest bastard alive,” I reply honestly. “And that I’m never letting you go.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
She leans in, kissing me, softly, slowly, and full of everything we’ve been through, everything we’ve survived, everything we’re going to build together.
When we finally break apart, she’s smiling, and I realize that this, right here, right now, is what happiness looks like.
Messy, complicated, built on ashes and second chances.
But ours.
Completely and irrevocably ours.
And as the night stretches on, filled with laughter, music, and the family I chose, I hold Marley close and let myself believe in happy endings.
Because sometimes, against all odds, the good guys win.
And the monsters get precisely what they deserve.