Chapter Thirty-Three
MARLEY
Six Months Later
The morning light filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of our bedroom, casting golden patterns across the hardwood floors.
Our bedroom. Not his apartment, not a temporary space, but ours.
The house we bought together three months ago, nestled in a quiet neighborhood just outside the chaos of the Strip, with enough space for all of us and a backyard where Queenie can sit in the sunshine.
I watch Nitro sleep, his face peaceful in a way it rarely is when he is awake. The last six months have etched new lines around his eyes, but they’re softer now. Lines from laughter instead of worry. From smiling instead of grinding his teeth through another crisis.
Derek’s arrest and subsequent death feel like a lifetime ago, even though it’s only been six months.
The image of him being led away in handcuffs, his smug expression finally cracking into panic, plays in my mind sometimes.
Ghost’s recordings had been airtight. Every confession, every boast about the fire and the deaths he caused without remorse.
The media frenzy that followed Derek’s arrest and death was almost as intense as the one that had nearly destroyed us.
Almost.
But this time, the narrative shifted.
Billionaire CEO falsely accused.
Grandmother was nearly killed.
Heroic rescue from a burning building.
The public loves a redemption arc, and Nitro, or Damon Blackwell, or whatever combination of identities he’s choosing on any given day, became the hero instead of the villain. Now the villain is clearly Derek, his ‘suicide’ deemed by the public as a clear admission of guilt.
Blackwell Entertainment Group issued a public apology, a carefully worded statement that acknowledged the pain caused by not declaring Nitro’s dual identity while maintaining the company’s integrity.
Stock prices dipped, then recovered. Business partners who’d fled in panic slowly crawled back, sheepish and apologetic.
And through it all, Nitro held my hand and rebuilt his life, piece by piece.
Both lives.
Because that’s the thing about the last six months, he’s stopped trying to separate them. Damon Blackwell and Nitro aren’t two different identities anymore. They’re facets of the same man, and he’s finally learned to let them coexist.
I slide out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake him.
He’s been working late this week, handling a new acquisition for the company while also managing club business.
The fact that he can do both openly now, that his business partners know about the club, has taken a weight off his shoulders I didn’t realize he was carrying.
The house is quiet as I pad downstairs in one of Nitro’s old T-shirts and my sleep shorts.
The kitchen still smells faintly of the dinner we cooked last night, Queenie’s recipe for chicken piccata that she insisted on supervising from her chair at the island, critiquing our technique while secretly beaming with pride that we wanted to learn.
Queenie’s suite is on the ground floor, her own private space with a bedroom, sitting room, and bathroom designed for accessibility.
We even had a small lift built into the home in case she needed to come upstairs, which she rarely does.
But the option is there if she wants it.
She’d protested moving in with us at first, insisting she didn’t need so much space, that she was fine at the retirement village once it was rebuilt.
But Nitro had been adamant, and honestly, so had I.
We’re a family now.
Unconventional, messy, stitched together from broken pieces, but a family nonetheless.
I start the coffee maker, the familiar gurgle and hiss a comforting soundtrack to my morning thoughts. Six months ago, I was sitting in a hospital room, watching the man I love break apart while his grandmother fought for her life.
Six months ago, I thought we might lose everything.
Now, I’m standing in our kitchen, in our house, listening to Queenie’s soft snores drifting from her room and knowing Nitro is upstairs, safe, whole, and mine.
The coffee finishes brewing, and I pour two cups, adding cream and sugar to mine, leaving Nitro’s black the way he likes it. I’m about to head back upstairs when I hear movement behind me.
“You’re up early, sweetheart.”
I turn to find Queenie shuffling into the kitchen, her walker moving smoothly across the floor. She’s wearing her favorite purple robe, the one Nitro bought her when she first came home from the hospital, and her silver hair is pulled back in a neat bun.
“I could say the same about you,” I reply, moving to help her settle onto one of the island stools. “Coffee?”
“You know me so well.” Her smile is warm, her eyes bright in a way they weren’t six months ago.
The pneumonia nearly killed her. Two weeks on a ventilator, another month of intensive rehabilitation, and physical therapy to rebuild her strength. But Queenie is, as she frequently reminds us, too stubborn to die.
I pour her a cup, add exactly one sugar and a splash of cream, and set it in front of her.
“Thank you, dear.” She wraps her weathered hands around the mug, savoring the warmth. “I heard you two come in late last night.”
“Club meeting ran long,” I explain, settling onto the stool beside her. “Victoria’s baby shower is next week, and apparently, there was a heated debate about whether the decorations should be pink, blue, or gender-neutral.”
Queenie chuckles, the sound raspy but genuine. “I never thought I’d see the day when a motorcycle club argued about baby shower decorations.”
“Victoria has them all wrapped around her finger. Even Koa was taking notes.”
“She’s good for them. Good for Sin.” Queenie sips her coffee thoughtfully. “And you’re good for my boy.”
My chest tightens with emotion. “He’s good for me too.”
“He is. I see it in the way he watches you… like you’re the moment his whole world finally makes sense.”
“I look at him the same way.”
“I know you do, sweetheart. That’s why I’m so grateful you found each other.” She sets down her mug, her gaze growing more serious. “Can I tell you something?”
“Of course.”
“After his parents died, after he took over that company, I watched him disappear into himself. He became someone I barely recognized. He did everything he was supposed to do, made his parents proud, and kept their legacy alive. But he stopped living, Marley. He just existed.”
My throat tightens. I’ve heard pieces of this story from Nitro, but hearing it from Queenie’s perspective cuts deeper.
“The club helped,” she continues. “Gave him brotherhood, purpose, a place where he could be someone other than Damon Blackwell, billionaire orphan. But even then, he was fractured. Splitting himself in half, never whole, never at peace.”
“And now?” I whisper.
“Now, I see my grandson again. The boy who used to play his flute for hours, who’d laugh until his stomach hurt, who loved so fiercely it scared him. You brought him back, Marley. You made him whole. You saved him from himself.”
Tears blur my vision. “I didn’t do anything special, Queenie. I just loved him.”
“Exactly.” She reaches over and takes my hand, her grip surprisingly strong.
“You loved all of him… the biker, the billionaire, and everything in between. You didn’t try to change him, fix him, or make him choose.
You just loved him exactly as he is. That’s the most special thing anyone could do.
” I squeeze her hand, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
“And you,” she continues, her voice softer now.
“You’ve bloomed, too, haven’t you? Found your confidence, your power.
You’re crushing it at that company, making a name for yourself that has nothing to do with being the boss’s girlfriend. ”
“Old Lady,” I correct with a small smile. “Technically, I’m the VP’s Old Lady.”
She laughs, the sound filling the kitchen with warmth. “Yes, yes… I’m still getting used to all this MC terminology. Though I have to say, I quite like being the club matriarch. Ro keeps asking if she can make me a leather vest.”
The image makes me grin. “You’d look badass in a leather vest.”
“Damn right I would.”
We sit in comfortable silence, sipping our coffee as the morning light grows brighter. This, right here, is everything I never knew I needed—the quiet moments, the shared space, the family forged by love rather than blood.
“Queenie?” I ask after a moment. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything, dear.”
“Were you scared? When you were in the hospital, when you couldn’t breathe on your own? Were you scared you might not make it?”
She’s quiet for a long moment, her eyes distant. “Terrified,” she admits finally. “But not of dying, exactly. I’ve lived a long, full life. I’ve loved deeply, raised a beautiful grandson, and survived cancer. If it had been my time, I would have been at peace with that.”
“Then what scared you?”
“Leaving h-him.” Her voice cracks slightly.
“Leaving Damon before I got to see him truly happy. Before I got to see him whole. Before I got to meet the woman who would love him the way he deserved.” She turns to look at me, tears shining in her eyes.
“But then you showed up at that hospital, and you sat with him while he broke apart, and you loved him through the worst moment of his life. And I knew, even through the fog of medication and pain, that he was going to be okay. That you were going to make sure of it.”
“I almost got you killed,” I whisper, the guilt that’s been buried for six months suddenly surfacing. “If I hadn’t called Derek, if I hadn’t told him about Nitro being Damon Blackwell—”
“Stop!” Queenie’s voice is firm, brooking no argument. “Derek Fletcher is a monster who would have found another way to hurt my grandson. You made one phone call in a moment of pain and anger. That doesn’t make you responsible for his actions. Do you understand me?”
“Nitro says the same thing.”