Havoc’s Girl (Wicked Sinners MC #1)

Chapter 1 Sasha

SASHA

The wind howls outside our small house, rain lashing against the windows in angry sheets. Dad and I sit across from each other at the kitchen table, the silence between us occasionally broken by the scrape of forks against plates or the rumble of thunder in the distance.

“This pasta’s really good,” Dad says, twirling spaghetti around his fork. His eyes remain fixed on his plate.

“Thanks.” I push a meatball around, my appetite missing in action. “I added extra garlic this time.”

It’s been twelve years today. Twelve years since Mom died. Dad knows I know, and I know he knows, but we’re dancing around it like we always do.

“Remember how Mom used to make her pasta?” I venture carefully, watching his face. “With that special red sauce?” It’s one thing I vividly remember about her, as it was my favorite.

Dad’s fingers tighten around his fork. He takes a sip of water, Adam’s apple bobbing, then nods. “Yeah. Was good.”

That’s it. Three words for the woman he loved. I wait, hoping for more, but he keeps eating.

“I wish I remembered her better,” I say, pushing a little harder. “I was only seven when—”

“Pass the Parmesan?” Dad interrupts, gesturing to the shaker by my elbow.

I slide it toward him, frustration bubbling in my chest. Every year it’s the same. We acknowledge the day without really acknowledging it. No stories about Mom. No details about what happened to her. Just this heavy silence that feels like it might suffocate me.

“I found an old photo yesterday,” I try again. “In that box under your bed. Mom was holding me at a barbecue. There were motorcycles in the background.”

Dad’s jaw tightens. “You shouldn’t snoop through my things, Sasha.”

“I wasn’t snooping. I was looking for an extra blanket.” I pause, gathering courage. “Who were those men with the leather vests? Were they your friends?”

Lightning flashes, illuminating the kitchen and the sudden tension in Dad’s shoulders. For a split-second, he looks like someone else—someone harder, someone dangerous.

“That was a long time ago.” His voice is quiet but firm. End of discussion.

I spear a meatball, disappointment bitter on my tongue. Another anniversary, another dead end.

A low rumble cuts through the patter of rain, growing louder by the second. Dad freezes mid-bite; his fork suspended halfway to his mouth. I hear it too—the unmistakable growl of motorcycle engines.

“Are those... bikes?” I ask, setting down my fork.

Dad doesn’t answer. He’s already on his feet, moving to the window faster than I’ve ever seen him move. He peers through a gap in the curtains, his broad shoulders suddenly rigid.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

“Dad? What’s wrong?”

He turns to me, and something in his eyes makes my blood run cold. There’s a flash of pure alarm.

“Sasha, listen to me very carefully.” His voice drops to a calm, low tone that somehow frightens me more than if he’d shouted. “There’s trouble. I need you to go to our hideout in the woods. Right now.”

Our hideout—the small cave behind the waterfall we discovered during one of our hikes. Dad made me memorize the path there in the dark, made me practice finding it from different directions. I always thought it was one of his weird survival skill games.

“What about you?” My voice cracks as headlights sweep across our living room walls.

Before Dad can answer, a thunderous crash echoes through the house—someone’s at our front door, bashing it with something heavy. The wood splinters with a sickening crack.

“You need to get out of here,” Dad mutters, then louder, “GO!”

I stand frozen, my heart hammering in my chest as another blow rattles the door on its hinges. This isn’t happening. This can’t be real.

“NOW, SASHA!” Dad shoves me toward the back door, his eyes wild. “Run and don’t look back!”

The door frame splinters. Men’s voices, harsh and angry, filter through the breaking wood.

“Dad—”

“GO!”

I don’t question him. Some primal instinct kicks in, and I’m running, bursting through the back door into the storm, slippers pounding across wet grass, straight for the shadowy line of trees that marks the edge of the woods.

I run blindly through the dark woods, rain lashing my face and soaking through my clothes. The path to our hideout is familiar—Dad made sure of that—but in the dark amidst a storm, everything seems different. Shadows stretch into monsters between the trees, and fallen branches grab at my ankles.

My lungs burn, but I keep pushing forward, trying to remember Dad’s instructions. Follow the creek upstream. Look for the lightning-struck oak. Turn left at the boulder shaped like a turtle.

That’s when I hear it. The sharp crack of gunfire cuts through the storm’s rumble—once, twice, three times in rapid succession.

I freeze mid-step, one foot sinking into mud. The sound echoes through the trees, followed by a terrible silence that’s somehow worse than the gunshots themselves.

Dad.

My body refuses to move, caught between two impossible choices. Go back—maybe Dad needs help, maybe it’s not too late—or keep running to safety like he ordered me to.

The memory of his eyes, wild with fear, makes my decision. With trembling fingers, I dig my phone from my jeans pocket and dial 911.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” The operator’s voice is steady, distant, like she’s speaking from another world where fathers don’t send their daughters running into thunderstorms.

“Someone broke into our house,” I say, forcing myself to keep moving toward the cave. “I’m hiding in the woods behind our property. 415 Pinecrest Road.”

“Are you safe right now?” she asks.

“I think so.” I duck under a low-hanging branch. “But my dad—he stayed behind. I heard gunshots.”

“Gunshots? You’re sure?”

“Yes.” The word comes out like a sob. “Three of them. Please hurry. They came on motorcycles. Multiple people. My dad told me to run.”

“I’m dispatching officers right now,” she says. “Stay on the line with me. Find a safe place to hide and don’t move until the police arrive.”

I splash through the creek, the icy water soaking into my slippers as I follow it upstream. The rain pelts my face, plastering my hair to my forehead, but I keep moving.

The waterfall finally comes into view, a silver curtain in the darkness. I slip behind it, the roar drowning out everything else as I drop to my knees and crawl through the narrow opening into our hideout. The cave floor is cold and damp against my palms.

I huddle against the far wall, knees pulled tight to my chest, shivering in my soaked clothes. The operator’s voice crackles through my phone, asking if I’m still there.

“I’m in a cave,” I whisper, teeth chattering. “Please tell them to hurry.”

Those gunshots. Three of them. My stomach twists into a tight knot.

Why did those men come for us? Dad’s face flashes in my mind—the way he transformed when he heard those motorcycles, becoming someone I barely recognized. Someone dangerous. Someone ready.

The leather jacket. It’s always been there, hanging in the back of his closet.

Black leather with patches. I never got a close look at it because he always kept it hidden.

Sometimes he’d put it on late at night when he thought I was asleep, rumbling away on his Harley.

He’d come back hours later, sometimes with the smell of whiskey clinging to him, sometimes with a hardness in his eyes that would soften the moment he saw me.

The photographs I found yesterday—men with similar jackets standing around bikes, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders, my dad among them, looking younger but somehow more intimidating. The way Dad tensed when I mentioned them.

“Dad,” I whimper into the darkness, pressing myself deeper into the cave wall. “What did you do? Who are you really?”

I clutch the phone to my ear, shivering in my wet clothes as the operator’s voice crackles through.

“The officers have arrived at your location,” she says, her professional tone laced with urgency. “They’ve secured the scene. Please return to your house and make yourself known to them. Can you do that safely?”

“Y—yes,” I stammer, though everything in me wants to stay hidden. “I can follow the creek back.”

“Perfect. Stay on the line with me until you reach them.”

I crawl out from behind the waterfall, rain pelting down but lighter now. In the distance, red and blue lights pulse through the trees, casting eerie shadows across the forest floor. The siren wails have stopped, replaced by an almost deafening silence.

My slipper-covered feet find the path automatically. Each step feels like moving through molasses, my body rushing forward and holding back at the same time. Something terrible waits at the end of this path. I know it. I feel it.

“I can see the lights,” I tell the operator, my voice small.

“Good. The officers know you’re coming. When you reach the edge of the woods, call out to identify yourself.”

I break through the tree line into our backyard. The house is lit up like a carnival, with police cruisers and an ambulance parked haphazardly on our lawn. Officers move about with flashlights, their faces grim masks in the dark.

“Hello!” I call out, my voice cracking. “I’m Sasha Halvorsen! I’m the one who called!”

Two officers turn, spotting me. A female deputy rushes forward, her hand instinctively moving to block my view of something—someone—lying in our front yard.

But it’s too late. I’ve already seen him.

Dad’s body, sprawled on the grass. Blood—so much blood—staining his white T-shirt black in the night. His eyes open to the sky, unseeing.

“No,” I whisper, then louder, “NO!”

I lunge forward, but the officer catches me, her arms wrapping around my shoulders.

“I’m sorry, honey. I’m so sorry.”

The phone slips from my fingers. My knees buckle. A scream tears from my throat—raw, animal pain erupting from somewhere deep inside me. The deputy holds me as I thrash against her, desperate to reach him.

“DAD!” I wail, my voice unrecognizable to my own ears. “DAD!”

The world narrows to his still form, to the rain washing his blood into the earth. Twelve years after losing Mom, I’ve lost him, too.

He’s gone. My father is gone. The only person I have left in the world.

My chest splinters open with grief so intense I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t process. Nothing exists beyond this moment, this unbearable tearing sensation as everything I know and love is ripped away.