3. Hawk
Hawk
The pain and betrayal in her voice nearly guts me.
“Shhh. Hey, relax.” I manage to pry Aria’s death grip from my cut. “I didn’t call anyone,” I assure her. “Stay here.”
The cruiser idles at the entrance to the property, its searchlight sweeping across the fence as I stride down the driveway.
All kinds of questions are rattling around in my brain.
I don’t like pigs either, but her reaction was extreme.
Is she wanted for a crime? Somehow I can’t imagine the weary, battered young woman who fainted in my arms a short while ago being a hardened criminal.
When I reach the cruiser, the passenger window rolls down a crack—just enough for me to see the profile inside.
Detective Mark Russo. Of all the fucking cops in this city, it had to be fucking Russo.
I don’t bother to hide the sneer as I plant my boots in the mud and lean in.
"Reynolds," he says, mouth twisting into what's probably supposed to be a smile. He keeps the right side of his face angled toward me, the left side obscured in shadow. "What brings you out here on a night like this?"
I shrug. “With Halloween around the corner and kids out making mischief, just checking there ain’t broken windows or spray paint or any shit like that.”
Russo studies me through the narrow opening, searching for a tell. At fifty-something, he's got that cop-cockiness of someone who's been getting away with dirty shit for decades.
"I'm looking for a missing person. Young woman, dark hair." He maintains that fake-ass smile as he holds up his phone, showing me a picture through the rain-streaked glass. It's her—Aria.
My expression gives away nothing, but inside my head, puzzle pieces are floating around begging to be connected.
"Why's a veteran homicide detective handling a missing persons case? Foul play suspected?”
Something flashes in his eyes—anger, maybe. Or frustration. “Personal favor. She's got issues. Could be a danger to herself. Her family’s worried sick." My eyes narrow in suspicion, and Russo continues. “She needs her medication." He taps his temple with his right hand. "Not all there."
Bullshit. Every word from his mouth stinks of it.
“Well,” I push off from the car, crossing my arms and keeping my voice level. “Ain’t seen a soul tonight. Just me and the ghosts up here, Detective.
Russo's eyes narrow as he studies my face, looking for tells. Good luck with that, asshole.
"Mind if I take a look around? Just to be thorough."
"Actually, yeah, I do mind." My voice drops to the gruff and menacing tone that intimidates the fuck out of people, and I can see Russo’s affected. "This is private property, and unless you've got a warrant, you can fuck right off."
He looks me up and down, taking in the cut, the tattoos, the general aura of don't-fuck-with-me I've cultivated over the years. "Now, there's no need to be hostile. I'm just trying to do my job.”
"And I'm just trying to protect my constitutional rights."
He stares at me a beat too long before speaking. "Been a long time since that Halloween night, hasn't it, Reynolds? What’s it, ten years now?"
My fingers itch to grab the gun holstered at my side. "Something like that."
"Shame how things work out sometimes." His smile doesn't reach his eyes.
We stare at each other for another long moment, the air crackling with years of animosity. Finally, Russo puts the car in drive. “Well, if you happen to spot her, call the station.”
"Sure thing, Detective." The words are tinged with derisive mocking, and I hold his stare, refusing to blink, as the window slides up.
When the taillights disappear around the bend, I stride back to my bike.
"Aria?" I call out, scanning the shadows. Nothing moves. Fuck. Did she bolt? Can't blame her if she did, but the thought of her out in this weather alone, with Russo hunting her down?—
Movement near the doorway catches my eye. When Aria emerges from the darkness, trembling slightly, relief crashes through me with surprising force.
"Is he gone?" she rasps, eyes wide and terrified.
"Yeah. He's gone." I study her face. "You know him."
It's not a question, but she nods anyway, fingers twisting nervously in the hem of my rain jacket she’s wearing.
Everything in me wants to wrap her in my arms protectively and shield her from whatever demons are chasing her.
Fuck, I’ve never reacted this way to a woman before, and I’m not sure exactly what to do with it.
I mean, I know what to do with a woman .
Fuck, yeah, I do. But this one, this beautiful broken little sparrow, she’s not like the hardened biker chicks that hang around the club.
There’s an innocence, a naiveté to her. And she’s young.
Like very young. I don’t even know if she’s legal.
Good god, I hope she’s legal. I’d hate to find out I’m perving over an underage chick.
“Let's get out of here," I say, nodding toward my Harley.
She hesitates, her eyes dart to the road, and I realize what this looks like—some strange man taking her to a second location. For all she knows, I could be worse than whatever she's running from. But after she searches my face for several heartbeats, she simply nods.
I secure a helmet over her head before swinging my leg over the bike and patting the seat behind me. "Arms around my waist. Lean when I lean. Hold tight."
Her small body presses against my back as she settles behind me, her arms tentatively circling my middle. That possessiveness flares again at the feel of her pressed against me, and I peel away from the mansion, feeling her grip tighten as we accelerate.
The ride to my shop takes longer than normal through rain-slicked streets.
When we pull into the alley behind Reaper’s Ink, my custom tattoo parlor, and she slides off the bike, I feel a strange sense of loss with her arms no longer wrapped around me.
Never had a chick on the back of my bike before.
I liked it. No, I liked her on the back of my bike. She feels right.
"This is where you live?" She looks up at the narrow building squeezed between a head shop and a pawnbroker.
"Above the shop." I kill the engine and lead her to the external staircase that climbs the building's back wall.
My place isn’t much—open-plan living room and kitchen, bedroom off to the side, bathroom near the entrance. But it's clean and secure.
"Make yourself at home,” I say as I flip on the lights.
She hovers uncertainly near the door, clutching her backpack to her chest. The oversized jacket makes her look even smaller, more fragile.
"Can I..." she starts, then stops. "Would it be okay if I took a shower?"
"Course. Bathroom's there. Towels under the sink." I gesture, then add, "Lock's busted, but I swear I'll stay out here." I slap a palm over my chest and grin, my attempt at levity.
Gratitude flickers across her face. She retrieves some items of clothing from her backpack before disappearing into the bathroom.
I wait until I hear the shower running before approaching her backpack. I don't love the idea of invading her privacy, but I need to know who the fuck I just brought into my home.
The wallet comes out first. Thirty-five dollars in cash.
Student ID from the local art institute.
And a driver's license with an address just half a mile from my family's mansion.
I recognize the address—the Carducci estate.
My eyes narrow. Owned by one Vincent Carducci, a local bigwig businessman with suspected connections to the Falcone crime family.
The birthdate on her license confirms she’s not a minor, but she's only eighteen. I groan aloud. Eight-fucking-teen.
Far too young, far too vulnerable, and far too innocent for a rough, scarred-up, hardass biker like me.
Yet I can’t shake the attraction, the overwhelming need I feel for her. It’s overshadowed only by fierce protectiveness.
Yeah, but who’s gonna protect her from you, asshole?
How is this gorgeous, fragile woman related to Vincent Carducci? Daughter? Niece? Girlfriend?
The thought of that old bastard's hands on her makes my vision go red.
But she said her ex-fiancé’s name is Marco. Was that a lie? Before I can stop myself, I pull out my burner phone and dial Cipher's number. He picks up on the second ring.
"Yeah?"
"It's Hawk. Need a favor, brother.”
“Name it.”
“Looking for chatter on police scanners about a missing woman, name’s Aria Gallo."
“Priority level?” I can hear the interest in his voice.
“Top. I need the info asap. Call me back at this number when you've got something."
“You got it, brother,” Cipher fires back before ending the call.
I finish rifling around in the backpack. Tube of chapstick. Phone charger. Sketchbook.
Sketchbook. Hmm.
Out of curiosity, I flip it open. My jaw drops.
I turn the page, and then another. The drawings inside are not at all what I expect.
They’re fucking incredible—rendered in pencil with an eye for detail that borders on photographic.
Urban landscapes. Wildlife. A series of hands in different positions.
But it's the portraits that really grab me.
Each face seems to tell a story, breathing life onto the page.
There's an intimacy to them, like she's captured more than just features—she's captured emotions.
I flip through page after page, mesmerized by the skill, the raw talent bleeding through every line. I've seen a lot of portfolio work, hiring artists for my shop. This is next level. There's pain in these drawings, yes, but also hope.
The water shuts off, and I quickly replace everything, then move to the kitchen to grab a glass of water and two Tylenol. When the bathroom door opens, steam billows out, carrying the scent of my soap on her skin.
Damn. Why do I love that so much—her wearing my scent?
Aria’s dark curls are damp, and she's changed into clean clothes—a t-shirt and yoga pants that show off her deliciously curvy frame. My mouth’s about to water until I notice the bruises.
With her face scrubbed clean, her bruises stand out in stark relief against her skin.
Purple along her cheekbone, along her jaw, and angry red marks circling her throat. A palette of violence.
Rage. Pure, undiluted rage floods my system.
“Here," I say, offering the pills and water, struggling to keep my voice level.
She takes the pills gratefully, wincing as she swallows.
"You can take the bed," I tell her, nodding toward the bedroom. "I'll crash on the couch."
She looks like she wants to argue, but is too exhausted to form the words. I guide her to the bed, pull back the covers for her, and help her slide between the sheets. Her small body is nearly engulfed by my king-sized bed.
"I'll be right outside if you need anything.” I back toward the door.
"Hawk?" Her voice is small in the darkness. “Thank you for this. All of it.” She yawns before continuing. “It’s been so long since anyone took care of me, and… I’m probably a huge burden, but I want you to know that it…well, it feels really nice to be cared for. Really nice.”
Arrow to the heart. That’s what her words are. I don’t know her story. Yet. But what I do know is that this is a woman who should be cared for and treasured every day of her fucking life. I could give her some bullshit response about doing the right thing, about basic human decency.
Instead, I tell her the truth, “Count on it. From now on, you got me standing between you and whatever fucker thinks he can put his hands on you. I’m your protector now. Your defender. Your shadow. Your guard dog.”
I’m not even sure she hears me. By the time I’m done declaring myself her personal Rottweiler, her eyes are closed and her breathing is deep and even. She’s sound asleep.
I watch her for I don’t know how long until my phone buzzes. Cipher.
I close the door quietly, move into the other room, and settle on the couch.
"Got your intel," he says without preamble. "APB out for Aria Gallo, eighteen years old. Apparently mentally unstable, possibly a danger to herself. Her uncle is concerned for her wellbeing."
"Her uncle," I repeat. “Lemme guess, Vincent Carducci?”
"That's him. The request came through Detective Mark Russo, a personal friend of the family. He's leading the search."
Those puzzle pieces are screaming to connect. Something shady’s going on, and I'd bet my last fucking dollar Russo is deep in the middle of it.
"You still there, brother?"
Before I can answer, another voice comes on the line.
"Hawk? What’s going on?” Ghost. My club president. Because, of course it is.
I rub my forehead with my thumb and forefinger, trying to ease some of the tension. Ghost knows everything that goes on in the club and most of what goes on outside of it. Why would I think for even a second he wouldn’t find out about my request to Cipher?
“You want to tell me why you're asking about an APB on some crazy chick I’ve never heard of?” Ghost barks out.
I stare at the bedroom door thinking of Aria in there sleeping in my bed.
Her dark hair spread across my pillow like spilled ink.
Her bruised face and battered body. The tension in her features, even in sleep, like she's bracing for the next blow.
The fear in her eyes when she saw those police lights.
"Because she's mine."
The words hang in the air like a challenge. A declaration.
"She's what?" Ghost's voice sharpens. "Explain."
I run a hand down my face, scratching at the hint of stubble on my jaw. “My ol’ lady. She's going to be my old lady."
Silence stretches across the line. Finally, Ghost speaks.
“How long have you known her?"
"Don't matter." And it doesn't. Something clicked into place the moment I found her in my little sister's bedroom, something I can't explain. All I know is I’ll kill anyone who tries to take her from me.
"She's mine,” I repeat.
More silence. Then Ghost sighs.
"Christ, Hawk. You sure about this?"
Sure about her being my ol’ lady? Hell yeah. Sure about ending the slimy bastard who put his hands on her, who tried to break something so pure and beautiful?
"Dead sure."