Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
LUCKY
We’re tangled up in my sheets, her soft curves pressed against my side, one of her thighs draped over mine.
The room’s dark except for the faint glow from the hallway light I left on.
The only sound is our breathing, slow and heavy, the kind that comes after you’ve wrecked each other in all the best ways.
Her head rests on my chest. Every time she shifts, that fresh phoenix on her hip brushes my skin.
My mark.
Bare inside her.
Christ.
I tighten my arm around her, palm spreading wide over the dip of her lower back, thumb stroking slow circles just above her ass. I could stay quiet. Let us drift off like this. Pretend the world outside this bedroom doesn’t exist.
But it does. And the next few weeks aren’t going to be soft.
“Firecracker,” I murmur into her hair.
She hums, half asleep.
“Things are gonna get crazy with the club.”
She goes still. Not sleepy still. Bracing still.
Her fingers freeze against my chest. Her breath catches like she’s waiting for me to say this is where it ends.
Like she expects me to cut her loose before it gets ugly.
I roll slightly so I can see her face. Those big eyes are open now, guarded.
“Hey,” I say quietly, cupping her cheek. “I’m not pushing you away.”
She searches my face.
“But if things go sideways,” I continue, thumb brushing her cheekbone, “you’re gonna have to listen to me. I don’t want you thinking I’m trying to control you. But when it comes to your safety? I’m putting you first. Even if it pisses you off.”
Her throat moves when she swallows.
“You’re my old lady,” I say. “That means when shit hits the fan, I protect what’s mine. Might mean you stay put when you want to run. Might mean I make calls you don’t like. But it’s always because I’m keeping you safe.”
A beat.
“You hear me?”
Her fingers press flat over my heart.
“I hear you.”
I lean my forehead against hers. “Good. Because I’m not walking away. Not now. Not ever. You’re stuck with me.”
The tension in her shoulders melts. She tucks herself under my chin again, and I rest my hand over that phoenix tattoo.
She’s mine.
And I’ll burn the world down before I let anything touch her.
Three weeks later, the Russians still haven’t backed off.
If anything, they’ve dug in deeper.
We thought cutting supply lines would scare them. Thought torching a stash house would send a message. Instead, they keep resurfacing. New faces. New safe houses. New money trails Riot didn’t see coming.
They were embedded in Jackson deeper than any of us realized.
I’m at Iron Reapers Customs, under a ’68 Chevelle that’s stripped down to the frame. Black-on-black build. We’re dropping a 454 into it next week. Right now it’s just steel and attitude.
Blade leans against the workbench nursing stale coffee. Rev’s at the parts washer, sleeves rolled up, scrubbing grease off his forearms.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Oil stains map the concrete like old war wounds.
I slide out from under the car, wipe my hands on a rag that’s more black than red, and stand.
“These motherfuckers don’t quit,” Blade mutters.
Rev shakes water off his hands. “Every time we shut one door, another opens.”
He’s not wrong.
We keep fixing this Chevelle like it’s therapy. Like if we can rebuild something clean and perfect, the rest of this mess will sort itself out.
Bullshit.
I light a cigarette and ignore the no-smoking sign bolted to the wall.
“Fuck planning,” I say. “Fuck waiting for the perfect window. We’ve been dancing around these assholes for months and they’re still breathing.”
Blade’s eyes flick to me.
I take a long drag and let the smoke out slow.
“We stop snipping at the tail. We grab the head.”
Rev’s jaw tightens. He already knows.
“Sergei Volkov.”
Silence settles heavy in the shop.
Sharp suit. Ice-blue eyes. Fortified penthouse. Ex-Spetsnaz on payroll. The kind of man who thinks he’s untouchable.
“We don’t breach his fortress,” I continue. “We make him come to us. Hit something he can’t ignore. Torch a major warehouse. Leak proof he’s skimming from his own people. Make it loud. Make it personal. His ego’ll drag him straight into the open.”
Blade studies me. “And then?”
“Pick the ground,” I say. “Abandoned dock warehouse. Back road off 17. Somewhere we control every exit. Let him roll up heavy in that G-Wagon convoy thinking he’s about to make an example out of us.”
I drop the cigarette and crush it under my boot.
“Then we end him.”
No slow bleed. No more reactionary hits.
One body. One message.
Blade pulls his phone out of his cut. “Church in thirty.”
Rev claps my shoulder once. “You lit the fuse, brother. Better be ready to explain it.”
I am.
The chapel is quiet when we file in.
Mason sits at the head of the table, Dagger to his right. Switch, Tank, Piston, Blade, Rev. Ghost leans against the back wall, arms crossed. Riot’s already got a laptop open, fingers moving.
I lay it out clean.
Target Volkov directly.
Bait him out.
Controlled kill zone.
Overwatch from Ghost and a second shooter.
Riot jams comms and spoofs feeds.
No half measures.
When I finish, the room sits heavy with it.
Mason finally speaks. “You’re asking us to green-light an assassination on one of the biggest players in the southeast. If it works, we own the streets. If it fails, we’re painted targets from here to Moscow.”
“I know,” I say. “But we’re already at war. This just makes it honest.”
He studies me for a long moment.
“Officers vote,” he says.
Dagger. “Aye.”
Blade. “Aye.”
Rev. “Aye.”
Switch. “Aye.”
Tank hesitates half a second. “Aye.”
Piston. “Aye.”
Mason exhales once.
“Ayes carry.”
He stands. “Lucky, you’re point on planning. You answer to the table every step. Ghost, Riot, full support. Blade and Rev ride with him. We move fast. We move clean. No mistakes.”
Chairs scrape against concrete as everyone rises. Church is adjourned. The hunt’s official now. Time to make Sergei Volkov regret ever stepping foot in our territory.