Chapter 5 #2
"I can feel it, Cruz." She'd started using my real name more often, a sign of the growing trust between us. "Someone's watching us. I'm certain of it."
That was enough for me. In my world, you didn't question when someone you trusted said they felt eyes on them. You moved.
“You see anyone? A face, a figure, anything?" I signaled to Loch, who immediately picked up on my change in demeanor and set down his pool cue.
"No. Nothing concrete." The frustration in her voice told me she wished she had more to give me.
"Any strange sounds? Cars idling too long? Someone walking past the house multiple times?" I grabbed my keys from behind the bar, checking the gun holstered at my hip automatically.
"No, nothing like that. I'm sorry, I—"
"Don't apologize," I cut her off, already mapping the fastest route home in my head. "Get inside. Lock every door, every window. I'm ten minutes out."
"Okay." One word, but I heard the relief in it—relief that I believed her without question, that I wasn't dismissing her concerns or making her justify her fear.
"Stay on the phone until you're inside," I instructed, moving toward the door with purposeful strides. Loch fell in beside me, questions in his eyes but smart enough not to interrupt.
"We're going in now," she said, her voice changing as she turned her attention to Dante. I heard her mention a race inside, her tone forced into bright cheerfulness.
"Good. Text me when you're locked down." I waited until I heard the sliding door close, her breathing slightly elevated from the quick movement.
"We're in. I'll text you." She disconnected.
I shoved the phone into my pocket, turning to find Loch, Socket, and J.D. already gathered around me, reading the situation from my body language.
"Ophelia thinks someone's watching the house," I said without preamble, moving to the weapons locker in the back room. "Might be nothing. Might be her ex or his people finally tracking her down."
"How many bikes you want?" Socket asked immediately, already reaching for his cut.
"Three. You, me, Loch." I pulled out my backup piece, checking the magazine before tucking it into my ankle holster. "J.D., call Mustang. Let him know what's happening."
I didn't need to explain further. The prospect nodded, already pulling out his phone. The beauty of the club—when it worked right—was this immediate response to a brother's need. No questions, no debate, just action.
"Her ex is connected, right?" Loch asked, strapping on his own sidearm. "Cops, judges?"
"Yeah." My jaw tightened as I grabbed extra magazines. "Which means we need to be smart. No cowboy shit. We check the perimeter, secure the house, get eyes on any potential surveillance."
My movements were controlled, efficient, but inside, rage burned hot and dangerous.
The thought of someone watching Ophelia and Dante, stalking them, calculating how to take them—it awakened the primal violence I'd kept carefully leashed for years.
The cold, analytical part of me stepped back, making room for the predator that lived in all of us who wore the cut.
"If we find someone?" Socket asked, his voice low as we headed for our bikes.
"We have a conversation." My face must have shown what kind of conversation I had in mind, because Socket's eyes widened slightly before he nodded.
Outside, the afternoon sun hit my face as I mounted my Harley, the familiar vibration of the engine doing nothing to calm the storm building inside me. One week. We'd had one week to build a life that finally felt like a real family, and already the past was reaching for them with greedy hands.
Not today. Not ever.
My phone buzzed with Ophelia's text—a simple "We're secure"—as I pulled out of the lot, Loch and Socket flanking me. Ten minutes. In ten minutes I'd be home, and God help anyone who thought they could threaten what was mine.
Ophelia
"Race you inside, baby!" I called to Dante, injecting false brightness into my voice as I stood from the sandbox.
"Last one in is a hungry shark!" My son's eyes lit up at the challenge, his small body immediately abandoning his sandcastle as he scrambled to his feet.
I made sure to let him win, my eyes scanning the tree line one last time as he giggled his way through the sliding glass door.
My hands didn't shake until we were both inside, until I'd closed the door behind us and reached for the lock.
Then the tremor started, a fine vibration in my fingers that I hid by clenching them into a fist as I pressed my back against the cool glass.
"I won, Mommy!" Dante declared, his face flushed with victory and innocent excitement. "You're the shark now!"
"You're too fast for me," I agreed, forcing a smile while my eyes automatically began cataloging our vulnerabilities. Sliding glass door: locked, but essentially a large window. Kitchen windows: three of them, overlooking the side yard and driveway. Living room bay window: too large, too exposed.
"Can I have juice?" Dante asked, already moving toward the kitchen with the casual confidence of a child who felt at home.
"In a minute, baby." I kept my voice light. "First, let's play a new game. It's called Fortress."
His eyes widened with interest. "What's that?"
,"We make the house super strong, like a castle," I explained, moving toward the front door to check the deadbolt. Locked. I turned the secondary lock above it for good measure. "We close all the curtains and make it cozy inside."
Dante nodded solemnly. "So, the dragons can't see in?"
"Exactly." I gave him a real smile this time, grateful for his imagination. "Want to help me with the curtains while I get the windows?"
He took to the task with enthusiasm, pulling closed the heavy drapes Razor had installed in the living room—drapes I'd initially thought were just about privacy but now recognized as another layer of protection.
I moved methodically through the house, checking each window lock, drawing blinds, creating a secure perimeter while keeping Dante in my sight.
Front door locked. Back door locked. Side door to garage locked. Windows secured. Blinds drawn.
I positioned myself in the living room where I could see both the front door and the hallway leading to the back of the house. Dante sat cross-legged on the floor, already distracted by the Lego bricks I'd pulled from his toy box.
"We're building a fortress too," he informed me, connecting pieces with fierce concentration.
"It looks amazing, baby." My phone vibrated in my pocket—Razor calling back. I answered immediately, keeping my voice low as I confirmed we were inside and secure. His instructions were clear, direct. His certainty that he'd be here soon was the only comfort in the growing tension.
I texted him once we hung up: "We're secure.
" My thumbs trembled against the screen, adrenaline making my movements jerky and uncoordinated.
The house suddenly felt too small, too vulnerable despite Razor's security measures.
I knew there were cameras outside, knew the doors were solid, the locks substantial.
But Tyler had resources. Tyler had people. Tyler had patience.
Dante looked up from his Legos, his building slowing as he sensed the change in the air. Children are barometers for adult emotion; I'd learned that early in his life. No matter how I tried to hide my fear from him, he always knew.
"Mommy?" His voice was smaller now, his earlier excitement faded. "Are you scared?"
I crossed to him, kneeling beside his half-built fortress. "Just being careful," I said, running my hand over his soft hair. "Sometimes mommies get worried, that's all."
He considered this, his little face serious. "Is Daddy coming home?"
"Yes, baby." I settled beside him on the floor, positioning myself to keep an eye on the front windows. "He's on his way right now."
"Because you're worried?"
So perceptive. Too perceptive for four years old. Another gift from his life with Tyler—the ability to read emotional undercurrents most children wouldn't notice.
"He's coming home because he loves us and wants to make sure we're okay," I said, choosing my words carefully.
Dante nodded, accepting this. "He's a superhero," he said matter-of-factly, returning to his Legos with slightly more enthusiasm. "Like we talked about. Normal outside, hero inside."
I blinked back unexpected tears. When had my son developed such faith in a man he'd only known for days? And how had Razor earned it so completely?
I tried to focus on Dante's building, on maintaining a facade of normalcy, but my senses had heightened to painful sharpness.
Every creak of the house settling sounded like footsteps.
The hum of the refrigerator became menacing.
The ticking of the clock on the mantel marked seconds that stretched into eternities.
My eyes never stopped moving—from window to door, from door to Dante, from Dante back to window. I cataloged potential weapons within reach: a heavy lamp on the side table, a fireplace poker hanging on its stand, a letter opener on Razor's desk visible through the office doorway.
The house Razor had made into our home suddenly felt like a cage.
Or a trap. The security measures he'd installed with such care now seemed insufficient against the determined malice I knew Tyler capable of.
If he'd found us—if he was out there watching, planning—what would stop him from simply waiting until Razor left for club business again?
Or sending men to overpower him? Or using his family connections to manufacture some legal reason to enter our home?
A car drove by outside, its engine sound rising and falling. Not slowing. Just passing. I released a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
"My fortress has a trap door," Dante announced, pointing to his creation. "So, the good guys can escape if bad guys come."
I swallowed hard. "That's really smart thinking, baby."
"Daddy showed me about trap doors in his comics. The Batman ones." He continued building, adding what looked like a small tower to his structure.
The trust in his voice—the easy way he referenced Razor as "Daddy" with complete acceptance—made my chest ache.
We'd found safety here. Found the beginnings of happiness.
The thought of losing it, of Tyler ripping us away from this new life, sent a surge of fierce protectiveness through me that overwhelmed even my fear.
A distant rumble broke through my thoughts—the distinctive sound of motorcycles approaching. Not one engine but several, growing louder as they neared our street. I stood, moving to the window and carefully shifting the edge of the curtain to peer out.
Three bikes turned onto our street, led by a familiar figure.
Razor's posture was rigid on his Harley, his head constantly moving as he scanned both sides of the road.
Behind him rode two other men in Wicked Mayhem cuts—Loch with his distinctive blue-black bike, and another I recognized as Socket from the brief club gathering I'd attended last weekend.
Relief flooded through me, but I didn't let it dull my vigilance.
The motorcycles pulled into our driveway, engines cutting almost simultaneously.
I watched Razor dismount, his movements fluid but charged with potential energy.
His hand rested near his hip where I knew he carried his gun.
The other men flanked him, creating a protective formation as they approached the house.
"Daddy's home," Dante said from beside me, having abandoned his Legos to join me at the window. I hadn't even heard him approach.
"Yes, he is." I let the curtain fall back into place. "And he brought friends to help keep us safe."
The deadbolt turned—Razor using his key—and I steadied myself, prepared for whatever came next. Because this, I knew with cold certainty, was just the beginning of whatever threat had found us.