Chapter 8
EIGHT
RIOT
The house is too quiet without her in it.
I know it the second I walk back inside after watching Viktor Dragunov’s car disappear down the road.
The gate slides shut with its usual mechanical hum.
The alarm resets. The cameras blink steady.
Everything is exactly the same. Except it isn’t.
Her coffee mug is still on the counter. The one with the faint chip on the rim.
There’s a crease in the couch cushion where she sat last night, knees tucked under her like she was trying to take up less space in a world that keeps demanding more of it.
I stand in the middle of the kitchen and stare at nothing.
She left. That was the deal. I said I wouldn’t stop her.
I meant it. I am not the kind of man who cages a woman just because I want her near me.
Doesn’t mean I have to like it. I grab my keys off the counter and head for the door before I can start replaying the look she gave me from the back seat of that sedan.
No promises. No tears. Just steady. That might be worse.
Perdition is loud when I walk in. Music thumps through the floorboards. Laughter. The crack of pool balls. The low rumble of brothers talking business in the corner booth. The place smells like beer and leather and fried food.
Normal. I move through it on autopilot, nodding at a few prospects, ignoring the curious looks. They all know I’ve been off rotation the past couple days. Word travels fast in this place.
Ghost is already at the bar, long legs stretched out, beer in hand. He doesn’t look up when I slide onto the stool beside him.
“You look like shit,” he says calmly.
“Good to see you too.”
He snorts. Takes a drink. “You’ve been MIA. Figured you were either dead or laid up with some chick.”
“Neither.”
“That’s disappointing.”
I signal the bartender. “Whiskey. Neat.” I don’t need ice watering anything down tonight.
Ghost finally turns his head and studies me. He’s quiet about it. Observant. That’s his whole thing. “What’s going on?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
He lifts a brow. “Bullshit.”
I take the glass when it slides in front of me and knock back half in one swallow. The burn is clean. Immediate. Doesn’t fix anything, but it gives my hands something to do.
“She left,” I say.
Ghost doesn’t ask who. He’s not stupid. “The chick who was in the warehouse?”
“Yeah,” I answer, not looking at him.
“And?”
“And what?” I bark.
He rolls his eyes. “Don’t do that. You pulled her out of a warehouse chained to a wall. She’s been sleeping in your house. Now she’s not. So what’s the deal?”
“Her father showed up,” I say. “Big entrance. Suit. Driver. Whole damn bratva vibe.”
Ghost frowns slightly. “Bratva?” He lets out a slow breath. “So, not an accountant from Jersey.” He states.
“Not even a little,” I laugh darkly.
He shifts on the stool, turning more toward me. “Okay. So who the hell is he?”
I take my time answering. Not because I’m being dramatic. Because saying it out loud makes it more real. “Dragunov.”
Ghost goes still. “As in—”
“As in Moscow. As in shipping, oil, construction, political donations, and a bunch of shit nobody can prove.”
He whistles low. “You’re telling me she’s Dragunov’s daughter?”
“Yeah.”
“And you just had her at your house.”
“Mm hmm.”
He studies my face like he’s trying to decide if I’ve lost my mind. “You try to stop her?” he asks again, quieter this time.
“No.”
“Why not?”
I turn my head and look at him. “Because she’s not mine.”
Ghost’s eyes narrow slightly. “You sure about that?”
“Yeah.”
He taps his bottle against the bar, thoughtful. “Did she want to go?”
“She needed to.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No,” I admit.
He leans back a little. “So break it down for me. Why does she need to go back to a man like that?”
I drag a hand over my jaw. “Because men like that don’t let things go. She told him no in my driveway.”
Ghost’s brows lift. “She told him no?”
“Yeah.”
“And then she got in his car anyway?”
“She’s trying to do it right,” I say scrubbing my hands down my face. “Trying to stand in front of him and talk. Make him see her. Not just her responsibilities to the family.”
Ghost snorts softly. “You think that works with guys like him?”
“No.”
He nods once. “So again. Why let her walk?”
“Because if I blocked her,” I say, keeping my voice even, “I become the same thing. Another man deciding where she goes. Who she listens to. What she’s allowed to choose.
” Ghost watches me closely. “She’s lived her whole life under that,” I continue.
“Security. Expectations. Plans already made. I’m not adding myself to that list.”
“And you care,” he says.
“Care’s a strong word.”
“Is it?”
I grab my glass and knock back the last of it. “She’s not fragile,” I say. “But she’s been managed. Controlled. Protected in a way that feels more like ownership than safety.”
“And you’re what?” Ghost asks.
“I’m the first guy who didn’t lock the door.”
He rubs his thumb along the label of his beer. “You know what this means, right? If you stay in it.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not dealing with some overbearing dad. You’re dealing with Dragunov.”
“I know exactly who I’m dealing with.”
Ghost studies me for a long second. “And you’re just gonna sit here?”
“What do you want me to do?” I ask, finally looking at him straight on. “Follow them? Pick a fight with a Russian Bratva boss who’s got politicians in his pocket and bodies buried where nobody’s ever gonna find them?”
He shrugs. “Wouldn’t be the first dumb move you’ve made.”
A faint breath leaves me. Not quite a laugh. “She needed to go,” I say again. “If she’s ever gonna choose something different, she’s gotta look him in the eye first. On her terms.”
Ghost nods slowly. “You think she’ll come back?”
I don’t answer right away. “She’s got my number,” I say instead.
“And?”
“And if she calls, I’m picking up.”
The bar door opens again, and the shift in noise tells me someone important walked in before I even look.
Mason. He moves through Perdition like he owns the air. Calm. Controlled. People step aside without thinking about it. He’s not loud. He doesn’t need to be. He spots me at the bar and slows. Well, that answers that.
He comes up on my other side, sets his palm on the counter, and nods at Ghost. “You’re looking productive.”
Ghost raises his beer. “I do my best.”
Mason’s gaze shifts to me. It lingers a second longer than normal. “You’re here,” he says.
“Last I checked.”
He exhales through his nose. “I figured you’d be glued to your perimeter monitors.”
I take another drink. “Why would I be?”
His eyes narrow slightly. “What’s going on with Anya?”
Ghost goes very still beside me as I glance at Mason. “You’re surprised to see me?”
“Yeah,” he says bluntly. “I am.”
I lean back against the bar. “Her dad came.”
“I know he came,” Mason replies. “You told me he was coming.”
“She’s with him.”
Mason studies my face like he’s looking for cracks. “She’s with him as in temporary?”
“She left with him.”
He stares at me for a long moment. “Where?”
“Not sure. Probably some hotel downtown.”
“And you’re just… sitting here?” Mason asks.
I feel something tighten in my chest at that. “What do you want me to do?” I snap. “Kick down the door and drag her back?”
Ghost glances between us but stays quiet. Mason’s voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to. “I want to know if this is a temporary relocation or if we’re done being involved.”
I stare at the whiskey in my glass. “She said she needed time,” I say finally.
“And?”
“And I told her to take it.”
Mason’s jaw flexes once. “Riot.”
“What?”
He leans closer, forearms braced on the bar. “You pulled that woman out of hell. You put our name in front of her father. You stared down one of the most powerful men in Eastern Europe in your driveway.”
I don’t respond.
“And now she’s just… gone?” he finishes.
There’s something in his tone that isn’t accusation. It’s confusion.
I look at him. “Yeah,” I say.
Ghost sets his empty bottle down softly. “So that’s it?” he asks, voice low. “She’s gone?”
The words sit there. Gone. I picture her in that back seat.
The way she didn’t look away. The way she took the burner phone like it meant something.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. All three of us look at my phone as I pull it out slowly.
Unknown number. My pulse kicks up hard and fast. I open the message.
Unknown: I’m with my father in a suite at one of the hotels in the city.
Unknown: Thank you for the phone. And for… everything.
The room around me blurs for half a second.
Ghost watches my face. “Well?”
I don’t answer him. I type back.
Me: Good.
I stare at the screen, then add the only thing that matters.
Me: Call if you need me.
Mason’s eyes don’t leave me. “That her?”
“Yeah.”
Mason studies me for a long moment. Then he straightens. “You in or you out?” he asks quietly.
“With what?”
“With whatever this turns into.”
I don’t hesitate. “I’m in.”
I nod and push off the stool, the scrape of it against the concrete floor echoing lightly in the back office. “I’ll talk to Tank and get a couple of brothers headed that way. Nothing obvious. Just a sweep.”
Mason studies me for a second, like he knows I’m already halfway out the door.
“Where the hell are you going?” Ghost asks, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
“For a ride.”
His eyes narrow slightly. He knows that tone. He knows I don’t take rides to sightsee.
He gives a slow nod anyway. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
I almost smile. “When have I ever.”
Blade snorts from somewhere behind me.
“Hit me up if you learn anything new,” Mason says.
“You got it, Pres.”
I head out the back of Perdition, through the side exit that leads into the compound lot instead of the main bar entrance. The music is still pounding inside. The place is packed. Nobody in there has any idea how thin the line is between normal and chaos.
My bike is parked under the security light, chrome catching the glow in sharp lines. I run a hand over the tank before I swing my leg over, and the familiar weight of it settles under me like muscle memory.
The engine roars to life, low and steady, vibrating up through my boots and into my spine. I let it idle for a second before I ease out of the lot and onto the road.
I don’t take the main strip through town.
I cut toward the backroads that run along the edge of Jackson where the streetlights thin out and the traffic disappears.
The night air is cool against my face once I pick up speed, and I lean into it, letting the engine climb just enough to feel it in my chest. The road stretches out ahead of me in long dark ribbons, and for a few minutes it’s just asphalt, wind, and the steady thrum beneath me.
I roll the throttle a little harder because I need the wind in my face and the steady pull of the bike under me, and I need something in this night that behaves exactly the way it was built to behave.
The engine responds the way it always does, clean and predictable, and for a minute that rhythm is enough to quiet everything else in my head.
A pair of headlights appears in my mirror, far enough back that I don’t think twice about it at first. It’s just another vehicle on a county road, another set of beams cutting through the dark.
I take the next curve smooth and controlled, leaning into it without rushing, and when I straighten out on the other side the headlights are still there.
Not gaining. Not falling back. Just there.
Could be nothing. Most things are nothing.
I shift gears and push a little faster, not dramatic, just enough to see if they drift off or take the next turn away from me. They don’t. The distance between us closes slightly, subtle but noticeable, and my jaw tightens before I can stop it.
I ease my left hand a little closer to my hip without making it obvious and let the road open up ahead of me, stretching longer than it needs to. If they’re just another driver, they’ll hang back. If they’re not, they won’t.
The headlights surge.
And then the night explodes.
Gunfire cracks through the dark, sharp and violent, tearing the quiet apart so fast my brain doesn’t catch up to the sound at first. The first round hits the pavement near my back tire and sparks jump in my mirror.
The second shatters through metal, and I feel the vibration of it through the frame before I understand what just happened.
I yank the bike hard, trying to angle out of the line of fire, but more shots rip through the air and something slams into my shoulder with white-hot force that knocks the breath out of me.
The bike fishtails under me, the back end whipping as I fight to steady it, but there’s too much speed and not enough control.
The world tilts sideways. Metal screams against asphalt as I lose it completely, and the ground comes up fast and unforgiving.
I hit hard and roll, gravel tearing through denim and skin, my helmet cracking against pavement as sparks scatter past me.
The bike skids ahead in twisted chrome and fire before slamming to a stop somewhere in the dark. The SUV roars past without slowing.
The road falls quiet again except for the ringing in my ears and the fading hum of their engine disappearing into the distance, and the silence feels almost unreal after the violence of it.
For a second I just lie there on my back, staring up at the black sky and trying to figure out what still works and what doesn’t.
My shoulder burns like it’s been branded, and there’s a deep, throbbing ache running through my ribs, but I can move my fingers, and I can breathe, and that’s enough to tell me I’m not done yet.
I roll onto my side and the pain hits full force, sharp and mean, stealing the air from my lungs for a second.
Gravel grinds into my palms as I push myself up onto one knee, and I have to grit my teeth to keep from swearing out loud.
It hurts like hell, but I’m alive, and that realization lands heavier than anything else.
I reach into the inside zipper pocket of my cut, my hand shaking more from adrenaline than weakness, and I pull out my phone. The screen lights up in the dark, cracked but functional, and I scroll through my contacts before hitting the call button.