Chapter 10 #2
The second SUV door opens, and Dmitri steps out first, because of course he does, and then Mikhail follows, calmer in his movements but just as alert, and then Viktor Dragunov steps out last like he is not in a hurry because the world waits for him anyway.
The man’s posture is controlled, strategic, and he looks like he is already calculating ten moves ahead, which means he is not focused on my blood. He is focused on what it means.
But she gets to me first.
She doesn’t even look at the blood on my sleeve before her hands are on me, checking my arms, my ribs, my shoulder, like she needs physical proof that I am still upright, and I feel the heat of her palms through denim and leather and irritation, because I want to tell her she should not be touching me in the middle of a parking lot full of armed men.
Then I remember she does not care what any of us think when she decides something is hers to decide.
“Where,” she demands, and it is not a question that allows a joke.
“It’s a graze,” I start to say, because reflex is reflex.
“Where,” she repeats, and her eyes lift to mine with that hard, contained fury.
“My arm,” I answer, and I keep my hands at my sides even though I want to steady her.
She grabs the fabric and pulls it back before I can make another comment about it. The air hits the torn skin and the sting spikes, and she presses her fingers near the edge of the wound to inspect it like she is verifying something, and I hiss before I can stop myself.
Her eyes snap up instantly. “You are not fine.”
“I said I was standing,” I counter, because it is the only argument I have that is not a lie.
“That is not the same thing,” she fires back, and her voice stays steady, which is almost worse than if she was crying. There is no drama in her tone. No tears. Just anger that she is forcing into control.
Dmitri reaches us then, and his presence is immediate, all sharp edges and restraint that looks polite right up until it isn’t.
He does not touch her, but he positions himself close enough that I know he could pull her back with one hand if he decided to, and I also know he won’t unless he has to, because she would tear him apart for it.
“You returned fire?” he asks me, voice level.
“Yes,” I answer, and I meet his gaze because looking away would be a mistake.
“Did they identify you?”
“They knew who I was,” I say, and I keep it factual because that is the language he speaks best. “They came up behind me like they had a plan, and they shot like they wanted me down and not just scared.”
Mikhail steps in beside Dmitri then, calm but sharp-eyed, and he does not crowd the space. He watches first, and then he speaks like he is already sorting this into categories.
“They followed you from the bar?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “They stayed far enough back that it looked normal at first, and then they closed distance when the road opened up, and they started firing as soon as they had a clean line.”
“Vehicle description?” Mikhail asks, and his tone is diplomatic but precise, the kind of controlled that makes people answer him without realizing they are doing it.
“Black SUV,” I reply. “No plates.”
Blade answers from behind me without moving. “Windows tinted dark. They didn’t linger.”
Viktor arrives last, and when he does, the temperature shifts without him raising his voice.
He takes in the wrecked bike, the blood on my sleeve, his daughter’s hands still gripping my cut, and the way my men are positioned but not aggressive.
He also takes in Mason, the way he is standing, and the fact that this place is not chaos even after an attempt on my life.
“Are you stable?” Viktor asks me directly.
“Yes,” I answer, because if he wants a real answer, that is the real one.
He nods once, then his gaze slides to Anya. “Anastasiya.”
She does not turn immediately, and that tells me as much as anything else, because she is choosing to finish what she is doing first. She finally eases her hands back from my arm, but she does not step away, and her body stays angled toward me like she is still ready to catch me if I sway.
“This is because of me,” she says quietly, and everyone hears it anyway.
“No,” I say at the same time Viktor says, “No.”
She looks up at me, and there’s something raw in her expression that she is trying to keep under control.
“They shot you because you helped me,” she insists, and the way she says it sounds like she is already punishing herself.
“They shot me because someone wanted to send a message,” I reply, and I keep my voice low because this lot has ears, even if most of them are ours.
Dmitri’s jaw tightens. “To who.”
“To all of us,” Mikhail answers calmly, and he doesn’t even look surprised as he says it, like he has already been considering that possibility since he got off the plane.
Anya’s gaze flicks to Mikhail and then to her father, and I can see her mind snapping pieces into place in real time. “They wanted to see what you would do,” she says to Viktor, and she doesn’t soften the accusation. “They wanted to see if you would respond.”
Viktor studies her with that controlled stillness that feels like a wall. “Yes,” he says simply.
“And they wanted to see if he would stand alone,” she adds, and her eyes come back to me with something sharp and guilty and furious all at once.
The silence that follows is heavy enough that even Tank doesn’t make another comment about my bike.
Mason steps forward slightly. “We’re not doing this in the lot.”
Viktor agrees immediately. “No,” he says, and it lands like an order without him needing to raise his voice.
He looks at me again. “You are able to walk?”
“Yeah,” I answer, because I am, and because it matters that I can.
“Good.”
Mason gestures toward the clubhouse door. “Church.”
Ghost moves first, because he is always the one who clears the path, and he opens the side entrance that leads into the compound side of Perdition, not the bar floor.
The music is still pounding on the other side of the wall, muffled but present, because the public side stays open while the private side handles business, and there is something cold about that separation that feels right. It feels like control.
We move as one group. Reapers and Dragunovs. Anya in the middle, but not shielded, and that detail matters because it tells me she is not being treated like fragile cargo. She is being treated like someone whose presence has weight.
Inside the clubhouse, the large open room is lit but quieter, and the officers’ doors are closed along the wall. Mason doesn’t hesitate. He pushes open the church room door, and the sound of it is solid, final.
Long table. No windows. Iron Reapers emblem on the wall.
This is where decisions get made. We file in, and Mason takes the head of the table automatically because this is his house and his people.
Blade and Ghost take positions along the wall.
Tank leans near the door, and he stays there like a barrier nobody asked for but everyone appreciates anyway.
My shoulder throbs in time with my pulse, and I ignore it, because it is not the worst pain I have had and it is not the most important thing in the room.
The Dragunovs enter together, and the family dynamic is obvious even if you know nothing about them.
Dmitri moves to Anya’s right like a guard dog that is pretending to be polite.
Mikhail moves to her left like a diplomat who will still break your neck if you force his hand.
Viktor stands behind them like gravity, and the men who came with them remain near the doorway and the corners with that quiet readiness that tells me they have done this before in other rooms, in other countries, with other outcomes.
Anya doesn’t sit and neither do I. Mason’s gaze flicks over the Dragunovs and then lands on me. “Start from the top, Riot,” he says, calm as ever, but there’s steel under it. “Tell us exactly what happened, and tell us what you saw, and then we’re going to decide what the next move is.”
I draw in a careful breath because my shoulder wants to argue, and because Anya is watching me like she is daring me to lie.
“I left Perdition,” I begin, and I keep my voice steady.
“I took the backroads, because I didn’t want to run main streets, and because I needed to ride.
I saw headlights in my mirror, and I didn’t think much of it at first, because county roads are county roads and people drive like they own them.
Then they followed me through two turns, and then they closed distance when the road straightened, and then they started shooting. ”
Dmitri’s eyes narrow slightly. “How many rounds.”
“Enough,” I answer. “I heard at least five, and I felt one catch my shoulder, and the bike went sideways on gravel when I tried to angle out of the line of fire. I went down hard, and they kept moving, and they didn’t even tap brakes.
It wasn’t a robbery. It wasn’t random. It was a hit that didn’t finish the job. ”
Mikhail’s voice stays calm. “And you returned fire.”
“I did,” I say. “I got two shots off, and I think I tagged one, but I’m not calling it confirmed, because they were already pulling away and I wasn’t about to chase a black SUV on a wrecked bike.”
Viktor finally speaks again, and when he does, his tone is quiet but absolute. “This was not an amateur,” he says, and it isn’t a question.
“They weren’t clean,” Blade cuts in. “But they weren’t scared either.”
Mason’s jaw tightens. “So they wanted noise.”
“No,” Mikhail replies, and he looks at Mason like he’s aligning pieces on a board. “They wanted measurement. They wanted to see who moves, and how quickly, and with what force, and they wanted to see if you treat this as local trouble or as something bigger.”