Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
RJ
One week.
It's been one week since I put a bullet between Solveig's eyes.
One week since I carried Dalla out of that farmhouse, her blood soaking through my shirt.
One week since we heard our baby's heartbeat for the first time.
One week, and I'm still not used to waking up next to her.
The morning light filters through the basement windows, painting gold stripes across the bed.
Dalla is curled against my side, her head on my chest, her hand resting on my stomach.
She's still asleep—she's been sleeping a lot lately, which the doctor says is normal for early pregnancy.
Her body is working overtime, building a tiny human from scratch.
Our tiny human.
I brush a strand of hair from her face, careful not to wake her.
The bruises have faded to yellow-green shadows.
The cut on her throat is healing nicely, just a thin pink line that will eventually disappear altogether.
She's getting stronger every day.
And I fall more in love with her every morning.
The last week has been quiet—deliberately so.
The club has handled the cleanup from Solveig's operation.
Tor tells me the farmhouse burned to the ground the night after the rescue, along with any evidence that might connect us to what happened there.
The bodies have disappeared.
The trafficking network is being dismantled piece by piece, with anonymous tips to law enforcement helping to take down the parts the club can't reach directly.
Solveig's empire is crumbling, and no one is coming to save it.
There's a certain satisfaction in that.
This woman spent thirty years building something monstrous, and in the end, it took us less than a day to tear it all down.
The girls she was trafficking have been rescued.
The buyers she was selling to are being hunted.
Every piece of her mother's legacy is being erased.
It doesn't undo the damage she caused.
It doesn't bring back the years Dalla will spend having nightmares about that farmhouse.
But it's something.
It's justice, in its own brutal way.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
I grab it before it can wake her, checking the screen.
Da.
I slip out of bed carefully, pulling on a pair of jeans before padding up the stairs to take the call.
The clubhouse is quiet at this hour—most of the members won't be up for another few hours at least.
The common room still smells like last night's beer and the faint ghost of cigarette smoke that never quite fades from the walls.
"Da," I answer, stepping out onto the back porch.
The morning air is warm and humid, typical Florida weather.
I'm still not used to it.
The heat, the humidity, the way sweat springs up on your skin the moment you step outside.
Give me a Dublin drizzle any day.
But this is home now. Or it will be. I'm learning to love it.
"RJ." His voice is gruff, tired.
It's late afternoon in Dublin—he's probably just come off a meeting, or maybe he's about to head into one. The Brotherhood never sleeps. "How's the girl?"
"Dalla's fine. Getting better every day."
"And the baby?"
"Healthy. Strong heartbeat." I can't help the smile that crosses my face.
Every time I think about it—about the tiny life growing inside her, about being a father—something in my chest cracks open. "The doctor says everything looks perfect."
"Good. That's good." A pause. I can hear him thinking, choosing his words carefully. My father has never been a man who speaks without intention. "When are you coming home?"
The question I've been dreading.
"I'm not," I say. "Not for a while, at least. Dalla needs me here. The baby—"
"I understand."
I blink, surprised by the lack of argument. "You do?"
"You think I don't know what it's like to love a woman?" He laughs, but there's something wistful in it. "I made mistakes with your mother, RJ. Put the job first when I should have put her first. Don't make the same mistakes I did."
"I won't."
"I know you won't. You're a better man than I was at your age." Another pause. "So, what's the plan? You staying in Florida permanently?"
"For now. We'll come visit in a month or so—I want Dalla to see Ireland, meet the family properly. But our base will be here, at least until we figure out something more permanent."
"And your work with the Brotherhood?"
This is the harder conversation.
I've been a Mackenzie soldier since I was eighteen years old.
It's all I know, all I've ever been.
The idea of walking away from it completely feels like cutting off a limb.
But staying the way things were isn't an option either.
"I don't know," I admit. "I can't be running operations overseas with a pregnant girlfriend and a baby on the way. But I'm not ready to walk away entirely either."
"I'll talk to Liam," Da says. "We'll figure something out. Maybe consulting work, training, something you can do remotely or on your own schedule. The Mackenzies value you, RJ. They won't want to lose you entirely."
"Thank you, Da."
"Don't thank me. Just don't mess this up." His voice softens, just slightly. "You've got something real with this girl. Something worth protecting. Don't let anything—not the Brotherhood, not me, not anything—come between you and your family."
"I won't."
"Good lad." I hear voices in the background—someone calling for him. "I have to go. Call me next week. Let me know how things are progressing."
"I will. Da?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For understanding."
He's quiet for a moment.
When he speaks again, his voice is rough with emotion he'd never admit to. "You're my son, RJ. I want you to be happy. Even if that means I don't see you as often as I'd like."
He hangs up before I can respond.
I stand on the porch for a long moment, watching the sun climb higher in the sky.
The compound is coming to life around me—prospects heading to the garage, the smell of coffee drifting from the clubhouse kitchen.
Normal morning sounds. Normal life.
Except nothing about my life is normal anymore, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
Tor finds me in the garage later that morning, working on one of the club's bikes.
It's not really my job, but I needed something to do with my hands while Dalla rests.
"Heard you talked to your father," he says, leaning against the workbench.
"Word travels fast."
"Small compound." He shrugs. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Just figuring out the future." I tighten a bolt, then set down the wrench. "I wanted to thank you, by the way. For what you did at the farmhouse."
"What I did?"
"Distracting Solveig. If you hadn't stepped in, said what you said—I might not have gotten a clear shot. Dalla might be—" I can't finish the sentence.
Tor is quiet for a moment.
His face is unreadable, but I can see the weight of old memories in his eyes.
"Freya was a monster," he says finally. "She did things to me—to a lot of people—that I've spent thirty years trying to forget.
When I saw her daughter, holding that knife to Dalla's throat, threatening to continue her mother's legacy.
.." He shakes his head. "I couldn't let that stand.
I couldn't let another generation be destroyed by that family's cruelty. "
"Well, whatever your reasons—thank you. I owe you."
"You don't owe me anything. You killed the woman who would have killed my niece or nephew. We're more than even." He pushes off the workbench, heading for the door. "Take care of Dalla, RJ. She's special. Don't let her go."
"I don't intend to."
He pauses at the door, looking back at me with something like approval in his weathered face. "Good. Then we understand each other."
After he leaves, I pull out my phone and dial a different number.
"RJ!" Revna's voice is bright and warm. "How's my favorite pregnant sister doing?"
"She's good. Sleeping a lot. The baby is healthy."
"I know, she texted me the ultrasound pictures. I cried for like an hour." I can hear the smile in her voice. "So, what's up? I know you didn't call just to chat."
"I need your help with something."
"Ooh, sounds mysterious. Tell me everything."
I take a deep breath. "I want to propose to Dalla. And I need you to help me pick out a ring."
The squeal that comes through the phone is so loud I have to hold it away from my ear.
When she finally calms down, she's talking a mile a minute about cuts and carats and settings and metals.
"Okay, okay, slow down," I laugh. "I don't know anything about any of this. That's why I called you."
"Right. Sorry. I'm just so excited!" She takes a breath. "What do you think she wants?"
I think about Dalla—her designs, her clothes, the way she moves through the world. "Classic," I say. "But with a twist. Something timeless but unexpected."
"Perfect. I know exactly what we're looking for. Can you FaceTime me? I'll pull up some options and we can look together."
An hour later, I've ordered a ring.
It's being overnighted from a jeweler in Dublin—a solitaire diamond on a platinum band, but with a subtle twist in the metalwork that makes it unique.
Revna assured me Dalla will love it.
I hope she's right.
Now I just have to figure out how to ask.
The barbecue at Runes and Fern's house is in full swing by the time we arrive.
It's a beautiful afternoon—warm but not too hot, a light breeze carrying the smell of grilled meat and charcoal.
The backyard is packed with people: club members and their families, kids running around on the grass chasing each other with water guns, old ladies gathered in clusters exchanging gossip and recipes.
Music plays from a speaker somewhere, mixing with laughter and conversation and the sizzle of meat on the grill.
This is Dalla's childhood home.
The house where she grew up, the yard where she played, the porch where she probably sat with her mother and dreamed about the future.
I can see traces of her everywhere—in the climbing rose that twines up the porch railing, in the tree house perched in the old oak tree, in the worn path through the grass that leads to a hammock strung between two pines.