Two
The past never stays in the past for long. No matter how much you try to ignore it.
The next day
I glance at Sebastian and Malikai, fixing them both with a sharp but solid look that’s stern yet reassuring.
“When we arrive, I want you both to stay close to Armand and me. I don’t anticipate any problems, but stay alert.
You should have everything you need. If you don’t, speak up.
Immediately.” My tone comes out harder than intended, clipped and command-heavy.
I catch it and soften slightly. “Are we clear?” I give them a soft smile, which I doubt can be seen in my eyes.
I inhale and exhale slowly, trying to keep myself centered. Mentally preparing for what’s to come.
“Yes,” they answer together, voices low and tight. They’re focused. Intense. Good.
I inhale deeply, forcing air into my lungs that feel too tight. My eyes drift to the window, and that’s when I see it. We’ve arrived. The place I swore I’d never return to.
Lucifer’s Saints MC clubhouse.
Seventeen years of silence. Seventeen years of pretending it didn’t exist. Of building walls so thick around this chapter of my life, I almost convinced myself it never happened. But denial only lasts so long when you belong to a family like mine. Eventually, blood and business call you back.
And here I am.
Back at the gates of the club, that shattered me.
Back to face the place, the people… and him .
The man who broke, reshaped, and ultimately forged the version of me that survived.
I should probably thank him. The bitter laugh that bubbles up gets caught in my throat.
Instead, I exhale slowly, steadying my breath as I keep my expression unreadable.
Malikai and Sebastian are watching me closely.
I feel their eyes on me, measuring, maybe even worried.
But I can’t show it.
Weakness is not tolerated. Not in this world. Not in this family. Not in me .
So I tighten my jaw. Raise my chin.
I’m here to do a job.
And whatever war is happening inside me? It’ll stay locked up—chained, gagged, buried deep. That part of me is not allowed to breathe. Not here. Not today. My eyes shift back to the main gate, and I do a double-take. It’s changed.
They’ve changed.
The old rolling chain-link gate wrapped in barbed wire is gone.
In its place is a solid, black wrought-iron fortress—mechanized, reinforced, mean as hell.
Thick glass slats shimmer between the bars—bulletproof, if my guess is right.
A large brick security station has replaced the dilapidated shack where prospects once loitered with cigarettes and attitude.
Now, it’s a miniature fortress, complete with what looks like a sniper’s tower above.
Damn.
The club’s logo—a skull with devil horns and wings—dominates the center of the gate. The image splits cleanly down the middle the moment it opens, the club’s colors parting like jaws swallowing us whole.
Welcome to hell.
My own personal hell.
I nod slightly to myself, taking it all in. Working with the family brought them money. And clearly, they put it to use. Upgrades were necessary, sure—but they went above and beyond. This isn’t the club I remember. And yet... I know its bones.
The closer we get to the clubhouse, the tighter my chest feels. I force my shoulders down, bit by bit, easing the tension like it doesn’t cost me. I won’t let anyone see the storm under my skin. This is my battleground now, not my burial ground. I’m not that girl anymore.
I won’t be her again.
Not for this place. Not for him .
My thoughts try to drift back to that day, to everything that followed. I slam the mental door before memories can escape. I’m not here to unpack trauma. I’m here to renegotiate a deal and gain insight. Strictly business.
Well… mostly.
Returning to this place was always inevitable. I just thought I had more time. More distance. More peace . But peace doesn’t exist in this world. Only strategy. Only survival.
I’m Gabriella Maribel Barone—consigliere to the Barone mafia. And I’m not the girl who left. I’m something else, someone else. And I need to remember and hold on to that if I’m going to survive this.
The gate closes behind us with a solid clang . No resistance. No attitude. No idiot prospect playing gatekeeper. Good. I'm not in the mood to slap sense into anyone today. I let out a long breath, half in relief, half in irritation. It's too early for bloodshed.
I giggle. Honest-to-God giggle like a damn schoolgirl. Everyone in the car looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
I wave them off. “I’m fine.”
Liar.
Why the hell did they insist on this meeting before noon was beyond me. Most club business happens after dark, followed by the usual parade of whiskey, girls, and bad decisions. Or so I’ve heard. According to Luca, it’s never been his scene.
Then again, Luca’s always hated LSMC. And for good reason.
I dig my phone out of my bag, scrolling through messages, trying to distract myself. Trying to calm the hum in my chest that keeps threatening to rise. I can feel her— that version of me —scratching at the edges, trying to claw her way to the surface.
But I won’t let her.
This place won’t take me back to who I was.
It won’t turn me into her.
I won’t let it.
As we drive up the gravel road, I slip my phone back into my bag and pull out my sunglasses.
Slide them on. Malikai and Sebastian follow suit.
Not because of the sun—though it’s damn near blinding at this time of day in this part of California—but because we all know what’s coming.
I don’t need these people reading me. Not yet.
The moment I step out of this car, the war behind my eyes will try to leak out. I need a minute. A layer. A barrier.
The vehicle rolls to a stop in front of the clubhouse.
Seventeen years ago, this place was impressive—an old hotel with bones and attitude. Now? It’s something else entirely. The renovations didn’t stop at the gate.
I take it all in. The building is still five stories tall and stretches two blocks wide. That hasn’t changed. But the mirrored-glass center? New. Shiny. Bulletproof, no doubt. It’s beautiful, sure. I can admit that.
Balconies now span across the facade, all new construction.
The stucco’s done in a gradient of cold grays that blend with the gravel drive.
Giant potted plants flank the entrance like sentinels.
The landscaping is tasteful, clean, and upscale.
That’s Vera’s touch—Talon’s mother and the former first lady of the club.
She had class, unlike the current one. And that’s not me being petty—it’s a fact.
Even if I tried not to hear the rumors, I would’ve known.
What surrounds this place is sleek, controlled, and curated. But the people inside? Wolves in tailored fur. Appearances lie. I should know—I’ve worn that lie for years.
From here, the building could still pass as a luxury hotel… if not for the club’s emblem painted bold above the double doors. Skull. Demon horns. Wings. Crossed scythes. It’s meant to intimidate.
It doesn’t.
Not me.
The row of Harleys parked to the left of the entrance tells the truth.
The scattered cars to the right can’t soften the growl of chrome and steel this place rides on.
My visual sweep ends as my team exits their vehicles.
Armand follows, directing the men like clockwork.
My brother Sammy didn’t come himself, but he didn’t send me in softly either.
He knows history runs deep here—and that history’s mine.
So he stacked the deck. I’ve got a primary and secondary team—two Escalades, twelve soldiers in total.
I told him it was too much. He said it wasn’t up for debate.
Typical.
I roll my eyes as the men run through their checks. I love my brother, but he’s always done the most. I’m not made of glass. I know how to handle myself. I've bled and bled out worse.
This is just a club.
One of the biggest on the West Coast, sure—but everyone bleeds. They won’t start a war with someone from the family. They can’t afford that kind of smoke, which makes this little militia overkill.
When the security ballet ends, Armand makes his way to my door. I already see the locals watching. Club members loiter at the entrance, sipping drinks, eyeing my convoy. Looks like they’re having some kind of party.
Of course they are.
Balloons. Streamers. A tacky-ass backdrop that screams birthday. It's barely midday, and these people are already doing the most. They’ve always marched to their own damn beat.
Kids and teenagers run around like it’s recess. A gust of barbecue and spice rolls through, thick and nostalgic. My stomach growls. I remember family days here. Loud, messy, joyful. The food was always fire. Say what you want about bikers—they throw a damn good cookout.
Malikai and Sebastian exit first, both falling into position without a word. Sebastian offers his hand. I smirk and take it, letting him help me out. His face gives nothing away, but the moment my foot hits gravel, his eyes sweep the perimeter. Good. He knows the drill.
Malikai’s on the other side, standing tall, scanning. I give them both a slight, private smile—reserved only for my people. They know me. They’ve earned that.
I feel eyes.
Several of them.
At the entrance, a line of men waits. The one in front is Axel—Talon’s younger brother and now VP.
He wasn’t on my radar much back then. Neither was his twin, Nitro.
They weren’t heavily involved back in the day.
Something about their mother keeping them away from club life.
Clearly, that changed. Axel's the Vice President now. Nitro’s the SAA.
Axel sizes us up—me, the boys, Armand. He’s trying to place the hierarchy. Who’s who. Who’s the threat? Who’s in charge?
Malikai and Sebastian throw people off. Big, young, six-three linebackers who move like ghosts. People underestimate them—until they don’t.