Eight
Every moment is like a dagger in the heart I forgot I had.
I entered the room they reluctantly offered me, shutting the door more forcefully than necessary.
My eyes sweep across the space. Decent—not five-star, not even close—but it’ll do.
The bare walls tell no stories, but the nightstand?
That tells me everything I need to know.
Whoever stayed here before me used this room for more than sleep.
A shiver of disgust runs down my spine.
I cringe. What the hell did I just volunteer for? Staying here might’ve seemed like a good idea in theory—boots-on-the-ground and all—but now that I’m breathing the air and staring at that bed, I’m second-guessing everything. Some say I’m bougie. Hell, they’re right—I am. And proud of it.
I wonder if it’s too late to tell the boys I’ve changed my mind.
I’d much rather be at the Kimpton with a decent thread count and no mystery stains.
I shake my head, glancing down at the duffel bag in my hand.
Breathe. The scent of lemon and whatever cleaning product they used tries to convince me it’s clean. Shit. That bed says otherwise.
I try to focus. There’s grime from travel sticking to my skin, but showering can wait. The boys come first.
Still, who the fuck uses black sheets? You don’t need a damn UV light to know what’s been on them. I mutter to myself, “Yeah, no. Not doing this.” Dropping the bag, I exhale hard. My nose wrinkles at the idea of how many bodies have sweated, moaned, and bled in that bed.
This trip it’s not about personal comfort.
It’s about business and finding out who the hell’s stealing from my family.
And with the MC now knowing what I do. I can’t have them breathing down our necks.
My men can’t operate at full capacity with the club watching them too closely.
So I split the crew—half here, half at the hotel, with our usual setup. We’ll get answers. One way or another.
After the boys get cleaned up and changed, I find Seb and Kai waiting in the hall with the rest of my crew.
No one speaks. Their clenched jaws and stiff shoulders say everything.
They need to hit something. Sparring will bleed off some of the anger, and I know Armand will keep it under control.
He and my brother are always telling me to stay away when the boys spar—apparently, I overreact.
Maybe I do. I’m their mother. I’ve earned that right. They can deal with my crazy.
A smile tugs at my lips as thinking about how much shit they all give me.
We walk wordlessly through the clubhouse. The party’s still going. Music pumps through the walls. The scent of spices and grilled meats floats in the air. As we enter the main floor, the laughter and the carefree screams of children echo around us. It’s beautiful.
And it guts me.
Sometimes I wonder if I tried hard enough.
I believe I did—but part of me still questions it.
Would my children have been happier here?
With kids their age running wild in this strange freedom, the club offers?
Our home was safe. Still is. But isolated.
My kids were happy. They told me so—loudly, often. But still…
I push the thought away. Regret is a luxury I can’t afford.
We pass through the common room. My men, the boys, and I ignore the glares, the curious stares. Let them look. These people don’t realize my family is why they live without fear. I could’ve been petty. Could’ve let the Barone wrath crash down on them years ago.
I didn’t.
They don’t know how many times I stepped in. Negotiated. Protected this club from enemies they didn’t even know they had. I did that for my children. Not for gratitude. But watching them look at me like I’m the problem? It makes my jaw twitch.
They don’t understand. I’ve sat at tables with men who would’ve burned this place to ash. I’ve taken threats, silenced enemies, and made it crystal clear that anyone who wants to touch LSMC has to go through me.
And no one wants that.
My crew comprises of people from various cultures and backgrounds—Italian, Afro-Italian, and one redheaded Irish-Italian beast named Armand, who has been my ride-or-die since before I knew what loyalty really meant. We don’t look like a typical mafia family, and that’s fine. We’re not.
The gym surprises me. It is bigger and better equipped than I expected. It is not San Francisco’s quality, but solid. My eyes zero in on the boxing ring.
“There,” I say, nodding to it as if they haven’t already locked on with those eager grins.
They live for this.
After Armand tapes them up, they warm up and then step into the ring. My boys are killers in hand-to-hand combat. They’ve trained in Japan, China, Indonesia, and Russia. Their techniques are precise, brutal, and elegant.
Malikai studies his opponent, picks his moment, then strikes like a ghost. Sebastian? He’s pure aggression, heavy hands, and relentless power. He doesn’t waste motion. Just destroys.
They balance each other. They need each other.
I hit the heavy bag, eyes drifting to the crowd forming around the ring. Armand’s movement catches my attention. He stalks over, arms folded, gaze sharp. He’s reading me. Gauging where my head is.
He knows me too well.
Our fathers were best friends. We grew up together—even oceans apart—and stayed connected. My father let it happen, even if he pretended not to know. Armand saw me before and after… everything before Talon and after when I was broken. He was there through all of it.
And I love him for that.
Tears sting the backs of my eyes, but I shove them down. Now’s not the time.
I can’t break.
Not here.
Not in front of them.
Armand doesn’t speak. He stands there, arms folded, his gaze heavy on mine. His silence says more than words ever could. I don’t have to ask if he sees the cracks. Of course he does.
He’s always been able to read me.
I look away first, watching my boys in the ring. They’re moving fast now—fluid, deadly. I take a slow breath, willing my body to relax. But the tightness in my chest doesn’t ease. Not when I can still feel the weight of everything I’ve done for this club. For him .
Talon.
I still taste his name like rust and regret.
That man tore me open, and part of me never fully healed. Some wounds don’t close. They scab over and wait to bleed again. And being back here? It feels like picking at old scars.
Armand shifts, stepping closer, voice low. “You okay?”
I give a slow nod, jaw clenched. “Fine.”
He doesn’t believe me. Smart man.
“You’re overthinking,” he says. “You always do when your mind travels to then and him.”
My eyes stay on the ring. Sebastian swings hard, and Malikai dodges, grinning like this is the best day of his life. It probably is. My boys thrive in chaos—they’re their mother’s sons.
“They don’t deserve this version of you,” Armand murmurs.
I look at him. “Which version is that?”
He lifts one brow. “The one still bleeding inside.”
I want to laugh, but it gets caught in my throat. I’m not bleeding. I’m a fucking flood. They can’t stop. But I swallow the emotion down and nod once.
“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “They’re about to get all of me. The whole damn storm.”
He gives me that small, rare smile. The only one I ever see. “Then God help them.”
We both glance toward the gym doors as they creak open.
And just like that, everything shifts.
Talon walks in like he owns the air we’re breathing. Same cocky stride. Same steel in his eyes. Time hasn’t softened him—only carved him into something harder, more dangerous. He’s heavier now, thicker with muscle, ink crawling up his neck like shadows trying to claim him.
And he hasn’t seen me yet.
But he will.
The moment his eyes land on me, everything stops.
The gym fades—the ring, the heat, the noise—all gone.
Just him and me, standing in the wreckage of everything we were.
And that history? It hits like a freight train.
Every betrayal. Every lie. Every night, I cried and still crawled back.
It’s all there, in his stare—regret, fury, hunger, something dangerously filled with familiarity.
I don’t flinch. I don’t look away.
He moves closer, the air tightening with every step. Armand shifts forward, protective. Ready. I place a hand on his chest without even looking.
“No,” I whisper. “Let him come.”
With a nod, he turns and takes a few steps away to give Talon and me a minute.
Talon stops just two feet from me. His cold eyes flick to Armand, then lock back onto mine.
“I didn’t think you’d come back.”
I give him a slow, dangerous smile. “I didn’t come for you.”
That smirk curls on his lips. Arrogant. Familiar. “Of course not. You’re too busy running. Lying. Painting me as the villain.”
I step forward, close enough for him to see the storm behind my eyes. “I don’t run, Talon. I walk away from things that stop being worth my time. Don’t get shit twisted. I’m not that girl you used to manipulate with sweet lies and stolen moments.”
His smirk fades, just a fraction.
“You’re funny. I never lied to you. Was I wrong? Fuck yeah. I was young, dumb, full of cum, and I fucked up. But don’t act like you didn’t feel how much I loved you.”
He glances at the boys— our boys. His voice drops.
“I should’ve known about them.”
I inhale sharply, fighting to keep my voice low, steady. “Talon… come the fuck on. I tried. ” I pause, letting the weight of it settle. “I tried,” I say again, quieter now. “But you can’t fault me for giving up.”
The silence between us crackles.
Behind us, the boys are still sparring, but now their eyes flick this way between strikes. They feel it. Everyone in the room does. Talon steps in again—too close—but I don’t back down. I lift my chin and hold his stare.