18. Eva
EVA
Greta comes for me in the morning.
This time, she doesn't bring food.
Instead, she hands me a pair of black pants, a black polo, and a pair of black Keds.
“You okay?” she asks.
The question is brisk, but not unkind.
Before I can answer, she nods toward the door.
“You’re coming with me.”
Everything still hurts when I sit up, but at least I can move without feeling like I'm being torn apart.
I change clothes.
Greta brings me to the bathroom so I can brush my teeth and braid my hair before following her.
The smell of coffee and breakfast hits me the second we step into the kitchen. It’s warm, familiar, and it makes my stomach clench unexpectedly.
It's the first thing that's felt normal in days.
Greta heads for the counter.
“What do you need me to do?” I ask.
She glances at me, looking mildly surprised that I didn't argue.
“Chop those.”
She nods toward a pile of vegetables.
“Small. Even.”
I pick up the knife.
“You sure I'm allowed to have this?”
Greta gives me a look.
“If you were planning to stab me, you'd have done it the first time I brought you in here.”
She pushes a loose strand of gray hair behind her ear.
“And I don't take you for someone who hurts people who've been kind to her.”
I don't know what to say to that.
So I start chopping.
“How long have you worked here?”
“Forty years. Give or take.”
Greta settles a pair of red reading glasses on her nose and opens a worn cookbook.
“I worked for Martin and Hunter's father first.”
She turns a page.
“Luis Cross.”
“Who's Hunter?”
“Martin's brother. Hudson and Lucian's father.”
She flips another page in the cookbook.
“He and Lucian's mother died when Lucian was still a baby.
Oh.
So Martin isn't Hudson's father.
He's his uncle.
For some reason, that sparks a small flicker of relief.
I hate myself for it immediately.
Hudson is still my kidnapper.
“How did you end up here?” I ask. “You've been here forty years. You must've started pretty young.”
Greta snorts softly.
“That obvious, huh?”
She's definitely older than sixty, but there's still something sharp about her.
“I was a prostitute,” she says simply. “Late teens. Luis found me.”
She adjusts her glasses.
“He liked me. I liked him, too, if I'm being honest.”
I stop chopping for a second.
Greta doesn't seem embarrassed by it at all.
“One day he offered me a job in the house. A room of my own. A steady paycheck. Safety.”
She shrugs.
“So I took it.”
“And you never left?”
“Never wanted to.” She shakes her head. “Cooking for people is better than getting fucked by them.”
My eyes widen so quickly it must look ridiculous, because Greta bursts out laughing.
A real one.
The sound fills the room.
“I had a good life here,” she says once she settles again. “A suite upstairs. A nice bathroom. A television. Stability.”
Something softens in her expression.
“And I met someone.”
“One of the club members?”
She nods.
“Tony. We got married out in the gardens when I was in my twenties. Luis gave us his blessing.”
“What happened to him?”
The smile on her face fades.
“Saints shootout,” she says quietly. “About ten years into the marriage.”
“I’m sorry,” I say automatically.
After a moment, I add, “They’re all criminals, though. Most of them hurt people.”
Greta doesn't answer right away.
She stirs the pot once before looking at me.
“A lot of them do.”
“And you're okay with that?”
Her gaze snaps to mine, Sharp and Uncomfortable.
“Are you?” she asks.
I blink.
“I know who your father is, girl.”
The knife pauses in my hand.
“You still love him,” Greta says. “Even knowing exactly what he is.”
I don't answer.
Because she's not wrong.
My father ordered people hurt.
Maybe killed.
And for most of my life, I found ways to live with that.
To look away.
To tell myself it wasn't my business.
I stare down at the cutting board.
Suddenly, I understand why Greta's looking at me like that.
She told me about her dead husband, and I basically called him a piece of shit.
The guilt settles heavily in my stomach.
“I had my own business before this,” I say eventually. “Public relations.”
Greta glances up from the stove.
“I went to college. Built the company from the ground up. Did well for myself.”
I shrug.
“I think my dad liked that I had something else to focus on. When I was younger, I asked too many questions. I wanted to know everything.”
A small smile tugs at my mouth.
“For a while, I honestly thought I'd take over someday.”
“But not anymore?” Greta asks.
I let out a short laugh.
“My father doesn't think women should run anything important.”
The knife hits the cutting board a little harder than necessary.
“He used to go on and on about how stupid Don Campisi was for letting his daughter handle operations in Chicago.”
Greta opens her mouth like she wants to say something, then thinks better of it.
“Then he promised me to Baron.”
“That piece of shit,” she mutters.
“Yeah,” I agree. “He’s twice my age, and he’s been wagging his tongue at me since I was a teenager.”
Greta's expression darkens.
“The worst part is, I played along.”
Her eyebrows lift.
“I thought marrying him might finally get me closer to the business.”
A bitter snicker escapes me.
“First mission I ever got near, and I immediately got myself kidnapped.”
The memory makes my belly churn.
“Turns out my first taste of club business ended with me getting kidnapped.”
Greta snorts before she can stop herself.
I point the knife at her.
“Glad somebody finds it funny.”
“That wasn't the funny part.”
“Then what was?”
“You thought marrying Baron was a good idea.”
I groan.
“Fair.”
The conversation drifts after that.
We finish preparing lunch together, settling into an easy rhythm.
Soup.
Salad.
Sandwiches.
Nothing complicated.
Just enough food to feed a house full of hungry bikers.
Once everything is ready, Greta starts carrying trays into the dining room.
Then she wipes her hands on a dish towel and heads for the old intercom mounted beside the kitchen door.
She presses the button.
“Lunch is ready,” she says into the crackling speaker. “Come get it yourselves before it gets cold, you animals.”
I'm rinsing my hands when the back door flies open hard enough to hit the stopper.
Lucian strolls in covered in grease and sweat.
Greta points at the door immediately.
“Out.”
“What?” he asks, looking offended.
“You are not bringing that mess into my kitchen.”
“I’m hungry.”
“You've never been hungry a day in your life, Lucian Cross.”
“That's not true.”
“Go wash up.”
Lucian grins like he finds her irritation entertaining.
Then he ignores her completely.
He heads straight for the sink and scrubs the grease from his hands.
A minute later, he's disappeared into the dining room.
When he comes back, he's carrying two sandwiches.
One already has a huge bite missing.
He's still chewing when he looks at me.
“Hey, Eva.”
It’s such a normal greeting that it throws me for a moment.
For a second, I feel like just another person in the kitchen, not a captive.
Then his eyes drift over my face.
The bruises.
The swelling.
The careful way I move.
His smile fades slightly.
“Hey,” I say quietly.
Something uncomfortable flickers across his expression before he clears his throat.
He sets the sandwiches on the counter, grabs a glass from the cupboard, and fills it from the tap.
Half of it disappears in one swallow.
Then he turns back to me.
“Do you know how to make chocolate chip cookies?”
I blink.
“Me?”
“Yeah, you.”
“I mean... yes.” I frown. “Doesn't everybody know how to make chocolate chip cookies?”
“I don't.”
Greta chuckles.
Lucian ignores her.
“But I want to learn. Will you show me?”
I stare at him.
“You want me to teach you how to make cookies?”
“Absolutely not,” Greta says before he can answer.
Lucian groans.
“Oh, come on.”
Greta points a wooden spoon at him.
“Martin's in New York. Hudson's on the road. I'm not getting blamed when somebody catches I’ve been entertaining prisoners in my kitchen.”
“Entertaining prisoners?” he repeats. “That's a very specific concern.”
“It's also a valid one.”
Greta hums.
“Behave.”
She grabs a cart loaded with two big carafes of water and iced tea.
“I’m taking this to the shop’s dining room.”
Then she's gone.
The swinging doors haven't even settled before Lucian looks at me.
“So,” he says. “Chocolate chip cookies. You in?”
I study him carefully.
He doesn’t feel like the others.
Too open.
He’s too easygoing for a place like this.
It feels uneasy to me.
“You do realize,” I say slowly, “that I’m not actually kitchen staff, right?”
He snorts.
“Yeah, I got that.”
“And you’re just…fine with it?”
“I mean, I’m not thrilled,” he says. “But me being upset about it doesn’t exactly change anything.”
Fair.
“And you want me to bake cookies with you.”
“Correct.”
I exhale.
“This is insane.”
“Probably,” he agrees.
I consider it.
Because maybe this could be useful.
I’m not dumb enough to think I can just stroll out of here, but maybe a start of something.
My focus drifts to the swinging doors.
“She literally just said no.”
“She said she didn't want to get caught.”
Lucian leans in a little and lowers his voice,
“That's different.”
“And if someone walks in?”
He shrugs.
“I’ll deal with it.”
I tilt my head.
“You're always this relaxed about breaking rules?”
“Only the ones that don’t make sense.”
I let that hang in the air for a moment before I sigh.
“Fine.”
His whole face lights up.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah,” I say. “But if we get caught, I’m blaming you.”
“Fair.”
He claps his hands together once, looking way too pleased with himself.
“Okay. What do I do first?”
I glance around the kitchen.
There’s flour, sugar, butter, and eggs.
All completely ordinary things in a totally insane situation.
“Don’t touch anything until I say so.”
“Yes, chef.”
I ignore him.
We go through the recipe step by step.
I show him how to measure flour, cream butter and sugar, and crack eggs without getting shell in the bowl.
He’s honestly terrible at it.
“How do you mess that up?” I ask as he fumbles with a measuring cup.
“I’m mechanically inclined,” he says defensively. “Not…this.”
“You mean you lack basic survival skills?”
“Wow,” he says. “Mean.”
But he’s grinning.
By the time the dough is ready, there's flour on the counter, flour on his shirt, and somehow flour in his hair.
Lucian watches me more than the recipe.
“You’re good at this,” he says.
I shrug.
“I’ve had practice.”
“Your business thing?”
“Partly.” I wipe flour from my hands. “Mostly just from life.”
He nods slowly.
“Must’ve been nice.”
“Nice?”
He nods. “College. Your own company. Something that belonged to you.”
I don’t answer right away.
Because “nice” isn’t the word I’d use.
“It was mine,” I say finally.
That’s what mattered.
We shape the cookies, put them on a tray, and slide them into the oven.
A comfortable silence settles between us.
“Hudson told me about your dad,” he says after a moment.
Something twists in my stomach.
“Did he?”
“Yeah.”
I keep my attention on the oven.
“And?”
He lifts a shoulder.
“Nothing. I’m just trying to understand.”
A quiet breath leaves me.
“Good luck with that.”
To his credit, he lets it go.
The timer dings a few minutes later.
We pull the cookies from the oven, and the smell fills the kitchen right away: sweet, warm, painfully comforting.
Lucian grins.
“Okay, that smells incredible.”
I set the tray down.
“Let them cool.”
He immediately reaches for one anyway.
“Don’t—”
Too late.
He jerks his hand back.
“Hot,” he hisses.
I stare at him.
“You’re an idiot.”
“Worth it,” he says, shaking his hand out.
I laugh.
And for a few minutes, standing in a warm kitchen with flour on my hands and cookies cooling on the counter, I forget where I am.
I forget what I am.
A prisoner.
And that scares me more than anything.