Tank (Twisted Devils MC #22)

Chapter One

Tank

“Oh, fuck yeah. Work it for me. Work those sweet fucking buns.”

I sink my fingertips in deep, squeeze them, hold them, knead them. It’s fucking heaven, sweet fucking heaven, and I never want to stop.

“That’s exactly what I want. Just like that. Now, let’s put some sugar on it.”

I slap them — hard — and they jiggle and shake in a way that makes my mouth water while the sound of the firm slap echoes through the room. Slowly, I run my tongue across my lips; I can’t wait to get deep into these buns.

“I know what you need. Exactly what you need. I got it, and I’m going to give it to you, until you’re overflowing with it.”

Another thwack echoes through the room as I slap my hand hard into the buns again. They jiggle once more and then, biting my lip, I dust some cinnamon on top, watching it rain down like sweet confetti. My palms are still red from the impact, and I grunt with satisfaction.

"Fuck, that's good. So fucking good. Hold still for me. Stay right there."

They spread under my touch, yielding to my every command. I'm the boss here. I control how far it goes, how much it takes, and I’m going to push it to the limit.

"You like that? You want more?" I mutter, running my hands along the surface, feeling the smooth, soft texture beneath my fingertips. Delicious, irresistible. "I'll give you more. I'll give you everything I've got."

Sweat beads on my forehead as I work. The kitchen's hot as hell, but I don't care. This is worth it. Always worth it.

"Gonna fill you up real nice," I growl, spreading the brown sugar mixture. My fingers get sticky with it, and I lick one clean, moaning at the sweetness. "Fuck, that's delicious."

I roll the dough tight, pressing and squeezing as I go. It's all about the pressure. Too soft and you get nothing. Too hard and you ruin it. But work it just right, and you get a sweet treat that will make you sit down and light a cigarette.

"That's it. Take it all in. Every. Fucking. Inch."

When I slice into the roll, it makes a sound that sends shivers down my spine. Each cut reveals perfect swirls of cinnamon and sugar. A work of art. Delicious, decadent art that I want to shove into my mouth and eat while the crumbs coat my chest.

"Look at those sweet rolls," I whisper, arranging them in the pan. "Fucking perfect."

I slide the pan into the oven, step back, and set the timer.

It’s early—too damn early for most people—but for me, it’s perfect. The world is still quiet, just me and the dough. The smell of cinnamon, butter, and yeast fills the air. For once, there’s no violence, no war, no blood. Just the steady rhythm of kneading, proofing, baking. I should feel out of place here, a former Army Ranger, a Twisted Devil running a bakery as a front for a mission I’m not supposed to fail. But this? This feels right. I move through the kitchen with practiced ease, pulling treats from the oven, lining up pastries, and preparing another batch of my grandmother’s sticky bun recipe from memory.

It’ll be hours before the sun is up, but I’m running on a river of caffeine and a lifetime’s worth of excitement. Today is opening day. If anyone from the MC knew how much I cared about this, I’d never live it down.

But they’ll never find out.

All they know is that I’m here in Boise, going deep undercover to scout on one of the club’s enemies. That’s all they know, and that’s all they’ll ever know, until I bring them the head of Victor Moretti.

By the time the doors open, the glass cases are full—sticky buns, croissants, beignets, loaves of fresh bread, kouign-amann, cinnamon rolls, danishes, canelé, palmiers, and half a dozen other types of cookies and pastries. I should be thinking about Victor, about Club Sin, about what I have to do here. But all I’m thinking is: this is the happiest I’ve been in years.

The little bell I have hanging from the door chimes once, twice, three times, and I look up to see the first wave of customers isn’t what I’d hoped for. A group of construction workers rolls in—the early morning crowd. Hard-hats, work boots, and safety vests. Rough blue-collar guys, the kind I usually get along with, but not today. Today is different. They look at the glass cases with blank stares. Then they look at me, and their confusion turns into shit-eating grins — I know what's coming, I see it in their eyes. They see it in mine, too, and the smiles get wider. There’s no mistaking me for anything other than what I am: a big, bearded, tatted-up motherfucker wearing a damn apron and covered in flour, cinnamon, and sugar. I brace for it, and it doesn’t take long.

“Didn’t take you for the Betty Crocker type, big guy,” one of them says, leaning across the counter, flashing a crooked smile. The others nod, throw elbows at each other, snicker like they’ve never seen a guy bake before.

“Shit, I was expecting some little old lady running this place. You got a cute apron, though. Your mommy know you borrowed it?” This one’s got a smoker’s rasp and a missing tooth, but I can’t help noticing he’s eyeing the beignets like he's about to drool all over himself.

“You takin’ special orders, ma’am.. I mean, man?” They laugh in unison, a chorus that drills into my skull, pushing all the wrong buttons.

But I want to start this business of right, and that means not starting a brawl with a group of construction workers.

“What can I get you guys?”

“I’ll take a coffee. Can you pour me one, doll?” Says another.

I grit my teeth, fight to keep it together. My hands are on the counter, knuckles white, reminding myself that I need this bakery to stay standing, that I can’t wreck my chances to live my dream before I even start. My instincts are screaming to grab the nearest guy by the throat, drag him across the counter, and teach him how I handle business. But I don't. Instead, I swallow the urge, deep and burning, and pay them back with a smirk, my voice a sharp-edged tease. “You want your coffee black or with cream and sugar?”

“With cream, doll.”

A few chuckles ripple through the crowd. I make the coffee without comment.

“You going to buy anything, or you going to spend the entire morning staring at my bread?” I say as I hand over the coffee.

“We’ll buy something. Hell, we’ll buy a lot of something, because we’re all really fucking hungry, but just give us a second, OK, darlin’?”

I wait. And wait. Arms crossed, blood boiling, I fucking wait.

Finally, one of them speaks.

“Look, calm down, don’t get your panties in a fucking knot, OK? Gimme a dozen of those, huh?” one of them finally says, nodding toward the cinnamon rolls, with the kind of macho reluctance in his voice that’s typical when a guy like that gives in. “Make it two dozen. I’m hungry.”

“Throw in some of those fucking croissants, too,” the skinny guy says, digging into his pocket, pulling out a wad of bills. “Might as well, right?”

I nod, fill another box, and plant my hands on the counter. “Anything else?”

“How about a kiss?”

“Yeah, you want payment, you better pucker up,” says another.

The bell on the door tinkles again. I don’t see her at first, I’m so focused on dealing with these safety-vest wearing assholes, but I feel her. The damn air shifts and something more tantalizing than anything I’ve ever baked tickles my nose.

And when I glance up — fuck .

She’s stunning. Dark hair, deep brown eyes, curves that make my brain go static for a second. But it’s not just that — there’s something in the way she holds herself. Confident, sharp, like she’s used to walking into a room and owning it, but also like she’s tired of the weight on her shoulders. She steps forward until she’s standing between the construction workers, right in the middle of the mess, and I don’t know why, but I already feel something coil tight in my gut.

And then one asshole looks at her sideways.

“Hey, sweetheart, what’s a pretty thing like you doing in a bakery like this? You look like you’re more the ‘pilates and salad’ type.”

She doesn’t even hesitate. Just tilts her head, eyes sharp as knives, and fires back.

“I’m hungry and I want some food, which means I’m going to buy some food. But, apparently, I’m starting my day surrounded by the ‘small and overcompensating’ types.”

“Relax, we’re just breaking this guy’s balls.”

“Why the fuck do you care about his balls?” She says.

“It’s metaphorical. A saying.”

“Metaphorical? No, look. See his boots?” She says and points. “See the way he’s just looking at you? Yeah, his are not metaphorical. They’re real. And they probably make yours look like marbles you’d find in a fucking dollhouse.”

She faces down all of them as they stare at her, loom over her, and she doesn’t even flinch.

But they do.

“Whatever. We got a job to do,” says one, and he throws a wad of cash on the counter. “Keep the change, doll.”

They leave.

I should be grateful. Instead, I’m staring at her, wondering how the hell I never saw a woman like this before.

She turns to me, eyes bright with amusement. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

I smirk. “I had it handled.”

“Oh, sure. You were about five seconds from reaching across that counter and going feral. Then what would happen to your business if you wound up in jail for assault on your first day?”

I feel my jaw tighten. Her knowing smile makes me want to prove her wrong and thank her at the same time. I lean forward slightly, my forearms resting on the counter.

"Wouldn't be the first time I've been in handcuffs," I say, meeting her gaze. "But I appreciate the concern for my business model."

She laughs, a sound that's both sharp and sweet, like biting into dark chocolate with sea salt. "I bet you're very familiar with handcuffs. From both sides of them, I'm guessing."

I blink. Quiet. Something about her cuts through my usual defenses. She's not intimidated, not flirting in that desperate way some women do when they see a guy like me. Instead, she's standing there like we're equals in a game neither of us invented but both know how to play.

"You planning on ordering something, or just saving strange men from themselves before the sun comes up?”

"Everything looks..." She pauses, her gaze traveling up to meet mine. "Impressive."

The way she says it makes my skin heat up, and not from the ovens. I clear my throat.

"I'd recommend the kouign-amann. Just pulled them out twenty minutes ago."

"Kouign-amann?" She tests the word, her lips curving into a small smile. "That something you can actually eat? Or are you messing with me?”

“This your first time in a bakery?”

“I don’t know what I expected coming in here.”

“You’re surprised at finding baked goods in a bakery? What the hell goes on in this town?”

She laughs and shakes her head. “You have no idea. Look, I came in here because I wanted to find out what kind of lunatic opens up a bakery just a block away from the seediest strip club in the United States?”

“A guy who likes to bake and who knows that everyone’s got to eat, even strippers.”

“Oh, trust me, I know,” she says. “Look, I’ll take a mixed dozen. Surprise me. I’m sure they’ll all love it.”

“They?”

“The strippers.”

I blink again. “Are you a…?”

Because, if she is, I damn well may actually set food inside Club Sin with intentions other than murdering the owner, Victor Moretti.

“No. Hell no. But I run Safe House . It’s a women’s shelter. And some of our residents have been lucky enough to escape that hellhole.”

I make up her box, filling it mostly with sticky buns and chocolate croissants. Then I throw in a few extra.

"For the shelter," I say. "But don’t tell anyone. I’m trying to run a business here."

She grins. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

She pays, then, with a tinkle of a bell, she’s gone, and a young couple with a dog comes in to take her place.

I exhale, shaking my head, watching her go.

I barely register the next customers. It’s not until I go to wipe down the counter that I see something on the floor. A small, worn set of rosary beads.

She must’ve dropped them.

I grab them, step out from behind the counter, and push through the door, scanning the street. I spot her near a car, just pulling out her ringing phone.

I jog toward her, about to call out.

Then, as I’m feet away, she answers the call.

“Yes, this is Bianca Moretti.”