Chapter Nineteen
Tank
I don’t know what the hell to expect when Bianca shows up at Sticky Buns at exactly 8 PM.
But it sure as hell isn’t her asking me out.
She doesn’t say it outright, of course. She just crosses her arms, looks me dead in the eye, and says, “You eat, right?”
I grunt. “Yeah. It’s been known to happen.”
She tilts her head. “Then let’s go.”
And like a goddamn idiot, I go.
Not because I think it might help me get closer to her fundraiser, and thus, closer to her brother, but because there’s a part of me that just wants to be closer to her. It’s a part of me that, if it existed while I was in the Rangers, I’d have died a hundred times over. Stupid and reckless and dangerous, I’m damned sure this foolish part of me only came about once I laid eyes on her.
Now, I’m sitting across from her in a dive bar with cracked vinyl seats and neon lights that flicker like they’ve got a bad headache, watching her tear into a greasy slice of pizza like it’s the best thing she’s ever tasted. The place smells like spilled beer and burned cheese, the air thick with smoke-stained memories of past regulars who probably still owe tabs. I’d bet any money that the jukebox hasn’t been updated since the nineties. It’s perfect in its own way, lived-in and real. Just like her.
And I can’t look away.
Even here, surrounded by the noise and grit of the bar, Bianca’s got a focus and intensity that draws me in. She eats with a kind of unabashed hunger that would make anyone else seem desperate, but on her, it’s just honest. She’s not playing a part, not trying to impress, and that messes with me even more.
I’m deliberately trying not to think about what this means, why she’s here, why I'm here, and why I keep following this pull towards her when I know damn well where it could lead. I’m not used to this kind of uncertainty, this kind of risk that has more to do with hearts and less to do with plans or missions or revenge. It’s unsettling, but she’s unsettling. A danger of a different sort. And that’s what keeps me sitting there, across from her, trapped and kind of waiting for whatever comes next.
One thing’s for sure. I’m way out of my depth.
She catches me staring and raises an eyebrow.
“What?” she asks, wiping a bit of sauce from her lip.
I lean back, arms crossed. “You picked this place?”
She shrugs. “They make good pizza. And I’m not made of money.”
That last part hits somewhere deep. It comes out so easily — there’s no shame in her. No hesitation. Just honesty. It’s hard for me to even imagine how she could be related to Victor Moretti. If I didn’t know her last name, I’d be tempted to think she’s a good person, through and through. As it is, I’m still tempted.
I clear my throat, changing the subject. “How’s your charity thing coming along?”
"The fundraiser?” She sighs, stretching like she’s trying to work the stress out from her whole body. “Busy. Stressful. But I think I might actually pull it off. Unless I die first. Which is a real possibility.” Her words are sarcastic, but the look she gives me isn’t. For a moment, I see past the fire and the armor; I see past the walls she built to protect herself. There’s something soft and unguarded in the way she holds my gaze. “But I have to do this. Safe House means everything to me.”
I don’t ask why. I already know — the answer’s in her eyes, in the unspoken pain that sits between every word. It sucks my breath away.
She exhales, tapping her fingers against her beer bottle.
“I never knew what it was like to feel safe growing up,” she murmurs. “And I see what that does to people. How it breaks them. How it turns them into something they never wanted to be.”
Her words lodge somewhere in my chest.
Because she’s not just talking about the women at Safe House — she’s talking about herself.
I take a slow sip of my drink, eyes steady on her. “That why you picked a fight with me over Ricky?”
She smirks. “Oh, you think I was fighting you? If you think that was a fight, it makes me question whether you’re as tough as you look. I was barely getting started.”
I shake my head, chuckling. “I believe you. I think you pack a bigger punch than most people would expect. But I don’t think you like to use it.”
She laughs, tilting her beer in my direction. “Maybe I just know better.”
I watch her for a long second before I say it. “Ricky’s getting better every day. He still loves her, you know.”
She goes still. “That’s what he says…”
I nod. “And I believe it. I’ve looked him in the eye, heard him say it when he was that kind of broken where there’s nothing left to a man but the truth. He means this.”
Her eyebrows lift. “You’re serious?”
I shrug. “Guy’s a mess, but under all the junkie bullshit, he loves Vanessa. And that was enough to make him fight. He’s beating this drug shit. He’s growing. It’s fucking slow, it’s fucking messy — I’ll spare you the details — but the man’s on a path and it’s one that most men don’t have the strength to walk, but he does.”
“Why? Why is he so important to you? And ‘he’s on a path’? Either you’ve been watching too many old ung fu movies or this is personal to you.” She studies me like she’s trying to figure out what the hell to make of me.
I don’t blame her.
I don’t know what the hell to make of me either — the fuck am I doing rehabbing a junkie and a dealer who’s in love with a stripper? It’s not the easiest way to get an in to Victor Moretti’s operation. Not the most reliable way, either. A small part of me, that I quickly silence, says that the reason I’m doing all this bullshit is sitting across the table from me.
"I got to hit the head,” I say, hoping my muttered excuse hides how tangled up I am. I get up to take a leak, still chewing on her words, on this whole goddamn night. I shouldn’t be this rattled. She’s just one woman, but somehow she’s bulldozed her way past everything I thought I had figured out. She’s complicating things in ways I never saw coming. The hell am I doing here, losing focus, losing my edge, on a mission that’s already risky as it is? I splash water on my face, letting the cold bite, trying to get my head straight. Still dripping, I leave the bathroom, aiming to get back on track.
But when I get back to the table, everything’s different; Bianca is standing.
Not just standing — squaring off against two guys twice her size.
My jaw tightens. She’s positioned herself between them and another woman, one who looks scared as hell. And Bianca? She’s not scared at all. Her eyes are on fire, her hands balled into fists, and her jaw set like it’s a block of granite. For a moment, it’s all I can do to stare in awe.
“I said leave her alone,” Bianca snaps.
One man sneers, stepping closer. “And I said mind your own business, you fucking bitch.”
My hands clench into fists.
I move, but before I can reach them, one man shoves Bianca aside. It’s a mistake. A big one. She barely stumbles. Then, before I can call out — before I can stop her — she rears back and lets a punch fly. A damn good punch.
The guy goes down, hitting the floor with a grunt. His buddy roars, lunging for her. Bianca doesn’t back down. She moves like someone who’s fought before. Someone who doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t second-guess, doesn’t freeze. She kicks, dodges, throws another punch. Then another.
The entire bar goes still, all eyes on this tiny woman taking on two burly men like it's the most natural thing in the world. The jukebox crackles, forgotten in the background, while beer bottles hang mid-air, arms mid-swing.
By the time I reach her, she’s a goddamn storm.
And me? I just stand there. Watching. Feeling something unfurl inside me, slow and dangerous. This isn’t just attraction. This isn’t just curiosity. This is something deep. Something I don’t know how to fight.
I grit my teeth.
I am in so much fucking trouble.