Chapter Forty-Seven
Bianca
Tank leads me into one of the quiet family rooms just down the hall. It’s sterile and cold and lit by dim bulbs that hum faintly above us. I sit on the edge of the couch, and he stands for a long moment, pacing like he doesn’t know how to start.
Then he stops. Turns. And looks me dead in the eyes.
“I never told you where I came from,” he says. “My dad was a drunk and a degenerate gambler. But he was all I had. Never knew my mother, don’t know what happened to her — if she died, disappeared, or what. He and I, we bounced between shitty motel rooms and shittier card rooms from as far back as I can remember. Most nights I fell asleep to the sound of machines clinking and drunks yelling, and most mornings I had to drag my old man out of fights he started and couldn’t finish.”
My throat tightens. I want to reach for him, but I hold still, because there’s something in Tank’s eyes like he wants to fight this battle alone.
“I’m here,” I whisper.
Tank’s voice is low, steady, like he’s just trying to get it out before it swallows him. “I raised myself. Taught myself to fight. Learned early that the world doesn’t give you a damn thing unless you take it. So when I was old enough, I joined the Army. Needed structure. Family.” He smiles faintly, and it’s almost broken. “Met Diesel and Hunter there. My real brothers. We saw hell together. Survived it. And when we got out, we didn’t know where else to go. So we drifted, and we fought, and we raised all sorts of hell, until we found the MC.”
I nod, breathe again. “I’m listening.”
He takes a breath and drops onto the couch beside me, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “I came to Boise for one reason. To kill your brother.” The words land like a blow. Even though I knew them, even though I know who he is, they still hit me full-force. “And when I met you, I thought maybe I could use you to get to him. That was the plan. I’ll never lie about that.” My chest constricts, my breathing nearly ceases, and my eyes waver from his face. “But what I didn’t count on,” he says, looking deep into my eyes, “was falling in love with you.”
My vision falters; the tears are already in my eyes, hot and bitter.
“You used me,” I whisper. “At first, you used me. And then what? Changed your mind halfway through?”
Tank flinches. “I didn’t change my mind. I changed. Because of you.”
I want to believe him. God, I do. But my heart feels like it’s bleeding from every angle.
“Do you know what happened because of this?” I say, rising to my feet. “The fundraiser’s a disaster. Safe House is in pieces. Vanessa is gone. Dead. And everything I worked for — everything I am — feels like it’s broken.”
“I know,” he says quietly, standing too. “I know, and I’m sorry. And I’ll spend every day trying to make up for it. I will scrub floors, lay brick, raise money — I’ll do whatever it takes.”
I shake my head. My eyes are wet, and my breath is shaky. “I love you, Tank. I do. And maybe that’s the problem. Because I don’t know if love is enough anymore.” It hurts to force the words out, and I hear how tangled they’ve become, how impossible they sound. He steps forward slowly, his hands raised like he’s reaching for something he can’t quite touch, his eyes desperate, almost wild.
“Then tell me what is,” he says. “I’ll do it. You say the word. I’ll do anything.”
He means it. More than I want him to. But I don’t have the answer. I don’t know if there even is one. I can barely breathe. My world has been ripped apart in a dozen directions, and the man I love is at the center of it all.
“I just…” I press a hand to my chest, searching for air, for words, for myself. “I need time. Space. To figure out what I even want anymore.”
“Then I’ll give you that. Because I’d give you anything.”
I let out a broken breath and walk to the door, my steps heavy like I’m dragging my heart behind me, but just before I leave, I glance back. He’s standing there, still, like a mountain that’s just lost its anchor. And it breaks my heart all over again.
I leave.
The hallways of the hospital stretch like a maze around me, all sterile tiles and disinfectant smells, but I hardly notice. The buzzing fluorescent lights blend into the noise in my head, and I just keep walking until I find Alex in the waiting room. Her arms go around me without a word, tight and warm and understanding, and I whisper, my voice cracking, “Can you take me home?”
"Of course.”
The hours pass in a daze of pain and grief.
Later that night, I sit alone on my couch, a glass of bourbon in my hand. The house is too quiet. The silence presses in from every direction until I can’t tell if it’s out there or just inside me.
I think about Tank’s eyes, his voice, the way he held Ricky like he was family.
I think about Vanessa never waking up, her last gasping breaths echoing in my memory like a nightmare I can’t escape.
I think about the future and how heavy it suddenly feels, how it looms over me like a weight I might not have the strength to lift.
When I finally crawl into bed, I curl up and cry. I cry until I can’t tell if the ache in my chest is from tears or breathing. And just before I fall asleep, one quiet, sinking truth claws its way up through the darkness: this is going to be the first of many nights like this.
And I don’t know how many I can survive.