Chapter 6
The Harley was already in her lot when Diane pulled up at six-fifteen.
Union stood beside it, arms crossed, watching her park with an expression that said he'd been waiting. His cut was zipped against the morning chill, and there was something different about him today—a tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there before.
"You're early," she said, climbing out of her truck.
"You can't stay here anymore."
Diane stopped with her keys halfway to the bay door. "Excuse me?"
"Last night. Midnight." Union stepped closer, his voice low and hard. "Rick Varga spent twenty minutes under that Honda Civic in your lot. The one you were working on yesterday."
Her stomach dropped. She'd checked that car twice before leaving. Twice.
"I'll inspect it before—"
"A man who cuts brake lines for a living won't stop at cars." Union's eyes bored into hers. "You live above this shop. He knows that. How long before he decides the owner is easier to remove than the business?"
"I've been living here for three years. He hasn't—"
"He hasn't had a reason to escalate. Now he does." Union grabbed her arm—not rough, but firm enough that she couldn't ignore it. "I watched him work last night. Followed him to a chop shop in Brighton Park. Bartosz is getting serious, which means you're in serious danger."
Diane yanked her arm free. "I'm not running from my own shop."
"I'm not asking you to run. I'm asking you to not be stupid."
"Stupid?" The word hit like a slap. "I've been handling Eddie Bartosz for six months while you were—"
"Watching your customers almost die. Losing mechanics. Checking brake lines at six in the morning because you can't trust your own lot." Union stepped into her space, close enough that she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes. "That's not handling it. That's drowning."
She wanted to argue. Wanted to shove him back and remind him that she didn't need some biker telling her how to run her life.
But the fear she'd been carrying for six months—the constant vigilance, the sleepless nights, the weight of knowing any car could be a death trap—pressed down on her chest until she couldn't breathe.
"What do you want me to do?" Her voice came out smaller than she intended.
Union's expression softened, just slightly. "I've got a safehouse in Back of the Yards. One of my brothers on the door. You stay there until we deal with Bartosz."
"And my shop?"
"Stays open. Wolf security during business hours, armed escorts when you're here." He held her gaze. "Your customers get their cars fixed. Your mechanic keeps his job. You stay alive to keep running your father's business."
Diane looked past him at the garage—her father's name on the sign, the bays where she'd learned to turn wrenches, the only thing she had left of him.
"If I leave, Eddie wins."
"If you die, Eddie definitely wins." Union's voice was blunt, unyielding. "A dead owner doesn't keep any mechanics employed. Doesn't protect any legacy. Doesn't do anything except become another victim Bartosz buries and forgets."
She hated that he was right.
"I need to get some things."
"I'll wait."
The safehouse was a two-story brick building on a quiet street in Back of the Yards, sandwiched between a vacant lot and a corner store with bars on its windows.
Diane climbed off Union's bike—she'd insisted on riding with him, leaving her truck at the shop—and studied the building with a mechanic's eye. Solid construction. Good sight lines. The kind of place that had been built to last through hard times.
"Fang's inside," Union said, guiding her toward the door. "He'll be here around the clock. Anyone comes through that door without permission, they don't leave."
"Fang?"
"Sergeant at Arms." Union's mouth twitched. "Don't let the name scare you. He's... effective."
The door opened before they reached it, revealing a man who made Union look small.
Six-three, maybe six-four, with hands that looked like they'd been carved from stone and eyes that showed nothing at all. He wore the same cut as Union, but on him it looked less like a uniform and more like a warning.
"This her?" His voice was surprisingly quiet.
"Diane Kowalski. Diane, this is Fang."
Fang studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he stepped aside to let them in.
"Kitchen's stocked. Bedroom's upstairs. Don't go near the windows."
"Nice to meet you too," Diane muttered.
Something that might have been amusement flickered across Fang's face before he returned to his post by the door.
The safehouse was sparse but clean—a living room with a couch and a TV that looked like it hadn't been used in years, a kitchen with basic supplies, stairs leading to what she assumed was the bedroom. Nothing personal. Nothing warm.
A place to survive, not to live.
Diane set down her father's toolbox on the kitchen table.
It was the only thing she'd brought besides clothes. The red metal case her father had carried for forty years, his initials scratched into the lid, every wrench and socket organized exactly the way he'd kept them.
"That goes where you go," Union observed.
"It's all I have left of him." She unlatched the case and started lifting out the trays, more from habit than necessity. "After he died, I sold the house. Sold his truck. Sold everything except this."
Union watched her arrange the tools on the kitchen table—wrenches sorted by size, sockets in their proper slots, screwdrivers lined up like soldiers.
"My grandfather's union pin is like that for me," he said quietly. "Some things you carry no matter what."
She looked up at him, surprised by the admission. He'd been all gruff commands and tactical warnings since he'd shown up that morning. This was different.
This was human.
"Where is it now?"
"Pocket." He tapped his cut. "Goes everywhere with me. Touched it before every picket line I ever walked. Before every fight."
"Before this one?"
"Before this one."
Diane turned back to her tools, but something had shifted between them. A crack in the wall she'd been building since he'd walked into her shop.
"I don't like being told what to do," she said.
"I noticed."
"I've been taking care of myself since I was twelve years old. My father taught me that a Kowalski doesn't need anyone's help."
"Your father was wrong."
She spun to face him, ready to argue, but Union held up a hand.
"Not about the rest of it. About the not needing help part.
" He stepped closer, and Diane's breath caught at the intensity in his eyes.
"Collective action is the only thing that beats money and muscle.
Your father should have known that. One worker against a corporation always loses.
But workers together—that's how you win. "
"The Wolves aren't a union."
"We're better. Unions can be broken. The Wolves can't." He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear—a gesture so unexpected and tender that Diane froze. "You've been fighting alone for too long. Let us help."
She should have pulled away. Should have reminded him that she didn't need rescuing, didn't need a man thinking he could touch her like he had the right.
Instead, she stood there, heart pounding, caught between the independence she'd built her whole life around and the desperate relief of not being alone anymore.
"Why do you care?" she asked. "Really. Not the territory stuff, not the Wolf business. Why do you care what happens to me?"
Union's hand lingered near her face, not quite touching, but close enough that she could feel the heat of him.
"Because you're the real thing," he said. "Honest work. Fair prices. A business built on something besides greed. That's rare enough to protect."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got right now." He dropped his hand and stepped back, and Diane felt the loss like a physical thing. "Get settled. I need to check the perimeter."
He moved through the safehouse with methodical purpose—testing locks, checking window latches, positioning furniture to block sight lines from outside. Diane watched from the kitchen doorway, her father's tools spread across the table behind her.
Union moved like a man who'd spent his life organizing defenses. Not military—something different. Something that came from years of standing between workers and the forces trying to crush them.
Picket lines, she remembered. He'd mentioned picket lines.
He was checking the back door now, his scarred hands running over the deadbolt with practiced care. Making sure the locks would hold. Making sure nothing could get through.
Making sure she was safe.
Diane looked down at her father's toolbox, the red metal case that held forty years of honest work. Then she looked at Union, this gruff, stubborn man who'd inserted himself into her life and was now treating her safety like a personal mission.
She didn't know what to do with that.
But as she watched him secure the safehouse with the deliberate purpose of a man who'd spent his life organizing defenses, she realized something that scared her more than Eddie Bartosz ever had.
She was starting to trust him.