Chapter 8
The compound rose out of the Back of the Yards darkness like a fortress.
Diane gripped Union's waist as he rolled the Harley through the gates, her eyes taking in the converted meatpacking plant with the automatic assessment of someone who'd spent her life reading buildings.
Two stories of solid brick. Corner lot with clear sight lines.
Industrial bones built to last a hundred years.
And the garage.
Eight bays. Eight beautiful, functional bays with lifts she could see through the open doors, tool chests lining the walls, the familiar shapes of bikes and equipment that made her fingers itch to get to work.
Union parked in a row of chrome and steel, and Diane swung off the bike before he could offer to help. Her legs were steadier than they should have been, considering she'd just survived an attack and watched a man ride off to kill for her.
Maybe shock was setting in. Or maybe she was just too tired to feel anything else.
"This way." Union grabbed her father's toolbox and guided her toward the main building.
The clubhouse doors opened onto a space that had clearly been a slaughterhouse floor in another life. Exposed brick. Reclaimed wood bar. The lingering ghost of industrial history underneath the smell of whiskey and leather.
Brothers looked up as they entered.
Diane felt their eyes track her across the room—assessing, curious, not unfriendly but definitely not welcoming either. These men had just fought for her. Some of them were probably still cleaning blood from their knuckles.
Union walked her through the crowd without stopping, his hand on the small of her back, his presence a wall between her and their stares. Brothers nodded as he passed—respect, she realized. Whatever Union had done tonight, these men approved.
"Upstairs," he said, steering her toward a staircase at the back.
The upper floor was quieter. A long hallway with doors on either side—member quarters, she guessed. Union stopped at the third door on the left and pushed it open.
"This is you."
The room was small but clean. A bed with plain sheets. A dresser. A window that looked out over the back lot. Nothing fancy, nothing personal, but solid. Functional.
Diane stepped inside and did what she always did in a new space—she tested it.
Lock on the door. Solid, well-maintained.
Electrical outlets. Three, all grounded properly.
Water pressure in the small attached bathroom. Strong and steady.
"You always inspect a room like that?" Union asked from the doorway.
"My father taught me. A mechanic reads every building she walks into." Diane turned to face him. "Force of habit."
"Good habit." He set her toolbox on the dresser. "Get some sleep. I'll be downstairs if you need anything."
He was leaving. After everything that had happened—the attack, the killing, holding her while she cried—he was just going to walk away.
"Union."
He stopped.
"Thank you." The words felt inadequate, but she didn't have better ones. "For everything."
His expression softened, just slightly. "Get some rest, Diane."
Then he was gone, and she was alone in a room that smelled like industrial cleaner and old history.
She sat on the bed and stared at the door, too wired to sleep but too exhausted to think.
The knock came an hour later.
Diane had been lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, when the sound pulled her upright. She crossed to the door and opened it to find three women standing in the hallway.
The first was petite with sharp eyes and the confident stance of someone used to being in charge. The second was softer, with kind eyes and flour dusting the hem of her jeans. The third was tall and athletic, with the weathered look of someone who spent time outdoors.
"Diane Kowalski?" The sharp-eyed woman extended her hand. "I'm Claire. This is Jessica and Tess. We thought you might want some company."
Old ladies. Union had mentioned them—the women who belonged to patched members. Diane had expected... she wasn't sure what she'd expected. Biker groupies, maybe. Women defined by their men.
These three looked like they could run the world before breakfast.
"Come in," Diane said, stepping back.
They filed into the small room, and suddenly it felt less empty. Jessica produced a bottle of whiskey from somewhere and poured four glasses without asking. Tess settled into the room's single chair while Claire perched on the edge of the dresser.
"So," Claire said, accepting her glass. "You're Union's mechanic."
"I'm not anyone's mechanic."
Claire's smile sharpened with approval. "Good answer. The ones who fall over themselves to claim a brother usually don't last."
"She's not claiming," Tess said mildly. "She's surviving. There's a difference."
"There is." Claire studied Diane over the rim of her glass. "You've been fighting Eddie Bartosz alone for six months. That takes backbone."
"Or stupidity."
"Sometimes they're the same thing." Jessica's voice was warm, like fresh bread and Sunday mornings. "The point is, you didn't break. You didn't sell. You held the line."
Diane felt something loosen in her chest. These women understood.
"My father built that shop," she said quietly. "Forty years of honest work. I couldn't let it become a front for stolen cars."
"No," Claire agreed. "You couldn't."
They drank in silence for a moment. The whiskey was good—smooth and warm, taking the edge off Diane's exhaustion without dulling her mind.
"What happens now?" she asked.
"Now you stay here until Bartosz is handled." Claire set down her glass. "The boys will take care of the rest."
"I don't like sitting on the sidelines."
"Who said anything about sidelines?" Tess leaned forward. "You've got information they need. Maps of Bartosz's network. Knowledge of his operations. That's not sitting out—that's strategy."
"And there's the garage," Jessica added.
Diane's head came up. "What about the garage?"
"Eight bays and half the brothers can't keep their bikes running properly." Jessica's smile was knowing. "Stockyard's been fighting with his transmission for a month. Lakeshore's clutch sounds like a dying cat. If you're looking for something to do besides wait..."
"I'm a mechanic," Diane said slowly. "That's what I do."
"Then you'll fit right in." Claire stood, smoothing her jeans. "These men will move heaven and earth for you, Diane. But they respect strength. Competence. If you want to be part of this, show them what you're made of."
"I'm not trying to be part of anything. I just want my shop back."
"You want your shop back, you're part of this whether you like it or not." Claire's voice was matter-of-fact, not unkind. "Bartosz made it personal when he sent men to kill you. The Wolves don't let that stand."
She moved toward the door, Jessica and Tess following. At the threshold, Claire paused.
"Union's a good man. Stubborn as hell and about as subtle as a crowbar, but good. Solid." Her eyes met Diane's. "He's been alone a long time. Longer than most people realize."
"I don't—"
"I'm not saying anything." Claire's smile was almost gentle. "Just making an observation. Get some rest. Tomorrow's going to be busy."
They left, and Diane was alone again with her whiskey and her father's toolbox and the weight of everything that had happened.
She thought about Claire's words. He's been alone a long time.
Union had held her while she cried. Had killed the man who'd terrorized her. Had brought her father's toolbox without being asked, because he'd known it mattered.
He was gruff and stubborn and about as romantic as a socket wrench.
And he'd just upended his entire world to protect her.
Diane finished her whiskey and set the glass aside. She was too tired to think about what that meant. Too raw to examine the feelings she'd been carefully not acknowledging since Union had walked into her shop with picket line scars and a solidarity tattoo.
Tomorrow she'd worry about the future.
Tonight, she'd sleep.
She stretched out on the bed, still dressed, and stared at the ceiling of her small room in the Windy City Wolves compound. The building hummed around her—distant voices, the rumble of bikes in the lot, the particular energy of a place filled with dangerous men and the women who loved them.
It should have felt foreign. Threatening. A world away from the quiet apartment above her father's shop.
Instead, she found herself thinking about the garage downstairs. Eight bays. Tool chests along the walls. Brothers who couldn't keep their bikes running.
A meatpacking plant with eight garage bays might be the first place since her father's shop that felt like it was built for work.
Diane closed her eyes and let exhaustion pull her under.
For the first time in six months, she didn't dream about brake lines.