Chapter 14 Ice
The skeletal frame of our new clubhouse looms against the hazy New Orleans sky. A few sections have been added since the last time I was here. It’s moving along, even if it seems slow as hell. Fang’s doing a good job managing things. He insisted—even though he’s not a construction guy—because he wanted to make sure the tech specs were up to snuff. One of our patched guys has been a builder for years, so he’s acting as the foreman to make sure Fang doesn’t forget that we need more than just wires. We need walls and a roof too.
I guide Isabella through the maze of scaffolding and construction equipment, her slender hand gripping mine as we navigate the uneven ground. When I find Fang, he’s hunched over a blueprint with two other guys. Since they look like they’re deep in discussion, I wait until he looks up.
“Give me a couple of minutes,” Fang calls. “I’ll be right with you.”
“I’ll show her around,” I holler over the construction noise.
“Watch your step,” I warn, steadying Isabella when she stumbles over a piece of rebar. “Here, put this on.” I hand her a bright yellow hard hat before donning an identical one. She looks adorably out of place in her tight jeans and flowing blouse, now topped with construction gear.
As we weave through the site, I can’t help but feel a surge of pride. This place is going to be epic when it’s done. Twice the size of our old clubhouse, with room for all the new blood we’ve attracted since the bombing.
“Is this going to be like the one Juan destroyed?” Isabella asks, her voice barely audible over the cacophony of power tools and shouted instructions.
I shake my head. “Nah, this one’s gonna be way bigger. The old place was just a house in the 9th Ward. It was falling apart anyway, even before Katrina nearly wiped it off the map.”
A shadow passes over Isabella’s face at the mention of the hurricane. “I remember seeing it on TV in Mexico,” she says softly. “I was only seven. I asked my father why the water was up to the rooftops. He told me about the levees breaking, but…” She trails off, lost in the memory.
I squeeze her hand gently, drawing her back to the present. “This new clubhouse is our chance to start fresh,” I tell her. “We’ve got ten prospects about to patch in. After the bombing, we had more guys wanting to join than ever before.”
Isabella’s piercing blue eyes meet mine, curiosity evident in their depths. “Did you live in the old clubhouse?”
“Yeah, I had a room there. I’ll have one here too, once it’s finished.”
She bites her lip, hesitating before she speaks again. “I noticed some of the other members had girlfriends staying with them at the motel last night. Is that… common?”
I can see the unasked question in her eyes. Is she wondering if she’ll be able to stay with me? The thought sends a jolt through my system, equal parts excitement and trepidation. I’ve never been in a serious relationship. Plenty of women have come and gone over the years, but none were more than passing entertainment. Isabella, though—damn, she’s different. I don’t know how to explain it. I just know.
“The only women who stay at the clubhouse are girlfriends and club girls,” I explain, choosing my words carefully.
“What’s the difference?” Her brow furrows.
I run a hand through my long, platinum hair, buying time as I figure out how to explain this delicate subject. “Club girls don’t belong to anyone specific,” I finally say. “They… they sleep with whoever wants them.”
Isabella’s eyes widen in shock. “Are they prostitutes?”
“Not exactly,” I sigh. “But a lot of them trade sex for a place to crash. It’s... complicated.”
Isabella’s face clouds over. “That’s terrible,” she says softly. “To have to sell yourself just for safety…”
I nod, agreeing with her assessment. “It’s not ideal,” I admit, “but we can’t save everyone. Most of them are just looking for a meal ticket, hoping to become someone’s girlfriend or old lady eventually.”
As I watch Isabella process this information, I’m struck by how different she is from the women I’m used to dealing with. Her intelligence and compassion shine through, even as she tries to understand a world so foreign to her.
I find myself wanting to shield her from the harsher realities of club life, even though I know she’s seen far worse in her time with the cartel. It’s a strange feeling, this protective instinct warring with my usual lack of concern.
As we continue our tour, I wonder where Isabella fits into all of this. Is she just passing through, or could she become something more? The thought both thrills and terrifies me in equal measure. I’m thirty-five now. I should settle down, but that feels too much like being trapped. I’m not sure I’m ready to be shackled to a wife.
I watch Isabella’s eyes dart around the construction site, taking in every detail. I can almost see the gears turning in her mind.
“So, what do you think?”
“About the club girls?”
“Yeah. You don’t think we treat them the same way your brother does, do you?”
Isabella bites her lip, hesitating. “I’m… not sure. There are parallels, certainly. But at least you’re not holding children hostage to control the women. That’s something, I suppose.”
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. I hadn’t realized just how messed up it looks when we basically have women trading sex for a roof over their head. It’s just the way shit was when I patched in, so I never thought to question it. But really, if the women aren’t trapped, is it really that bad? The guys get what they want, and the women get something in return. It feels a hell of a lot more equal than the shit Juan’s doing.
“Christ,” I mutter. “Look, our women can come and go as they please. We’re not holding anyone against their will.”
“Are there rules that the women have to follow?” Isabella asks, her piercing blue eyes meeting mine.
“A few. The main one is that club girls don’t mess with women claimed by patched members. Mess with an old lady, and you’re out.”
“Old ladies?” Isabella’s eyebrow arches.
“Wives, basically. Although, you don’t have to be wifed to be considered an old lady. But don’t worry about all of that. Blue’s the only one you need to know about right now. She’s Vapor’s wife, so she’s basically the queen around here. She gets more respect from the men than all the others because she’s Pres’ woman. Some guys have claimed girlfriends, but they don’t have the same status until they’re ‘wifed.’”
I see the question forming on Isabella’s lips before she even asks it. “What about me? Do I… have a rank?”
My stomach twists. This is the part I’ve been dreading. I don’t know what the hell we are, but I do know I’m not going to lie about what I did. “To get the club’s protection for you, I had to claim you.” Isabella’s smile fades, so I hurry to add, “With or without the club’s backing, I was going to protect you anyway. This just makes it official.”
Before Isabella can respond, a familiar voice cuts through our conversation. “Ice!” Fang calls out, striding towards us. “I’ve only got a few minutes before I need to get back to work.”
I notice the way Fang’s eyes narrow as he looks at Isabella. The suspicion is clear, and I silently pray that he’ll come around eventually. We need to present a united front.
“Mind checking Isabella’s phone for any tracking software?” I ask.
“You think she’s bugged.”
“We should check.”
“Already checked her car and that was clean,” Fang says.
“What do you mean you already looked at my car?” Isabella looks from me to him and back.
“Uh, I had one of the prospects tow it to the garage last night. We have a legit repair business.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she demands.
“Didn’t think about it.” I rub the back of my neck. “Anyway, car’s clean so no problem there.”
“If you give me your phone I can take a look at it,” Fang says before grumbling, “Don’t know why the hell I didn’t think of it last night.”
“We had a lot of shit going on,” I say.
“Yep.” Fang looks at Isabella expectantly.
After Isabella hands over her phone, we follow Fang to his makeshift workstation—a piece of plywood resting on a couple of sawhorses. As he plugs the device into his laptop, I lean in to watch.
“Bro, stop breathing down my neck,” Fang snaps.
“Sorry, man.”
“It’s clean,” Fang announces.
“Are you sure?” Isabella asks.
We both look at her like she’s lost her mind. Fang is a tech genius. His stupid t-shirts aside, he’s really brilliant. If anyone can find a bug, he can.
“O-kay.” Isabella raises her brows as she takes the phone out of Fang’s hand. “Thank you.”
“Isabella’s father might’ve been the original tenant on some of the cartel’s warehouses,” I tell Fang. “Could be useful in helping us track down the textile place.”
Fang’s fingers fly over the keyboard. “Juan’s got everything hidden in shell corporations. But I’ll dig into land leases and deeds under her father’s name.”
“Also, just so you know, Juan sent her a nasty text earlier. He knows she’s with us.”
Fang’s expression darkens. “Watch your back,” he warns. “I’ll wrap up here and head to the garage to keep digging into the cartel’s holdings.”
“Text me if you find anything.”
“Where are you two off to?” Fang asks.
“Sid’s place to get Isabella’s watch back.”
“Stay safe.”
“Always.”
***
The bell above the door chimes as we step into Sid’s Antique Emporium, a labyrinth of history and forgotten treasures. The scent of old leather and polished wood envelops us. Isabella’s eyes widen as she gawks at the incredibly vast variety of wares.
“You okay?” I murmur, my hand instinctively finding the small of her back.
She nods, taking in the cluttered shelves and glass cases filled with relics from another time. “It’s just… overwhelming,” she whispers. “There’s so much stuff.”
I get it. This place is a far cry from the sleek, modern world of fancy shopping malls. It’s a reminder of simpler times, of stories etched into every scratched surface and tarnished piece of silver.
Sid appears from behind a towering grandfather clock, his silver hair catching the light from a nearby Tiffany lamp. He strides toward us.
“Ice, my boy,” he greets warmly. “And this must be the young lady with the watch.”
“Isabella,” I introduce her. “Sid’s the best in the business when it comes to timepieces.”
Sid’s eyes light up as he pulls a tray out from behind the counter. Isabella’s watch sits in the center of it. “Ah yes, I was able to track down some fascinating information about the original owner. A Mr. Diego—”
“Vasquez. My grandfather bought it,” Isabella interrupts. “For my grandmother. On their wedding anniversary.”
I watch her carefully, noting the way her fingers trace the outline of the watch. Her connection to the watch isn’t just about a piece of jewelry, it’s about family, about roots. Even though she came from a family of cartel leaders, not everyone was evil. She loved her grandmother very much.
Sid nods, understanding flickering in his eyes. “It’s a Rolex from the 1930s. Quite valuable, actually. One like it sold at auction recently for $7,000.” He pauses, gauging Isabella’s reaction. “If you’re looking to sell, I’d be happy to offer you the same.”
I tense, ready to step in, but Isabella beats me to it.
“It’s not for sale,” she says, her voice catching slightly. “It’s the only thing I have left of my abuela . It’s… priceless.”
Sid’s expression softens. “I understand completely, my dear. Perhaps I could clean it for you instead? Preserve it for years to come?”
Isabella hesitates, her hand tightening around the watch. I can see the conflict in her eyes, the desire to protect this last link to her past warring with the need to care for it properly.
“Sid’s the best,” I reassure. “He’ll treat it like it’s made of glass.”
“It is partially glass,” Sid offers, smiling at Isabella.
After a moment, she nods, carefully handing it to Sid. “Just be careful, please.”
“Of course.”
As Sid disappears into the back of the shop, I guide Isabella through the maze of antiquities, hoping to distract her from her worry. We pause in front of a display of old weapons. I can’t help but grin at them.
“Now these,” I say, gesturing to a set of ornate dueling pistols, “make our Glocks look downright boring.”
Isabella laughs softly, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. “I bet they’re not nearly as accurate, though.”
“True,” I concede, my mind drifting to the weight of my own gun, hidden in my cut. “But sometimes it’s about the statement you’re making, not just the damage you can do.”
We continue our exploration, pausing to admire delicate porcelain figurines and weathered leather-bound books. I watch Isabella carefully, seeing how she gravitates towards items that speak of home and family. She stops to inspect a hand-embroidered tablecloth before moving on to a set of intricately painted Mexican tiles.
“You miss it, don’t you?” I ask quietly. “Your life before you left Mexico.”
She turns to me, her blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Parts of it,” she admits. “The simple things. Sunday dinners with my abuela , the smell of her cooking…” She trails off, lost in memory.
I want to pull her close, to promise her that everything will be okay. But in our world, promises like that are as fragile as the antiques surrounding us. Instead, I simply nod, letting her know I understand.
“Ice and Isabella, if you could join me at the counter, please,” Sid calls, excitement in his voice.
My instincts prickle as we approach. Sid’s face is a mask of professional calm, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that sets me on edge. He places the tray on the glass countertop with a soft clink. Isabella’s watch gleams under the overhead lights, looking innocuous enough. But next to it sits a small black piece of metal, no bigger than a fingernail. My stomach drops.
“What the hell is that?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
Sid meets my gaze, his voice low. “It’s a tracking device. State of the art, from what I can tell.”
I’m immediately on high alert, scanning the windows for any sign of movement outside. My hand instinctively moves towards my weapon.
“Isabella,” I say, keeping my voice steady, “did Juan ever have access to this watch?”
She pales, her hand flying to her mouth. “He took it to be cleaned a few years ago.” Her eyes widen with the realization. “Oh God, Ice. I had no idea.”
“That explains it,” Sid says in an offhand manner.
“What?” I ask.
“Earlier today, a guy came in asking about antique watches. Seemed… off.”
“We need to see your surveillance footage. Now.”
“Follow me,” he says grimly, leading us to a back room.
In the cramped space, Sid pulls up the security feed on an ancient computer. The grainy image flickers to life, showing a man I don’t recognize prowling through the shop.
Isabella’s sharp intake of breath tells me everything I need to know. “That’s Miguel,” she whispers. “One of Juan’s top men.”
My jaw clenches. This is bad. Really bad.
I turn to Sid, my voice low and urgent. “Listen, you need to be careful. Isabella’s Juan Vasquez’s sister. He’s looking for her, and he’s dangerous.”
To my surprise, Sid doesn’t look fazed. Instead, he reaches behind a filing cabinet and pulls out a weathered shotgun. “I appreciate the warning,” he says, a glint of steel in his eyes, “but I’ve dealt with worse than cartel thugs in my day. Mobsters, loan sharks—you name it. I can handle myself.”
“Good to know,” I nod, reassessing the old man. There’s clearly more to Sid than meets the eye. “But still, watch your back. Juan isn’t someone to underestimate.”
“Will do.” Sid pumps the shotgun.
My mind races. We need to move fast. Juan’s men could be closing in, and now that we’ve discovered the tracker, they’ll know we’re onto them. I glance at Isabella, seeing the fear in her eyes. Whatever comes next, I know one thing for certain—I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe.
I slip Isabella’s watch onto her wrist, securely fastening it. My hand finds hers, our fingers intertwining as we leave through the rear door of the antique shop. The humid New Orleans air hits us like a wall, thick with the scent of jasmine and distant rain.
My eyes scan the street, searching for any sign of Juan’s men. Nothing seems out of place, but that doesn’t mean we’re safe.
“Stay close,” I murmur to Isabella, guiding her towards my bike.
As we ride back to the motel, I take a circuitous route, doubling back and cutting through side streets. Can’t be too careful. Isabella’s arms are wrapped tight around my waist, her chin resting on my shoulder. I can feel her tension, matching my own.
Back in the relative safety of my motel room, I fire off a quick text to Fang: “Tracker found in watch. Juan’s closing in. Keep eyes open.” Then I turn to Isabella, who’s pacing the worn carpet. “Anything else Juan might’ve bugged?”
She bites her lip, thinking. “Other than my car, I can’t think of anything. Are you sure Fang didn’t find a tracker? Juan had access to it plenty of times.”
“Nothing. Also, don’t get mad, but we ditched it last night.”
“What?”
“It’s in the swamp now.”
“Why would you do that?” she demands.
“We had to be sure.”
“Guess it doesn’t matter now.” She slumps onto the bed and puts her hands over her face.
“Bella, everything’s going to be okay. I’ll get you a new one when all of this is over.”
“It’s okay,” she says, sounding broken. “I don’t need it anyway.”
“No, you don’t. You’re staying with me.”
“Of course I’m not leaving,” she says, sniffing.
Something warm unfurls in my chest. “Good, because I’m not letting you out of my sight either. Hey,” I say softly, cupping her face. “What’s wrong?”
Isabella takes a shaky breath while brushing her fingers across the watch face. “It’s just… Sometimes it all feels like it’s too much and I’d give anything to have my grandmother hug me again. To have her kiss my cheek one last time.”
I understand the ache of loss all too well. “I get it.”
She looks up at me, curiosity mingling with her sadness. “What about your family? Are your grandmothers still alive?”
A humorless laugh escapes me. “None of my family’s still kicking, actually.”
“But… you can’t be that old. How is that possible?”
“I’m thirty-five. Let’s just say my family lived hard and fast. Didn’t leave much room for growing old.” As I say the words, I feel the familiar weight of solitude settle over me. But then Isabella’s hand finds mine, her touch warm and comforting.
“Tell me about them,” she says.
I take a deep breath as memories come flooding back. “My parents died in a boating accident. Out on Lake Pontchartrain. Storm came up out of nowhere, capsized their little sailboat.” I can still see the headlines, feel the gut punch of that phone call. I’d just turned eighteen and I was forced into adulthood without a life raft.
Isabella’s grip on my hand tightens. I meet her gaze, those blue eyes full of empathy.
“And my older brother,” I continue, the words coming easier now, “he went out the way a lot of us fear we might. Motorcycle crash. Patch on his back, wind in his hair, then…” I snap my fingers, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “Gone in an instant.”
“Ice,” she says softly, “aren’t you ever worried about ending up like them? About dying the same way?”
A wry smile tugs at my lips. “Honestly? I never think about it. Death’s coming for all of us. No point in worrying about when or how.”
She tilts her head, studying me. “That’s one way to look at it.”
I shrug, feeling the weight of my cut on my shoulders. “It’s the only way to live this life, Bella. You can’t ride if you’re always looking over your shoulder for the reaper.”
I climb onto the bed and pull Isabella into my arms. She snuggles against me, her fingers absently tracing the worn leather of my cut.
“What about you,” I ask. “Do you ever think about death?”
“Sometimes.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Sometimes I wonder if we go to another place after this. You know?”
I nod, encouraging her to continue.
“My abuela ,” Isabella says, a soft smile playing on her lips. “I’m sure she’s in Heaven, if such a place exists.” Her hand moves to the watch on her wrist, fingers caressing the smooth metal. “I like to think she’s there, watching over me.”
The vulnerability in her voice tugs at something deep inside me. I reach out, gently taking her hand in mine. “You think you’ll see her again someday?”
Isabella’s eyes meet mine, a mix of hope and sadness swirling in their depths. “I hope so,” she says. “If there is a Heaven, I’d like to think I’ll get to hug her again, smell her cooking, hear her laugh.” She pauses, then adds with a wry smile, “But I’m in no rush to find out, you know?”
I chuckle softly, understanding all too well. “Yeah, I get that.”
As we sit there, hands intertwined, I’m struck by how different our perspectives are. Isabella, with her faith in an afterlife, and me, living only for the moment. Yet somehow, in this dimly lit motel room, with the sounds of the city drifting through the window, our two worlds don’t seem so far apart. I’m starting to think she belongs in mine. She certainly doesn’t belong in Juan’s. He doesn’t know it yet, but she’s never going to become another one of his victims. He’ll have to kill me first.