Chapter 2
The word "RECONSIDER" dripped down what was left of her window in paint the color of arterial blood.
Colleen Brannigan stood on the sidewalk outside Independence Ink, coffee cooling in her hand, and felt six years of building something beautiful curdle into rage.
Those bastards.
Glass littered the concrete like scattered diamonds, crunching under her boots as she stepped closer. The February wind cut through the shattered window, stirring the curtains she'd hung herself, the ones with the subtle tattoo needle pattern she'd found at a vintage shop in Old City.
Someone had thrown a brick. She could see it lying inside, surrounded by glass shards and destruction, a neat little calling card from men who thought fear was a business strategy.
Second visit in two weeks.
The first time had been almost civilized. Two men in decent suits showing up during business hours, explaining that Fishtown businesses contributed to "neighborhood security." A monthly fee. Reasonable rates. Protection from the kind of trouble that happened to shops without friends.
Colleen had laughed in their faces.
"I spent four years in Army field hospitals," she'd told them. "You want to scare me, you're going to have to try harder than a protection racket speech."
They'd tried harder.
She pulled out her phone, snapped pictures of the damage with steady hands. The same hands that had held soldiers together while mortars fell. The same hands that had learned to channel all that adrenaline into art instead of nightmares.
A tattoo needle was supposed to be therapy. Turned out she was good at it.
Now some loan shark piece of shit thought he could take what she'd built.
"Colleen!" Mrs. Kowalski from the pierogi shop next door came rushing out, flour still dusting her apron. Sixty-three years old, worked that shop since before Colleen was born. "Oh, honey. Oh no. Was it—"
"Yeah." Colleen didn't take her eyes off the painted message. "Same guys."
"Warren Driscoll's people." Mrs. Kowalski's voice dropped to a whisper, like saying the name too loud might summon him. "They came to me last month. I pay now. Everyone pays."
"I don't."
"Colleen—"
"I don't."
The older woman's face crumpled with something between pity and fear. She'd seen what happened to businesses that said no. Colleen had heard the stories—broken equipment, vandalized inventory, owners who ended up in the hospital with injuries that looked like accidents.
Warren Driscoll had been squeezing Fishtown for fifteen years. Patient. Methodical. The kind of predator who understood that consistent pressure broke people faster than sudden violence.
But Colleen Brannigan didn't break.
She dug in.
"Go back inside, Mrs. K," she said, softer now. "I'll handle this."
"You can't fight these people alone."
Watch me.
Colleen spent the next hour on her knees, sweeping glass and cataloging damage. The brick had taken out her main display window, the one where she'd arranged her portfolio books and the flash art designs she was proudest of. A few pieces had caught glass shrapnel, torn at the edges.
Fixable. Everything was fixable.
She called her insurance company—they'd send someone out next week, which meant she'd be boarding up the window herself.
Called the glass repair shop two blocks over—they couldn't come until Thursday, but they'd cut her a deal because they remembered when she'd designed a memorial piece for the owner's mother.
Fishtown took care of its own. That was what these loan shark assholes didn't understand.
By ten AM, she had plywood over the window and was setting up her station like nothing had happened. The shop was narrow but perfect—exposed brick walls covered in her designs, comfortable leather chair, top-of-the-line equipment she'd saved three years to afford.
Independence Ink. Her independence. The first thing that had been hers since she got out of the Army, the first place that felt like home.
She'd burn it down herself before she let Warren Driscoll claim a piece.
The bell over the door jingled.
Colleen's hand moved automatically toward the drawer where she kept her backup gun—old habit, never quite shaken—but it was just Tony Marchetti from the coffee shop on the corner. Twenty-six, covered in his own ink, the kind of kid who'd grown up hard and found his way to something better.
"Heard what happened." He set a fresh coffee on her counter, steam curling up toward the exposed ductwork. "Brought you the good stuff. Extra shot."
"You're a saint, Tony."
"I'm a coward." His jaw tightened. "I pay them. Every month. But you—" He shook his head. "You got balls, Colleen."
"I've got bills." She took the coffee, breathed in the bitter comfort of it. "Same as everyone. I just refuse to add another one for the privilege of not getting my windows smashed."
"They're gonna come back."
"I know."
"Harder this time."
"I know that too."
Tony looked like he wanted to say more, but the door opened again and he scurried out like a man who didn't want to be seen talking to the enemy. Colleen watched him go, something heavy settling in her chest.
This wasn't just about her anymore. Her refusal, loud and public, made her an example. Warren Driscoll couldn't let her win—if she held the line, others might find their spines too.
She was painting a target on her own back every day she didn't pay.
Good. Let them aim.
The morning crawled by. A few regular clients stopped in—mostly to gawk at the plywood window and whisper sympathy she didn't want. She told them all the same thing: business as usual, she'd have the glass fixed by the weekend, and their appointments were still on schedule.
Her noon consultation canceled. Too scared to be seen at the shop, probably.
But her two o'clock was still on the books.
Anchor.
Colleen found herself smiling despite everything.
Three years of sessions with the dock worker who watched her like she was dangerous and let her put art on his skin without flinching.
Big guy, quiet in that way that meant he was always thinking, always waiting.
Scars on his palms that told stories he never shared.
She'd been finishing his father's memorial piece—the name that mattered enough to carry across his chest forever. The kind of work she'd built her reputation on, needle by needle.
He'd called to confirm yesterday. Would've heard her voicemail this morning.
Part of her wondered if he'd show, given the obvious trouble she was in. The smart move was distance—don't get involved with the tattoo artist who'd pissed off the wrong people.
But Anchor had never struck her as a man who made the easy choice.
At one-thirty, she heard the rumble.
Motorcycle engine, distinctive V-twin growl that she'd learned to recognize. He always showed up early, like punctuality was a religion.
The engine cut. Boots on concrete. Then the door swung open and Anchor filled the frame, six-two of dense muscle and watchful eyes, leather cut across broad shoulders.
She hadn't noticed the patch before. Or maybe she had and hadn't processed it.
Sons of Liberty.
Well, shit.
"Colleen." His voice was low, rough, the kind of voice that made her think of gravel and gunsmoke. His eyes swept the shop—plywood window, the faint traces of red paint she hadn't fully scrubbed away, the brick sitting on her counter because she couldn't bring herself to throw it out yet.
Evidence. Warning. Whatever it was, she wasn't hiding from it.
"Anchor." She kept her voice steady, professional. "You're early."
"What happened?"
Not are you okay. Not should I come back another time. Just: what happened.
Direct. She could work with direct.
"Loan shark's been making rounds," she said, turning to prep her station. Keep busy. Don't let him see how much the morning had rattled her. "I told his collectors where they could stick their protection fees. They disagreed."
"Warren Driscoll."
She froze, needle in hand. "You know him?"
"Know of him." Anchor moved into the shop, his presence filling the narrow space in a way that should have felt threatening but didn't. "He's been squeezing Fishtown businesses. Operating in territory he doesn't own."
"Territory?"
His eyes met hers. Dark, steady, with something underneath that looked like the beginning of a storm.
"Sons territory," he said. "He's been doing this under our noses for months. That ends now."
Colleen set down the needle. Her heart was hammering, and she wasn't sure if it was fear or anger or something else entirely—something to do with the way he said our and ends like they were promises carved in stone.
"I don't need a white knight, Anchor."
"Good." He shrugged out of his cut, hung it on the hook by her chair with the ease of a man who'd done it a hundred times before. Settled into the leather seat, all that controlled power folding itself into her space. "Because I'm not offering rescue. I'm offering backup."
"There's a difference?"
"Rescue means I do the work." His mouth curved—not quite a smile, but close. "Backup means we do it together."
She should say no. Should handle this herself, the way she'd handled everything since she came home from the Army with steady hands and a head full of ghosts.
But Anchor was looking at her like she was something worth fighting for. Like her stubborn refusal to bow made her more, not less.
And God help her, that look made heat pool low in her belly.
"Finish the tattoo first," she said, pulling on her gloves. "Then we'll talk about backup."
"Yes ma'am."
She laughed despite herself. "Don't 'ma'am' me. I work for a living."
His smile widened, just a fraction. "So do I."
Colleen fired up her machine, the familiar buzz settling her nerves. Whatever came next—Warren Driscoll, the broken windows, the war she'd apparently just enlisted in—it could wait.
Right now, she had art to make.
And she'd be damned if some loan shark's tantrum closed her shop for a single hour.