Chapter Four
The biker with the burn scars walked through her door at exactly nine-fifteen.
Fourth day in a row.
Becca looked up from the funeral spray she was building—white lilies for the Kowalski service tomorrow—and felt that strange twist in her chest again. The one that couldn't decide if it was fear or something else entirely.
"Let me guess," she said. "More daisies?"
His laugh caught her off guard. Not a polite chuckle or a dismissive snort, but a real laugh—bright and loud and completely at odds with the leather cut and the scars that crept up his neck from beneath his collar.
It broke something loose in her chest, some knot of tension she hadn't realized she'd been carrying.
"Caught me." He moved to the cooler with that restless energy she'd noticed on day one—like stillness cost him something. "Though I was thinking maybe sunflowers today. Mix it up."
"Planning a funeral I should know about? Or do you just really love flowers?"
"Can't it be both?"
He pulled a bunch of sunflowers from the bucket and turned to face her, and Becca found herself really looking at him for the first time.
The burn scars weren't just on his neck—they crawled across both hands, the skin mottled and ridged in patterns that spoke of serious heat.
His left hand was missing a finger, the absence so casual she hadn't noticed it until now.
But his eyes were what held her. Brown, sharp, taking in everything with an intensity that didn't match his easy grin.
"You're staring," he said.
"You're interesting." The words came out before she could stop them.
His grin widened. "That's what I said about you."
The bell above the door chimed as Mrs. Delgado came in to pick up her daughter's quincea?era centerpieces, and Becca spent the next twenty minutes loading arrangements into the back of a minivan while the biker wandered her shop like he owned it.
He examined the photos on her wall, studied the order forms on her counter, paused at the window to watch the street with that focused attention that made her nervous.
When Mrs. Delgado finally drove away with a trunk full of roses, Becca found him leaning against her counter like he'd been waiting for privacy.
"Frank Dvorak," he said.
Her stomach dropped. "What?"
"The name you've been dancing around for three days.
The guy behind the fires." He wasn't smiling anymore.
The grin had vanished, replaced by something harder.
"I did some asking around. Frank Dvorak runs an arson-for-hire operation that's been clearing properties across the South Side for fifteen years.
He's got a crew of about sixteen men—fire starters, lookouts, muscle.
And right now, he's got a contract to burn your block. "
Becca's hands started shaking. She pressed them flat against the counter to hide it.
"How do you know that?"
"I know people who know things." He moved closer, and she caught his scent—leather and motor oil and something sharper underneath, like cordite.
"I also know the accelerant signature on your laundromat matches three other fires he's been connected to.
Same chemical composition. Same burn pattern. Same professional work."
"You can tell all that just by looking?"
"I can tell a lot of things just by looking.
" His eyes held hers, and the intensity there made her breath catch.
"Like how you flinch every time that black sedan passes your window.
Like how you've been sleeping at the shop because you're afraid to leave it empty at night.
Like how you're terrified but you're still here, still opening your door every morning, because you're too stubborn to run. "
Becca's throat tightened. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know you've got backbone." He said it like a fact. "And I know someone's trying to burn it out of you."
The silence stretched between them, heavy with things neither of them was saying. Outside, a car rolled past—not the black sedan, just a delivery truck—and Becca still flinched.
"Why do you care?" she asked. "You don't live here. You don't know these people. Why keep coming back?"
"Because I don't like bullies." His voice dropped, the cheerful energy giving way to something cold and flat. "And I really don't like arsonists."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got right now." He pulled a card from his pocket and set it on the counter—plain white, nothing on it but a phone number. "The Windy City Wolves. We run territory on the South Side, and Dvorak's operation is getting too close to our borders. That makes this our business."
Becca stared at the card. She'd heard of the Wolves—everyone on the South Side had. Rumors and whispers about the motorcycle club that controlled half the neighborhoods between Bridgeport and Back of the Yards. Dangerous men who solved problems in ways that didn't involve lawyers or cops.
"You're a biker gang."
"Motorcycle club." His grin flickered back, sharp at the edges. "There's a difference."
"What difference?"
"Gangs fight over corners. Clubs protect territory." He tapped the card. "Right now, your block is on the edge of our territory. That means what happens to it matters."
"And what about what happens to me?"
The question came out more vulnerable than she intended. She saw something shift in his expression—a flicker of something that wasn't just professional interest.
"You're part of the block," he said. "That means you matter too."
Becca picked up the card, turning it over in her fingers. Such a small thing. Such a massive decision hiding behind ten printed digits.
"What would you do?" she asked. "If I called?"
"Find out who's funding Dvorak's contract. Make it clear that your block isn't worth the trouble." His eyes never left hers. "And make sure anyone who tries to burn you out understands exactly what kind of mistake they're making."
"Violence."
"Problem-solving."
She should have been horrified. Should have told him to leave, called the cops, pretended this conversation never happened. Normal people didn't accept help from motorcycle clubs. Normal people didn't trust men with burn scars and missing fingers who spoke about arson with professional contempt.
But normal people weren't watching their neighborhoods burn one building at a time.
"Frank Dvorak." She set down the card and met his eyes. "He's been at this for fifteen years?"
"Longer, probably. He's good at what he does."
"Better than you?"
His laugh came back—that bright, sharp sound that didn't fit anything about him. "Nobody's better than me, sweetheart. Not at understanding how things burn."
The cockiness should have irritated her. Instead, it made her feel something she hadn't felt in months.
Safe.
"The sedan," she said. "It comes by every morning at eight. Sometimes again in the afternoon. There are two guys who park at opposite ends of the block around eleven at night—they stay until three or four, watching."
"You've been tracking them."
"I've been surviving." She heard the edge in her own voice and didn't bother softening it. "Someone's trying to destroy everything I've built. I'm not going to sit here and wait for them to light the match."
Something changed in his expression. The grin faded, but what replaced it wasn't hardness—it was respect. The kind of look she imagined soldiers gave each other when they'd survived something together.
"You've got good instincts," he said.
"I've got no choice."
"There's always a choice." He pushed off the counter, energy crackling around him again. "You chose to stay. That means something."
He headed for the door, and Becca watched him go—the leather cut with the wolf patch on the back, the scarred hands that moved like they knew exactly how to take things apart.
"Hey," she called out.
He paused, looking back.
"I don't even know your name."
"Blast." The grin returned, wicked and warm. "They call me Blast."
"Because of the scars?"
"Because of what I do." He pushed open the door, the bell chiming overhead. "I'll be in touch, Becca."
She didn't remember telling him her name.
He walked out into the morning sun, and Becca moved to the window to watch him go. But he didn't head for his bike—not yet. Instead, he walked the entire length of the block, pausing at each burned building, studying the damage with that focused intensity she'd seen when he examined her flowers.
Reading the ruins like a book.
Like someone studying another artist's sloppy homework.
He mounted his bike and rode off, and Becca stood at her window for a long time after he'd gone, the card with the phone number still clutched in her hand.
Outside, the black sedan rolled past at exactly eight o'clock.
For the first time in weeks, Becca didn't flinch.