Chapter Twenty
The compound had transformed into something Angela barely recognized.
Music poured from speakers mounted on the warehouse walls.
Grills sent smoke curling into the evening sky, the smell of burgers and ribs mixing with salt air off the bay.
Brothers who'd been stone-faced killers twelve hours ago now laughed with beers in hand, their women beside them, their children running through the parking lot like it was any other summer night.
It wasn't any other summer night.
It was the night Marco Vitale died. The night the shore towns were freed from the shadow that had been creeping over them for months. The night the Boardwalk Outlaws proved, once again, that they protected what was theirs.
Angela stood on the edge of it all, a cup of something alcoholic in her hand, watching the celebration swirl around her like a dream she hadn't expected to have.
"You did good."
She turned to find Block approaching, his injured arm wrapped in fresh bandages, a grin splitting his face.
"I crawled through a tunnel and stayed out of the way."
"You gave us the tunnel. Without that, we're hitting the front door like idiots and losing brothers in the process." Block clinked his bottle against her cup. "That's not nothing, flower lady. That's everything."
Angela didn't know what to say. Three weeks ago, she'd been a florist worried about wedding arrangements and wholesale prices. Now she was being toasted by a man who could break her in half without trying, for intelligence that had helped take down a drug operation.
Life was strange.
"Block!" Lily came running across the lot, the flower crown Angela had made now looking more like a flower memory, petals scattered but still clinging to the wire frame. "Daddy, you said I could have another hot dog!"
"Did I say that?"
"Yes!"
"Hmm." Block scooped his daughter up with his good arm, settling her on his hip like she weighed nothing. "I don't remember saying that. Do you remember me saying that?"
"Daddy!"
He laughed—a warm, rumbling sound that made Angela's chest ache in the best way—and carried Lily toward the grills, her protests dissolving into giggles.
This, Angela thought. This is what they're protecting. Not just territory. Families.
She found Edge watching her from across the lot.
He stood apart from the celebration, leaning against his bike with his arms crossed, his eyes tracking her every movement.
Even surrounded by brothers and music and laughter, he looked like a man on guard.
A man who wouldn't fully relax until he'd confirmed with his own hands that she was still real, still here, still his.
Angela crossed the lot to him.
"You're brooding."
"I'm watching."
"Same thing." She settled beside him, their shoulders touching. "It's over. Vitale's dead. His operation is destroyed. You're allowed to celebrate."
"I am celebrating." His hand found hers, fingers interlacing. "I'm celebrating by looking at you."
Angela's heart did something complicated. "That's the least festive celebration I've ever heard of."
"I'm a simple man." His thumb traced circles on her palm. "I don't need music and burgers. I just need to know you're safe. That you're here. That when this party ends, you're coming home with me."
"And where is home, exactly?" Angela turned to face him. "The compound? Your room? Because I should mention that my apartment lease is up next month, and my landlord has been suspiciously understanding about the fact that I haven't been back in weeks."
"I talked to him."
"You what?"
"Your landlord. Nice guy. Very cooperative once I explained the situation." Edge's expression didn't change, but there was something almost playful in his eyes. "I may have suggested that his building would benefit from having an Outlaw's old lady on the lease."
Angela stared at him. "You told my landlord I was your old lady?"
"Was I wrong?"
The question hung between them, loaded with everything they hadn't said out loud yet. They'd talked about the future. Made plans for rebuilding her shop. Spoken about forever in the dark of his bedroom with their bodies tangled together.
But he'd never actually asked.
"I don't know," Angela said slowly. "Was it?"
Edge's jaw tightened. For a moment, he looked almost uncertain—this man who'd killed without hesitation, who'd faced down an entire criminal organization without flinching.
"I'm not good at this," he said.
"At what?"
"Words. Asking. I'm better at doing things than talking about them." He turned to face her fully, taking both her hands in his. "I want you claimed. Officially. In front of everyone. I want the whole shore knowing you're mine and I'm yours and nobody touches what we have."
"Is that asking?"
"It's—" He stopped. Took a breath. "Angela. Will you be my old lady? Will you stand beside me and build a life with me and let me spend every day proving that you made the right choice?"
Angela watched his face. Saw the vulnerability he was trying to hide, the fear that she might say no, the love he'd never been good at expressing but showed in every action.
She could say yes. Right now, easy, without making him sweat.
But she'd earned the right to make him work for it.
"What about my shop?"
"What about it?"
"Rebuilding takes time. Money. Attention. I'm going to be working eighteen-hour days again, at least until I get established. That's not exactly compatible with being someone's old lady."
"It's compatible with being my old lady.
" Edge's grip tightened on her hands. "I already told you—I'll help.
Whatever you need. And when you're working late, I'll bring you dinner.
When you're stressed about vendors, I'll make calls.
When you're too tired to think, I'll carry you to bed and hold you until you can sleep. "
Angela's throat tightened. "That's a lot of promises."
"I don't make promises I can't keep."
"And the club? The violence? The danger?"
"Will always be part of my life. I won't lie about that." His eyes held hers, unflinching. "But I'll never let it touch you. I'll never bring it home. And I'll always—always—come back to you."
She should keep pushing. Should make him sweat a little more, prove that she wasn't just going to melt at a few pretty words.
But she'd spent too long being careful. Too long protecting herself from feelings that might hurt. Too long building walls instead of bridges.
Edge had torn through all of it. He'd seen the worst of her—the fear, the grief, the cold fury that wanted Nicky dead—and he hadn't flinched. He'd matched her. Challenged her. Claimed her in ways that went deeper than words.
She was done making him work for something they both wanted.
"Yes."
The word came out simple. Clear. Certain.
Edge blinked. "Yes?"
"Yes, I'll be your old lady. Yes, I'll stand beside you. Yes, I'll let you bring me dinner when I'm working late and carry me to bed when I'm too tired to move." Angela smiled, and it felt like the first real smile since her shop burned. "Yes to all of it."
Something cracked open in Edge's expression. Not the controlled mask he wore in front of his brothers. Not the lethal focus he brought to violence. Something raw and real and so full of joy that Angela felt tears prick her eyes.
He pulled her against him, lifting her off her feet, spinning her once before setting her down and crushing his mouth to hers.
The kiss was everything. Promise and possession and the particular sweetness of two people who'd fought through hell to find each other. Angela felt it in her bones, in her blood, in the place where her grandmother's voice still whispered that beautiful things required ugly work.
This was the beautiful thing.
She'd earned it.
When they broke apart, breathless, the celebration had gone quiet. Angela turned to find every brother in the compound watching them, their faces ranging from amused to knowing to the particular satisfaction of men who'd seen this story before.
"About damn time!" Block's voice boomed across the lot. "I was starting to think the man couldn't close!"
Laughter erupted. Someone started a chant—"Speech! Speech!"—that Edge silenced with a look. Rosa appeared with two fresh drinks, pressing one into Angela's hand with a smile that said welcome to the family without words.
"You're stuck with us now," Grace said, materializing beside them. "For better or worse."
"Mostly better," Molly added. "But sometimes worse. Fair warning."
Angela looked around at these women—these fierce, stubborn, loving women who'd chosen men most people would run from. They were welcoming her into something she'd never expected to find. A family. A community. A place where she belonged.
The grief was still there. It would always be there, tucked into the space where Shore Blooms used to stand. But it wasn't the only thing anymore.
Joy was breaking through.
Joy and love and the bone-deep certainty that she'd found exactly where she was supposed to be.
Edge's arm settled around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. His lips found her ear.
"Happy?"
Angela leaned into him. Let herself feel the solid warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart, the promise of a future neither of them had planned but both of them wanted.
"Yeah," she said. "I really am."
The celebration swirled around them—music and laughter and the particular warmth of people who loved each other, flaws and violence and all. The bay glittered in the distance. The shore town lights winked on as darkness fell.
And Angela Basile, the florist who'd survived three weeks of war to find her home, said yes to everything.