Chapter 6 Grim
GRIM
I'm already awake—haven't slept, actually, just spent the night with Fleur curled against me, her breath warm on my chest, while I stared at the ceiling and ran through scenarios. None of them good. All of them ending in blood.
I ease out of bed without waking her. Step into the hallway. Answer on the third ring.
"Got something." Fix's voice is flat, all business. "Took some doing, but I found a way in. Not a middleman." A pause. "A Marchetti brother. He's willing to meet."
I go still. "How?"
"Doesn't matter how. What matters is it's happening. Today. Noon." Another pause. "This is as good as it gets, Grim. Don't fuck it up."
"Where?"
He gives me an address. A casino on the south side—one of theirs.
"I owe you," I tell him.
"Yeah. You do." He hangs up.
I stand in the hallway for a long moment, phone in hand, thinking about what comes next. A sit-down with the Marchettis. The chance to end this clean—or the chance to start a war that buries everyone I care about.
No pressure.
Saint finds me in the garage an hour later.
I'm checking my bike, running through maintenance I don't need to do, burning off energy I don't know what else to do with. He leans against the doorframe and watches me for a minute before he speaks.
"Heard you've got a meeting."
Fix. Of course he told Saint.
"Noon," I confirm. "But Fix already told you that."
"With a Marchetti brother."
"Yeah."
Silence. I can feel him studying me, weighing something. Making a decision.
"You're not going alone," he says.
I look up. "This isn't club business, Saint. This is my mess. I'm not dragging—"
"You're not dragging anyone anywhere. I'm choosing to go." He pushes off the doorframe, crosses to where I'm crouched by the bike. "You're my brother. You've had my back for fifteen years. You think I'm letting you walk into a Marchetti sit-down alone?"
"It could go sideways."
"It could." He shrugs. "Wouldn't be the first time."
I don't know what to say to that. Gratitude's never been something I'm good at—never had much cause to practice it. But something loosens in my chest, some tension I didn't know I was carrying.
"Alright," I say finally. "Noon."
Saint nods. Claps me on the shoulder once, hard, and walks back inside.
I go back to checking the bike. My hands are steadier now.
The back room of the casino is nicer than most people's houses—dark wood paneling, leather chairs, the kind of art on the walls that costs more than my bike. We're led through a service corridor by a guy in a suit who doesn't make eye contact, doesn't speak, just opens doors and stands aside.
There's a table in the center of the room. Two chairs on each side. A man already seated on the far side, flanked by two others who look like they bench-press cars for fun.
Luca Marchetti sits with the kind of stillness that comes from knowing you hold all the cards. Mid-thirties, clean-shaven, expensive suit. He watches us approach with eyes that give away nothing.
"Gentlemen." His voice is mild. Pleasant, even. "Please. Sit."
We sit.
Silence stretches. Luca seems content to wait, letting us make the first move. It's a power play—subtle, but effective. Most people rush to fill silence. Start talking too much, give away too much.
Saint doesn't rush.
"Thank you for meeting with us," he says finally. "We appreciate your time."
"I'm told there's a situation." The Marchetti steeples his fingers. "Something involving one of my... associates."
"Dominic Valente."
Something flickers across Luca's face. There and gone, too fast to read. "What about him?"
Saint lays it out. Clean, simple, no embellishment. A woman who was supposed to marry Dominic. What she overheard. Why she ran. The threats that followed—the messages, the deadline, the promise of violence if she wasn't returned.
"She's under our protection now," Saint finishes. "Which puts us in a difficult position. We don't want trouble with your organization. But we're not handing her over."
Luca is quiet for a long moment. His eyes move from Saint to me, studying, assessing. I keep my face blank. Let Saint do the talking.
"Dominic," Luca says finally, and there's something in his voice now—contempt, maybe, or disgust. "He likes to throw our name around.
Acts like he's connected. Like he matters.
" A dismissive wave. "He's useful sometimes.
Runs errands. Does small jobs that need doing.
But connected?" A cold smile. "He's a wannabe who got too comfortable. "
I feel something shift in my chest. Hope, maybe. Or the beginning of it.
"So if we were to handle the situation—" Saint begins.
"He's not under our protection." Luca cuts him off.
"Never was. Whatever he tells people, whatever he implies about his connections—it's bullshit.
He's a small man who wants to feel big." He leans back in his chair.
"Honestly? You'd be doing us a favor. He's been getting sloppy lately.
Drawing attention. Making noise. Men like that become liabilities. "
He looks directly at me for the first time. Those cold eyes holding mine.
"Do what you like," he says. "We won't interfere."
Permission granted.
Outside, the sun is too bright. I stand by my bike, letting the tension drain out of my shoulders.
No war with the Marchettis. No heat on the club. Just a clean shot at ending this without bringing anything back on my brothers.
Saint stops me before I can swing a leg over. His hand on my arm.
"Be careful, brother." His voice is low. "Don't bring this back on the club. Leave no traces."
"I know."
"I mean it, Grim. Whatever you do, it stays buried. No one finds out. No one connects it to us."
"It won't."
He studies me for a moment. Whatever he sees must satisfy him, because he nods and lets go.
"I'll see you back at the clubhouse."
He gets on his bike and rides east, back toward home. Back toward the club.
I get on my bike and ride west.
I don't think about what I'm going to do.
I've done this before. More times than I want to count. The club calls me when they need something handled—something permanent, something that can't come back. I'm good at it. Efficient. Clean.
This is different, though. This isn't business. This isn't the club asking me to solve a problem.
This is personal.
I think about Fleur. The way she looked when I found her on that road—torn dress, ruined feet, running from something that scared her more than the desert at night. The way she looked at me like I might be safe. Like I might be worth trusting.
The way she said I love you last night, like she meant it. Like she wasn't afraid of what I am.
I think about Dominic. The things Fix told me—the women before Fleur, the ones who disappeared or went silent or learned not to talk about him.
My hands tighten on the handlebars.
I ride until I find what I'm looking for. And then I stop thinking entirely.
I do what I've always been good at. I make the problem disappear.
It's dark by the time I get back to the clubhouse.
The ride was long. Quiet. Just me and the road and the weight of what I'd done settling into my bones. I've carried this weight before—it never gets lighter, but you learn to live with it. Learn to bury it deep enough that it doesn't surface at the wrong moments.
I park the bike. Walk inside. Find Saint in the main room, nursing a whiskey at the bar.
He looks up when I approach. Doesn't ask any questions. Just waits.
"It's handled," I say.
Two words. That's all he needs.
Saint nods once. "Good."
Then he turns back to his drink, and I head for the hallway. For her.
She's in my room. Pacing.
I can see it before I even open the door—the shadow passing back and forth across the gap at the bottom, the restless movement of someone who's been waiting too long. When I push the door open, she freezes mid-step.
Her eyes find mine. Then scan down my body, back up again—checking I'm whole, checking I'm here, checking I came back to her like I promised.
"You're back," she breathes.
"I'm back."
She crosses to me. Doesn't ask what happened. Doesn't ask where I've been or what I did or whether Dominic is still breathing. She just stops in front of me, reaches up, and takes my face in her hands.
Her palms are warm against my jaw. Her eyes are searching mine, looking for something I'm not sure I know how to give.
"Are you okay?"
The question hits me somewhere deep. Somewhere I didn't know I was still soft.
No one asks me that. Not after. My brothers respect what I do, but they don't want to know the details. They don't want to see the weight of it. And I've never let anyone else close enough to ask.
"Yeah." My voice comes out rough. "I am now."
She doesn't say anything else. Just pulls me in.
I let her.
I let her wrap her arms around me and hold on, let her press her face against my chest, let her anchor me to something that isn't violence and blood and the cold efficiency of what I'm capable of. I hold her back—arms tight around her waist, face buried in her hair, breathing her in.
Something cracks open in my chest. Something that's been locked tight for a long time.
I didn't think I'd ever have this. Didn't think I deserved it.
Maybe I still don't. But I'm keeping it anyway.
Later, we're lying in my bed. Her head on my chest, my hand resting on the curve of her hip. The clubhouse is quiet around us—late enough that most of the brothers have cleared out or crashed in their rooms or gone home.
"It's over," I say. "You're safe."
She's quiet for a moment. Processing.
"How do you know?"
"Trust me. It's handled."
She doesn't ask what that means. I see the question flicker across her face—there and gone—but she doesn't ask. Maybe she doesn't want to know. Maybe she already does.
"What happens now?" she asks instead.
"Whatever you want." I keep my voice steady, even though something in my chest is bracing for impact. "You could leave. Go back to your old life. Open your flower shop somewhere new, start over fresh." I swallow hard. "No one would stop you."
She lifts her head. Looks at me with those dark eyes that saw something in me no one else ever has.
"Is that what you want? For me to leave?"
"No." The word comes out before I can stop it. Raw. Honest. "That's the opposite of what I want. But I'm not going to trap you here. You came to me running from a man who thought he owned you. I'm not going to be another cage."
She studies my face for a long moment. I don't know what she's looking for. Don't know what she sees.
Then she smiles. Slow and warm and so beautiful it makes my chest ache.
"I want to stay," she says. "With you. Here. Whatever that looks like."
Something releases in me. Some tension I've been holding since the moment I pulled over on that desert road and saw a woman in a wedding dress who looked at me like I might be salvation.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She settles back against my chest. "You're stuck with me now."
I pull her closer. Press a kiss to the top of her head.
"I can live with that," I say.
And for the first time in a long time, I actually believe I can.
EPILOGUE - THREE MONTHS LATER
"You sure about this?"
Fleur grins at me from the tattoo chair, all sunshine and certainty. "You've asked me that three times."
"It's permanent."
"That's the point."
I shake my head but don't argue. She's stubborn as hell when she's made up her mind about something. I learned that early.
Ink's shop is quiet this afternoon—just us and Ink himself, setting up his equipment with the focused precision he brings to everything. The buzz of the needle fills the silence as he tests it, and Fleur's eyes track the movement.
"It's going to hurt," I tell her.
"I know."
"More than you think."
"I can handle it." She raises an eyebrow at me. "I ran through the desert in heels. I think I can survive a little needle."
Ink snorts. "She's got you there, brother."
I shut up.
The design is simple—a small peony, delicate and detailed, for the inside of her wrist. Her favorite flower. She'd sketched it herself, and Ink had refined it into something beautiful.
"Ready?" Ink asks.
She nods. "Ready."
The needle touches her skin, and she hisses—a sharp intake of breath, her free hand clenching. I reach over, wrap my fingers around hers. She squeezes back hard enough to hurt.
"You don't have to prove anything," I say quietly.
"I'm not proving anything." She meets my eyes, and even through the pain, she's smiling. "I'm choosing something."
Something shifts in my chest. The same thing that shifts every time she looks at me like that—like I'm worth choosing. Like I'm worth staying for.
Ink works in silence, the needle tracing lines into her skin. The peony takes shape first—petals unfurling, delicate and detailed. She doesn't cry. Doesn't complain. Just holds my hand and breathes through it.
Then Ink shifts position, starts on something beneath the flower. Small letters, curving under the bloom.
My breath catches.
Old Lady.
I look at Fleur. She's already watching me, a small smile playing at her lips.
"Surprise," she says softly.
I don't have words. Can't find them. Just stare at her—this woman who ran into my life and decided to stay, who's permanently inking my claim on her into her skin, who keeps choosing me in ways I never expected.
"You didn't have to do that," I manage.
"I know." Her smile widens. "I wanted to."
Ink keeps working, finishing the letters with careful precision. When he's done, he sits back.
"Take a look."
She turns her wrist toward me. The peony is beautiful—soft and intricate, exactly like her. And beneath it, in elegant script: Old Lady.
Permanent. Hers. Mine.
"Not bad," Ink says, reaching for a bandage. "Suits you."
He covers it carefully, gives her the aftercare instructions, and waves off her attempt to pay. "Family doesn't pay," he says, and the word hits me somewhere unexpected.
Family.
Yeah. She is.
We walk out into the Vegas sun, the heat hitting us the second we step through the door. She tilts her face up toward the light, eyes closed, smiling like she's got nowhere else to be.
"So," she says. "What now?"
I look at her. This woman who stumbled into my life in a torn wedding dress and stayed. Who looked at me like I wasn't a monster. Who chose me, keeps choosing me, every single day. Who just put it in ink.
"Now we go home."
She opens her eyes. Smiles at me—warm and bright and everything I never thought I'd have.
"Lead the way."
I take her hand.
And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I smile back.
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