Chapter 8 – Lance
Chapter Eight
From Kidnapping to Marriage (Because That's Totally Normal)
Lance
Twenty-four hours after the co-op attack, and I still felt like I was crawling out of my skin.
I stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows of Gwen and Atticus's penthouse, watching Manhattan stretch out below like a chessboard. Somewhere out there, the bastards who'd terrorized Morgan were probably congratulating themselves on a job well done.
Not for long.
The living room behind me held an unusual kind of tension—part war council, part family meeting.
Pierce sat at the dining table, laptop open, coordinating security protocols with military precision.
Atticus paced near the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear as he handled damage control with his legal team.
And Gwen... Gwen curled in the corner of their massive sectional sofa, baby Ava sleeping peacefully in her arms, stealing glances at me when she thought I wasn't looking.
We still hadn't talked— really talked—since she'd been back from the hospital.
Between the chaos of the attacks, her recovery, and adjusting to life with a newborn, we'd barely managed more than surface-level check-ins.
But I could feel the weight of unspoken questions every time our eyes met.
She knew something was off, could sense the tension rolling off me in waves, but neither of us knew how to bridge the gap that had formed.
The distance hurt more than I wanted to admit. Before Morgan, before everything went to shit, Gwen had been the closest thing I'd had to a sister. She'd made me feel like I belonged somewhere, like I was part of something good and solid and real.
Now? Now she looked at me with confused concern, like she was trying to solve a puzzle and couldn't find all the pieces.
She knows you're hiding something. She just doesn't know what.
"So we're agreed," Atticus said, finally ending his call and sliding his phone into his pocket. "Full security detail for both women. No exceptions."
I nodded, throat tight. "Agreed."
My phone had been vibrating in my pocket for the past hour—Silas sending updates, no doubt. Third time in ten minutes. Each buzz felt like a taunt, a reminder that whatever chess game I'd been pulled into was accelerating whether I liked it or not.
I ground my teeth until my jaw ached, the muscles in my face twitching with the effort of keeping my expression neutral. My fingers flexed at my sides, itching to wrap around someone's throat—preferably whoever had dared to come after Morgan.
Ava stirred in Gwen's arms, her tiny face scrunching into that pre-cry expression every parent learned to dread. Gwen shifted on the plush sofa cushions, trying to soothe her, but the baby's discomfort only seemed to grow.
"She's been fussy all morning," Gwen murmured, exhaustion evident in every line of her body. Dark circles shadowed her eyes—worry for Morgan etched in the way she held herself.
Without thinking, I stood and moved around the coffee table, holding out my arms.
"May I?"
Gwen hesitated for only a second before passing Ava to me. The trust in that simple gesture—handing over her most precious possession—hit me harder than I expected.
The moment Ava settled against my chest, her crying stopped. Her tiny fist curled around my tie, and she blinked up at me with those unfocused dark eyes that reminded me so much of her mother.
"She knows you," Atticus observed, something like amusement flickering across his features.
I didn't miss the way he'd positioned himself slightly between me and Gwen, a subtle movement that spoke volumes. He could sense the feral energy coming off me in waves, the barely contained violence simmering just beneath my skin.
"She just likes the rhythm," I said, automatically swaying as I held her. "Steady heartbeat."
At least something in my life is steady right now.
I savored how Ava relaxed completely in my arms. No judgment. No fear. No questions about the blood on my hands or the darkness in my past. Just pure, uncomplicated trust.
As I held her, my mind drifted to Morgan's attackers. What I would do to them when I found them. How I'd make them beg before the end. How I'd take my time. The baby in my arms made a soft cooing sound, and I forced my grip to relax, realizing I'd been holding her too tightly.
"Lance has always had the magic touch," Gwen said, and for the first time all morning, her smile reached her eyes. "She never settles that quickly for me."
Maybe there's hope for me yet.
I cradled Ava carefully, this tiny, perfect reminder of everything I was fighting to protect. The smell of baby powder and innocence, the warm weight of her small body—it grounded me in a way I hadn't expected.
"I think we're done here," Atticus announced, gathering his papers. "Gwen, we should put Ava down for her nap."
I nodded, reluctantly transferring the now-drowsy baby back to her mother. Ava made a small sound of protest, her tiny hand still clutching my tie until I gently disentangled her fingers.
"Traitor," Gwen said to her daughter, but her voice was warm. Then to me, "She apparently has questionable taste in men."
The jest—the first sign of our old rapport since everything had gone to hell—felt like a lifeline.
I started pacing the length of the living room like a caged wolf. Even in this spacious penthouse, I felt confined, restless. The weight of the Glock pressed against my lower back—a constant reminder that I was no longer pretending to be someone I wasn't.
"I need to take care of something," I announced, already reaching for my jacket.
Atticus glanced up from his phone. "Now?"
"Now." The word came out as almost a growl.
Pierce closed his laptop, his expression wary. "I'll have a car follow you."
"Not necessary." The last thing I needed was a babysitter while I handled things from my place.
Pierce's face hardened. "Tough shit. We're all targets right now."
I didn't bother arguing. If it made them feel better to have someone tail me, fine. They'd lose me in traffic anyway.
"I'll be in touch," I said, already halfway to the door.
After leaving Gwen and Atticus's penthouse, I drove straight to my loft in SoHo. The entire way, my mind kept circling back to Morgan. To the look on her face when she'd seen me in that stairwell. To how small her voice had sounded on the phone at the co-op.
Twenty minutes later, I stalked through my apartment, restless energy radiating off me in waves.
I'd designed this place for privacy, security, and comfort—sixteen-foot ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows with bulletproof glass, custom furniture built for my frame.
A fortress masquerading as a luxury loft.
Right now, it felt empty. Hollow.
I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror and barely recognized myself. My eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with adrenaline. I looked like what I was—a predator ready to hunt.
I pulled out my phone, staring at her contact. "Spitfire" with that photo from months ago—her laughing at something I'd said, completely unguarded, hair falling in her face.
My thumb hovered over her name for a full minute before I typed.
Lance:Where are you?
Seconds crawled by like hours. One minute. Two. Three.
Come on, Morgan. Answer me.
When my phone finally buzzed, I nearly dropped it.
Spitfire:Adele's studio. Working.
Just those three words, but I could tell she was trying to keep busy, distract herself from what happened.
Lance:How are you holding up?
Another long pause.
Spitfire:I'm fine.
Like hell you are.
Lance:Have you eaten today?
The question was casual, practical. Less threatening than asking to see her.
Smart move, asshole. Start with something she can't argue with.
Spitfire:Not really. Too busy.
I zoomed in on the security feed, watching her fingers hesitate over the phone. Three dots appearing, disappearing. She was debating how much to share.
I adjusted the camera, focusing closer on her face.
The pulse point in her neck was jumping rapidly—stress, fear, or both.
Her teeth caught her lower lip, worrying it until the skin turned white, then releasing it to a flush of pink.
I found myself leaning closer to the screen, examining these intimate details with an intensity that would probably terrify her if she knew.
I was cataloging her tells like a hunter studies prey, except—and I could almost laugh at the irony—I was the one completely captivated.
You're watching her like a fucking stalker. Get it together.
But I couldn't look away.
Lance:I've already sent your favorites from Gold Coast. The jollof and plantain. Sent you dessert too - those lemon bars you like from the place in Williamsburg.
I watched her on the monitor as she read my text. The slight upturn of her lips, barely there but unmistakable. A smile so small most people would miss it. But I wasn't most people, and I'd cataloged every one of her expressions like the obsessive bastard I was.
Spitfire:You didn't have to do that.
Lance:I know. I wanted to.
She was silent for almost a full minute. On the screen, I watched her set down her pencil, push her hair back, exhale slowly.
Spitfire:Thank you.
Two simple words that shouldn't have made my chest tighten the way they did.
Lance:If you need anything else. Anything at all.
Spitfire:I know.
That was it. No promises. No plans. Just 'I know.'
Fuck.
A knock at the door interrupted my spiral.
"Come in."
Silas entered, his face grim. He moved like what he was—a predator in an expensive suit. I'd known him since I was fifteen, and he still made me slightly nervous when he was in full hunter mode.
He settled into the chair across from me, pulling out a tablet. When he spoke his voice was cool.
"One of the attackers from the Co-op," he began without preamble. "I've got an ID."
"Tell me," I said, leaning forward, the taste of blood filling my mouth as I bit the inside of my cheek.
"His name's Dmitri Kozlov. Russian mob, but he's been freelancing. Goes by Viktor Petrov these days." Silas's expression darkened. "I pulled a fingerprint from the emergency exit door he used, ran it through my contacts."
I sat up straighter. "Freelancing for who?"
"That's where it gets complicated." Silas slid the tablet across to me, showing a series of financial transactions. "He's got connections to several shell companies. Mostly Eastern European, but there's a pattern to his movements that feels... familiar."
I studied the data, my jaw tightening. "How familiar? Like my grandfather and Hector familiar? Is this an extension from the hospital?"
Silas furrowed his brow. "I would make that assumption too. But I’m not sure. Nothing conclusive yet." Silas held my gaze. "But there are parallels to old contacts I've tracked for years. People who've done business with certain family enterprises."
My stomach knotted. He didn't need to spell it out.
"What I do know," Silas continued, "is that these aren't random incidents. The timing, the targeting. Someone knows what they're doing, Lance."
The implications made my blood run cold.
Two professional hits. Both putting the people I loved in the crosshairs.
But why now?
I slammed my fist into the wall, leaving a dent in the drywall. Silas didn't even flinch.
I stared at the security feed on my monitors, watching Morgan work, completely unaware of the connections I was piecing together. Completely unaware of how her life might be in danger simply because she knew me.
For a wild, dangerous moment, I considered the most direct solution, just take her.
Go to that studio right now, bundle her into my car, and bring her back to one of my secure properties.
Lock the doors, set the alarm, and keep her there until this was over.
She'd fight me—God, would she fight—but she'd be alive. Safe. Mine to protect.
The thought was so tempting that my hand actually twitched toward my keys before I reined myself in. But the fantasy lingered, darkly appealing in its simplicity.
If this is my family, they'll never stop. Not until they get what they want.
"Lance?" Silas's voice seemed to come from far away. "You're looking a little homicidal right now."
I forced myself to focus, to push down the rage threatening to consume me. "Sorry. Just processing."
"What's the play here?"
The play is finding everyone involved and removing them from the equation. Slowly.
But even as the violence beckoned, another voice—Hector's voice—echoed in my memory.
" You've forgotten the ultimate protection you can offer ."
The ultimate protection.
My mind raced back to our grandfather's lessons. To the old rules that governed families like ours. To traditions that went back generations.
Marriage .
A Dulac could not harm another Dulac. It was the only rule.